“Hey, Wyatt, what’s up?”

Wyatt looked up. He was standing in the two-story airport terminal, waiting for the last flight from Seattle for the day, and wondering how he’d let himself be talked into this gig.

“Waiting for flight 22,” he said to Ryder Westbrook, who didn’t quite hide his frown fast enough.

Shit, were all his friends talking about him behind his back? Probably. He hadn’t told any of them he was leaving the Navy. He’d just shown up one day and announced it. At least he’d gotten to share the flight into town with Ford, who hadn’t asked too many questions.

Wyatt had told them all he’d come home to be near Gran, and he thought they’d all accepted it. Clearly they hadn’t.

“Who’s on flight 22?” Ryder asked.

“My next job.”

Ryder blinked. “A job?”

“Yeah. Some reality show star who’s acquired an obsessed fan. She’s coming here to get away from Seattle for a while.”

“Sounds interesting.”

Wyatt folded his arms over his chest and glanced out the windows. A plane was coming in for a landing. Must be the one.

“Not really,” he said.

“But you took the job.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t refuse the pay.”

Ryder looked confused. “Thought you had all that combat pay saved up?”

Yeah, his friends had been talking about him. Wyatt had only mentioned the combat pay to Zane this morning. It hadn’t come up before because nobody’d asked. And now Ryder knew, which meant he and Zane—and Adam, probably—were playing telephone tag.

“I do. But money’s money.”

Which Ryder would know, coming from the rich side of town. He’d always been the golden boy, the heir to the Westbrook fortune, and he understood instinctively the value of a dollar. Wyatt knew his friend was more complicated than that, and that he’d struggled with the expectations of his family. Still, Ryder didn’t know what it was like to fear losing his home or his savings.

“True. So what show is she from?”

“American Princess.”

Ryder shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

“Me neither. Apparently it’s a thing though.” He jerked his head at the plane as it touched down on the runway. “This girl is the catty one everybody hates. Or so I’ve been told.”

“You don’t know? I’d have thought you’d Google her as soon as you took the job.”

“The security firm sent over a dossier. There were no clips of the show. Besides, I had to hang shelves for Hildie Fontana. Damn woman talked so much it took three times as long as it should have. I barely escaped.”

Ryder burst out laughing. “Damn, dude. How’d you get roped into doing anything for Hildie? You know she can’t stop talking. How she manages to collect any gossip when she never shuts up long enough to listen is a mystery to me.”

Wyatt agreed. “Gran told her I’d do it. I couldn’t say no after that.”

“So who’s cheating on who this week?”

“Couldn’t say. I tuned her out.”

Ryder clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Smart man. Hey, as much as I want to see this TV star of yours, I gotta get out of here. Promised Bailey I’d be home on time tonight.”

“Tell her I said hi.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

Ryder strolled away, and Wyatt went back to watching the gate. He knew what Paige Spencer looked like, thanks to the dossier Hawk had sent him. She was five-two, blond, and able to convey her superiority with a single arched eyebrow. The production stills from American Princess were illuminating in that regard.

She was the daughter of Greg Spencer, the founder and co-owner of SpenTech, a firm that built specialized circuit boards for aircraft. Spencer had a house in Eagle’s Ridge, a fishing retreat a few miles out of town that sat on a spectacular curve in the river. It would be easy to take Paige there and wait while the police sorted out her crazed-fan situation in Seattle, but Wyatt didn’t trust the easy way. No, he was taking her up the mountain and staying in a vacation rental cabin there until he got the all clear.

Hawk had agreed it was the best plan. He’d made the arrangements to rent the place and get Wyatt the equipment he needed to monitor their surroundings. All he had to do now was collect Paige Spencer and drive her up there.

Wyatt crossed his arms and legs and leaned against the wall, waiting as the plane taxied up to the terminal. There was no jet bridge yet, though as the new airport owner, Ryder was working on that during his expansion. The passengers had to walk down a set of stairs that were rolled up to the aircraft and then up another set of stairs to get inside the terminal. It was curious that Paige Spencer was flying commercial when her daddy most certainly had a jet of his own. Probably several.

But hey, rich people. Who knew why they did what they did?

Wyatt didn’t have too long to wait. Passengers started to emerge from the gate area, rolling wheeled bags or carrying backpacks. Some were returning residents, others were tourists. They got a lot of tourists throughout the summer. Folks started coming around Founders’ Day in March and kept on coming until the first snow fell. Even then, Eagle’s Ridge had enough winter activities to keep people coming in, though in fewer numbers.

The flood of passengers turned to a trickle. Wyatt frowned and took out his phone. He had no messages from Hawk. No notice that the plan had changed.

He waited a few more minutes. Just when he was ready to dial Hawk, a small blond woman emerged. She looked pissed too. Behind her, a hulking man carried a pink pet carrier.

Shit.

