Page 1 of Hero Next Door
CHAPTER1
Parker
“If I never see another suitcase in my entire life, it’ll be too soon,” I grunted, yanking one bag, and then another, and then another out of the back of the cab.
While the useless cabbie stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched. Because evidently it would have been asking too much to expect him to actually help a girl with the bags she’d stuffed into his cab when she stumbled out of the train station and ran right into him.
I mean, I guessed I should at least be thankful that it hadn’t taken long to find a ride. Having to actually put any effort into it might have flat out killed me. Still, it would have been nice if the cabbie I ran into had been one of those guys who kept his mouth shut during the drive but went out of his way to take care of things once you arrived at your destination. Instead, I got one of those guys who wanted to ask a million questions and then stand there and watch as I handled the heavy lifting. Literally. A—
“You know, your chance of a good tip would be a lot better if you actually helped me with this stuff.” I gestured to the bags at my feet—only one of them actually mine—and waited.
His eyes followed my gesture and blinked slowly… and then he finally jumped into action. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said, darting forward. “I just… I was thinking… I mean, you’re Parker Pelton, right? You’re… You’re…”
I nearly groaned. Sothatwas what all the questions had been about. I should have realized. The guy wasn’t actually interested in where I’d been and what I’d been doing there. No, strike that. Scratch it. Hewasinterested in where I’d been and what I’d been doing there.
But only because I’d been there with worldwide country sensation Avery Dawson, newly minted princess of country music and the cutest thing anyone had ever seen, according to the last magazine article I’d read.
Cute. I snorted. The man who wrote that had obviously never experienced Avery on a day when things weren’t going her way. She was still tiny and cute, yeah, but she was a whole lot more like a miniature pit bull than a precious little Yorkie if she wasn’t getting what she wanted.
She’d also spent the last year dragging me in front of every camera she could see. Yes, I was just her manager and should therefore have gotten to stay behind the scenes, the way I liked it. I should have been doing coordination, phone calls, organization. Making sure Avery had as much coffee as she could drink, with plenty of hot chocolate to mix into it.
I should have been taking care of details, not smiling for the camera.
But Avery was also my best friend. And she’d flat out refused to do anything without me the entire time we were on tour. Which meant that instead of staying behind the scenes, I’d been dragged out to every personal appearance she made. Every radio interview. Every photo shoot. Every visit to a hospital and ribbon cutting and release party and dinner with other artists.
And every single time, someone had a camera.
So there I was, the girl who didn’t want any attention, taking picture after picture with America’s sweetheart. Doing my best to grin and look like I was there on purpose and enjoying every second of it. When I’d really just wanted to crawl behind the closest car and hide.
This guy must have seen at least one of those pictures and put two and two together when I fell right into him coming down the steps of the train station. He’d gotten me into his car and then started asking questions as quickly as he could.
“She’s married,” I told him bluntly. “Or did you miss that particular article?”
His face creased into a frown of confusion… and then a darker scowl of disappointment. “Really? I thought she’d been on tour all year.”
God, the poor boy. Had he actually thought he had a chance? Averyhadbeen on tour for the last year, cameras flashing and fans screaming, and had quickly made a name for herself as one of the hottest stars in the music industry. We were newly home but the record label had already booked two more albums from her and was planning another tour starting in a few months.
She wasn’t the sort of girl who’d come home and fall for a cabbie.
I mean, she might have been once. But not anymore. Namely because she’d fallen head-over-heels in love with a rancher from Arberry, North Carolina. Fallen so deeply for him, in fact, that I thought every single song on the next album was actually going to be about him. And every song on the album afterthat. And probably the album after that, too. He’d followed us on the road for a couple months before he went home, and once he left she’d whined incessantly about missing him.
She’d missed him so much she’d gone to his ranch rather than coming back to Nashville with me, breaking the record label’s orders and thumbing her nose at them—knowing as well as they did that they wouldn’t give her any trouble for it.
Their golden girl wanted to go see her new husband and spend a week on their honeymoon, and not even the stingiest of the record execs had been able to tell her no.
Which was why I was here, lugging three suitcases with me when I’d only taken one on the road. Avery hadn’t wanted to take her bags with her to Jackson’s when she already had things there, and had sent them back to Nashville with me instead. I wasn’t sure whether ‘taking care of Avery’s luggage’ fell under the manager heading or the best friend label, but I’d been regretting it pretty much ever since she handed the bags over.
“Shewason tour,” I said, coming back to earth and seeing the cabbie still standing there in front of me. “And her new boyfriend was on the road with us in Vegas when she decided she wanted to have a wedding in front of Elvis. So I’m afraid she’s officially off the market. Thanks for the ride, buddy.”
I handed him cash to cover the trip from the train station to my front door and turned, lugging the baggage behind me, before he could reply to that—or ask me any more questions. I was tired of talking. I was tired of people. Tired of performing. Tired of pretending to be someone I had absolutely, definitely never been. I wasn’t a performer. I didn’t like the limelight. I’d entered the industry as one of the people who worked behind the scenes, and I liked it.
Fewer people. Smaller crowds. A total lack of screaming fans.
Now that I was home, I wanted my quiet, sunny kitchen, a mug of hot chocolate, and a piping hot bath.
And then I was going to sleep for about a month.
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