Daniel Harrington, twenty-nine, stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office on the 67th floor of Harrington Tower. He watched the busy holiday traffic crawl along Fifth Avenue below. It was early December, and the city sparkled with Christmas lights. The bright reds and greens blinked, trying too hard to spread holiday cheer. Daniel didn't feel any of it. Just two nights ago, his younger brother Lucas had narrowly escaped an "obsessed fan." This time, it was a woman who had slipped backstage at a small club gig, armed with craft scissors and the delusion that cutting a lock of Lucas's hair would bind their souls forever. Security tackled her just as she lunged, scissors glinting under the stage lights.
The private security firm Daniel hired had given their verdict the next morning: Lucas needed a full-time bodyguard—someone who could travel with him, blend into crowds, and handle threats without turning every public appearance into a major scene. Lucas, being the free spirit he was, rejected every candidate Daniel suggested. They were all ex-military, all built like refrigerators, and wore the same blank expression. "I'm not the president, Dan," Lucas had complained over FaceTime. "I don't want to feel like I'm in witness protection. Find me someone who doesn't look like they eat nails for breakfast."
So, Daniel told his assistant Mark to think way outside the box. Mark, always efficient, returned twenty-four hours later with just one name: Amari Thompson.
Daniel read the file for the third time, his eyebrows rising with each page. Twenty-six years old, she grew up on a cattle ranch near Bozeman, Montana. She served two years in the Montana Army National Guard and holds a black belt in karate. Local news articles highlighted the night she single-handedly chased off four armed cattle rustlers with just a rifle, a flashlight, and what the reporter called "sheer Montana nerve." Right now, she was working to keep her family ranch afloat after her father's leg amputation from a combine accident and three tough years of drought. She had posted her résumé on a discreet freelance personal-security site, listing "unconventional threats" as a specialty. There was even a grainy photo attached: sun-tanned skin, dark hair in a practical braid, and sharp green eyes staring down the camera.
A farmer girl. Daniel almost laughed out loud. "Mark, are you serious? We're protecting a rockstar, not a herd of cows."
Mark shrugged from the doorway. "Lucas saw the photo and said, quote, 'She looks like she could bench-press a bison and still have time to bake cookies. Hire her.'"
Two days later, Amari stepped off a red-eye flight into JFK wearing scuffed cowboy boots, faded jean shorts despite the December chill, and a shearling jacket that had clearly seen years of use—and probably a few honest fights. Mark met her at baggage claim, trying not to gawk at the duffel bag slung over her shoulder, which looked heavy enough to contain an anvil. He drove her straight to Harrington Tower.
Daniel waited in the conference room, his sleeves rolled up and tie loosened after a morning of calls. When she walked in, he stood and extended a hand. "Miss Thompson. Daniel Harrington."
Her grip was firm, calloused, and could probably crush walnuts. "Mr. Harrington. Nice tower. Compensating for something?"
Daniel blinked, taken aback. Mark, still lingering by the door, coughed to stifle a laugh. Daniel quickly regained his composure. "Let's get straight to the point. My brother's life is in danger from people who think they own him because they streamed his album on repeat. Why should I trust this job to someone whose biggest prior threat was… coyotes? Or angry bulls?"
Amari didn't flinch. She sat down without being asked, leaning back like she owned the room. "Coyotes are smart, fast, and will risk it all for food. Your brother's stalkers sound pretty similar—except they use Instagram DMs instead of howls. I've spent my life spotting threats in open country where there's no place to hide. Cities are just smaller pastures with taller fences and worse smells."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Poetic. But this isn't the open range. We're dealing with crowded venues, paparazzi flashes, private jets."
"I can learn about venues and jets," she said calmly. "I already know how to spot someone who's one bad day away from violence. And let's be honest—you're desperate, or I wouldn't be here. Your usual guys look like bodyguards, which makes your brother a bigger target and makes him feel like a zoo exhibit. I look like someone's old friend from back home. That's an advantage you can't buy with all your billions… though I'm sure you've tried."
Mark snorted audibly this time. Daniel shot him a glance that could freeze coffee, then turned back to Amari. He studied her for a long moment. Arrogant? No. Confident. Annoyingly so. The background check was spotless, and Lucas had already texted three times: *Hire her or I'll fire everyone else and go busking in the subway.*
"Fine," Daniel finally said. "Six-month contract, renewable. Generous salary—enough to fix a few fences—full benefits, and an expense account. You'll live in the guest suite at Lucas's loft. Report to both me and him. One mistake—just one—and you're on the next flight back to Montana. Probably with a layover in a snowstorm."
Amari's eyes sparkled with something like triumph, quickly hidden. "Understood, boss. Just don't expect me to curtsy."
As she signed the papers, Daniel couldn't shake the feeling he'd just invited a wild mustang into his carefully curated world—one that might knock over every fence he'd built.
That evening, Amari met Lucas at his large SoHo loft. Lucas bounded over like an excited puppy, wrapping her in a hug that smelled faintly of guitar polish, weed, and peppermint gum. "You're even cooler in person! Dan said you wrestle steers for fun."
"Only when they ask nicely," Amari deadpanned. "And only if they buy me dinner first."
Lucas burst out laughing, clutching his sides like she'd shared the best joke ever. "I already love you."
Daniel arrived an hour later with a pile of NDAs, schedules, and a tablet full of threat assessments. He watched Amari and Lucas joke naturally—Lucas teasing her about cowboy hats and whether she'd brought her lasso while Amari shot back that she left it at home but could improvise with his guitar cables—and felt a strange irritation rising like heartburn.
"Thompson," he said coolly, "a word."
In the hallway, he handed her a sleek black company credit card. "For wardrobe. You'll need to blend in at events. No flannel at galas. Or boots that look like they've stomped through real manure."
She regarded the card like it might bite her. "I have dresses. And my boots are broken in—yours look like they've never been broken, ever."
"Not the right kind of dresses." He met her glare without blinking. "This isn't personal. It's practical."
Amari pocketed the card with exaggerated care. "Everything with you is practical, isn't it, Mr. Harrington? I bet you schedule your fun in fifteen-minute slots."
"Daniel," he corrected, surprising himself again. "And yes. 'Practical' keeps people alive. And prevents embarrassing tabloid photos."
She gave a short nod and walked away, her boots thudding softly on the hardwood. Daniel watched her go, already regretting the decision and not knowing why—though the faint smirk on Mark's face as he passed in the hallway didn't help.