Just what he needed, some yappy-ass dog barking at every sound and movement that happened over the next few days. He pictured a Chihuahua—tiny, barky, and wearing a jeweled collar—that Miss Paige Spencer would cuddle and coo a raft of nonsense to.

Why had he agreed to this again?

Oh yeah, he liked money. And, truth be told, he was starting to get a little bored. Not that he didn’t like working with his hands and building things, but he’d spent so many years fighting to stay alive in the face of danger that anything else started to seem a little surreal after a while.

He pushed away from the wall and strode toward the pint-sized blonde. She had a look of utter determination on her face. Her hair bounced as she walked. He let his gaze slide down her body.

Curves everywhere. Killer curves. She wore a skintight red dress beneath a black blazer with the sleeves shoved to her elbows and a pair of sky-high heels that looked more than painful. Maybe those shoes were the source of her sour look.

Still, she was pretty. Gorgeous, actually. He didn’t have much experience with TV or movie stars, but she looked like she fit right in with everything he’d ever seen about Hollywood.

She glided to a stop as he stepped in her path. She was a little thing, but she didn’t even miss a beat. “Move it, or I’ll make Bruce move you.”

Wyatt didn’t know whether to laugh or snort in derision. He opted for returning her arched brow with one of his own. He’d faced down worse than her.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m your ride while you’re in town.”

Bruce stood behind her, grinning almost gleefully. Wyatt didn’t have time to wonder because the instant Paige turned her glare on the man, his face went blank.

“Your father arranged a security escort for you, Miss Spencer. I’m headed back to Seattle on the next flight.”

So she hadn’t known that little bit of information. Judging by the way her body stiffened, she wasn’t happy about it either.

Well, neither was he. There were other ways to earn money.

Except, with Gran’s diabetes, Wyatt didn’t know when he might need an influx of cash to help care for her. The more he could save, the better. She wouldn’t take a dime from him right now—he’d tried—but she might need it eventually.

“Are you even planning to ask him for identification?” Paige asked Bruce, her voice dripping with derision. “Or did you plan on handing me over and hightailing it back to the aircraft?”

Wyatt didn’t like her tone, but he admired her thought process. One point for Miss Paige Spencer.

“I don’t need identification, Miss Spencer. He matches the photo the security agency sent over. Name’s Wyatt Chandler, and he’s qualified.”

Wyatt slid his wallet from his pocket and pulled out his driver’s license. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Paige, knowing she wouldn’t be settled until she saw it for herself. She snatched it and studied the information. Then she lifted her pretty green-brown eyes and studied him.

A moment later, she handed the license back. Then she snapped her fingers at Bruce, who stepped forward and held out the pink pet carrier. At first, Wyatt was too bemused by the whole thing to even realize that Bruce was holding it for him.

But then it jarred into his brain that Paige had just treated both him and this Bruce guy like the hired help.

And maybe they were the hired help, but he wasn’t that kind of help.

“Sorry, I’m allergic,” he lied. “You’ll have to carry it yourself.”

Paige’s brows drew together. “Mr. Fluffypants weighs twenty pounds.”

Mr. Fluffypants?

“Then put him on a leash and walk him to the car. But I’m not carrying him.”

“He doesn’t walk on a leash.”

“What the hell kind of dog doesn’t walk on a leash?” Wyatt demanded.

This time her eyebrows climbed her forehead. Bruce turned the cage so Wyatt could get a good look at the animal inside.

A giant cat blinked back at him with blue eyes that said he was clearly superior to anything in this room. Hell, possibly in this state. The cat had long silver- and cream-colored fur. He was a gorgeous cat.

But he was also a cat. Wyatt didn’t care for cats a whole lot. They were cold and superior for the most part. But then again, so was this cat’s owner.

“Mr. Fluffypants is a cat,” Paige said with a sniff. “And I can’t carry his cage and this purse too.”

Her purse was at least half as big as she was. He never understood what women carried in those things, but apparently they needed a lot of room for it.

“Then I suggest you get a luggage cart,” Wyatt told her.

Bruce was biting his lip and trying not to laugh. Wyatt wanted to shake the man and ask him why the hell he put up with this girl’s crap. She was rich, sure, but that was no reason to take her shit.

Bruce set the cat carrier down and backed away as Paige turned to him. Clearly, she was planning to order him to take Mr. Fluffypants to Wyatt’s truck. Bruce knew it as well as he did.

“Sorry, Miss Spencer, but I gotta be on that flight. Your father wants me back tonight. There’s no time to spare.”

After he turned and headed back down the steps, Paige whirled, her long hair swirling around her shoulders like a shampoo commercial. Her eyes were wide, her lips pink and glistening.

Damn, she was pretty.

“Who’s going to help me get all my things to the car?”

“Like I said, you need a luggage cart. I’ll watch the cat while you get one.”