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She sniffles. “I just wanna build a sandcastle.”
I hesitate because I don’t know what’s next in my baby’s recovery. “Let’s see what your doctor has to say first. Okay?”
“Life isn’t fair, Daddy,” she mumbles.
Considering everything she’s endured, she’s not wrong. Worse yet, there’s one thing Bailey doesn’t know that’s going to send her finely ordered world into orbit. I chuck beneath her chin. “Chin up, Buttercup. We have each other.”
Her smile isn’t as bright as earlier, but she manages one.
As a preemptive strike, I offer, “How about I bring home some cupcakes from Amaryllis Bakery for dessert?”
“Can I have two?”
I pretend like I’m going to argue when we both know I’m going to get her three. I blow out a gust of air. “Fine. But that’s because you’re you.”
She beams at me and lifts her face up. I press a kiss on her forehead. “Okay, now we’re officially late. Let’s roll.”
Bailey wheels out of her bathroom and heads toward the front door. I follow not far behind. Not twenty minutes later, when I drop her off at school, all the worry surges back. The apple cart of Bailey’s life is about to be upset yet again.
Our nanny, Mrs. Destry, gave her notice.
Worse, at least for me, I have two weeks to replace her right at the beginning of summer break.
Two hours later, I’m in my office when there’s a knock on the open door. I look up from the brief I’m writing to meet the unusually amused eyes of Keene Marshall. Behind him, sporting a semblance of a smile—something I haven’t seen on any of the owners’ faces in far too long—is Caleb Lockwood. I ask, “What’s up?”
“Beckett Miller’s attorney called.” Keene references the world’s biggest rock star, who happens to be one of our largest clients. “His accountant desperately requires an itemized audit of all Hudson charges dating back the last seven years. How quickly would we be able to pull that together?”
I press my lips together desperately trying to keep my expression bland. “Don’t tell me ...”
“Becks is being audited by the IRS? You got it,” Caleb rumbles.
Because his amusement is evident, I don’t bother to restrain my own snicker. “Now if only Beckett asked us to pull all the data the IRS requires for him, we could close down until Christmas.” Which would take care of my nanny problems, I think glumly.
Keene can’t restrain his bark of laughter as he drops into one of the chairs in front of my desk. “The billable hours could make me salivate in my sleep.”
Steeping my fingers together, I contemplate the vast holdings Beckett Miller has and visibly shudder. “As someone who’s tracked money laundering, terrorist accounts, traced spies and criminals through their bank accounts, I’d prefer any of those tasks to trying to sift through the financial records of someone as prolifically invested as Beckett Miller. Christ, the man has no pattern to what he buys. I can’t imagine the amount of man hours it’s going to take the CPA in charge.”
Caleb reminds me, “Why do you think his lawyer is involved? Can you imagine someone from the government asking Beckett if he has a receipt for a meal he bought on tour seven years ago?”
We all share a moment of amusement thinking of the piranha Beckett has on retainer likely snapping out that very question. Cringing, I admit, “I almost feel sorry for the auditor.”
Whirling my chair around, I open a discrete system only accessible from inside the Hudson office. My fingers tapping a few keys before the data I want appears. Fortunately, Hudson agents are required to maintain strict billing logs just for this purpose. After pulling up Beckett’s account and change the default year parameter to seven, I have nothing to do but wait for our financial program to work its magic. Jerking my thumb toward the screen, I remark, “That’s going to take a few to download.”
“Excellent. Once LLF”—Keene names Beckett’s law firm—“signs our waiver and sends it back, I’ll send you a copy so you can courier the hard copy and email them the file.”
“Perfect. Is that all?”
“How’s Bailey?”
One of the things I love about working for Hudson is we’re a huge family. Everyone from Caleb and Keene down has been incredibly supportive about ensuring I’m able to care for my little girl. When they found out Bailey had been injured, they immediately adjusted my work hours—even permitting working at night or on the weekend. I’ve had offers to babysit, to take her to the park, and playdates from the agents with kids. Hell, Sam Akin—who makes my computer skills look like those of a seventh grader earning his first computer certificate—built me a virtual desktop so I could log directly into my Hudson terminal long after Bailey is asleep, allowing me autonomy in my work while still giving me what I need most.
Time with my daughter.
I reach over and grab my cell. Unlocking it, I pull up the latest selfie we took in the car this morning before I dropped her at school. Caleb’s face morphs from strained to grinning. Even Keene’s cool demeanor breaks when he teases, “I see no damage was caused in the making of those pigtails.”
“Bite me, Keene. Those fucking bands are a pain in the ass.” I hold out my hand before he slaps the device back into it.
That’s when we’re interrupted by the executive floor admin, Tony, buzzing through. “Liam? A nanny service just left a message for you.”