Welcome to my mess, New Girl. It’s a bumpy ride from here on out.

I took another swig of my Coke, then ground my teeth. New Girl was going to be Old News in a week, max, just like the rest of the sitters who’d accepted the position before her. I’d make sure of it. My thumb almost pressed Fallon’s name—almost —before I tucked the phone into my back pocket with a frown.

Not now.

Not here.

Not in front of all these wankers.

Jenna, the number one ballbuster in North America, folded her arms over her chest and awarded me with a look that could freeze hell and its neighboring sections. “Hello, Al. Are you going to continue the fart-fest on the sofa or come say hello to your new employee?”

I respected Jenna. She was the one Suit who’d never ask for a sexual favor or for a photo-op or for a fucking pony for her birthday. Which was why I’d agreed to her attaching a nanny for “Letters from the Dead” in the first place. The position was supposed to have been filled two months ago when I initially left rehab, but of course, I had to make the first nine quit in tears, and one moved to another state in a bid to put some space between us. I’d hoped that by the eighth, Jenna would give up on the idea altogether, but Jenna wasn’t much of a quitter.

Thing was, I was a stubborn bastard, too.

Reluctantly, I scraped my arse from the settee, ambling in their direction.

“For the record”—I puffed my cigarette, shotgunning it from my nostrils like an angry bull—“Alfie is the one in charge of the questionable aroma. He can’t stay away from Mexican food when in L.A.”

“Damn right, I can’t.” Alfie cackled from the sofa, peppering the sentence with a burp. “Tacos for World Peace! I should start a nonprofit organization.”

I offered New Girl my hand. I was six something. She was five nothing. She was practically at eye level with my crotch, which would have been very convenient if it wasn’t for the fact I wanted nothing to do with her. She dragged her head up to meet my gaze. Her eyes, a different shade of blue from her hair, were dark. And wild. Deep like a well-written riff.

Not completely bland. Good for you, love.

“Alex Winslow.”

“Indie Bellamy.”

“Your name is Indie?” My eyes ran her length from the floor up. Her tiny, sweaty palm tried to squeeze my big, cold one.

“Indigo. After the color.”

“Hardly making it better,” I quipped. She’d officially lost my attention, though, and I tossed the still-lit fag out the open window and propped my forearm against the wall, mentally rummaging my mind to find what I wanted to ask Jenna about. Something about a commercial I was shooting mid-year. Versace? Pepsi? Like it made any difference.

“Glad you think so. I’ve been anxiously waiting to hear what you think of my name,” Indie said.

She was still here.

She was still here, and she’d answered back.

What the fuck?

Jenna shifted in my peripheral, scooping her mobile from her Hermès bag and pointing between us with the device. “You two, get to know each other, but not too well, and definitely with your clothes still on. I have a phone call to make. Be right back.” Her heels punctuated the floor with noisy thwacks! all the way to the patio.

Indigo’s gaze clung to my face, not unlike a puppy. I glared back, because I was a petty fuck, and because staring competitions were apparently my forte, along with sexually harassing middle-aged charity chairwomen in text messages.

“Hey.” I leaned down, my lips finding the shell of New Girl’s ear. She didn’t shiver, and most nannies did. It caught me slightly off-guard, but not enough to deter me from my mission. “Wanna know a secret?”

New Girl didn’t answer, so I took it as a sign to continue, “I wet my bed at night. Every. Single. Night. But with the tour jitters and all, I properly piss all over the place. Sometimes it mixes with the spunk from the last girl I rolled between the sheets. Sometimes her juices are a package deal, too. I always ask my assistants to make my bed because, unlike the hotel staff, they actually sign a non-disclosure. Think you can manage that, little one?”

I straightened, examining her face. This was the point where their eyes widened, their mouths fell open, and their faces paled. Not with this one. No. New Girl’s smile was sun-bright and type-two-diabetes sugary.

“Mr. Winslow, I’d be more than happy to purchase a pack of adult diapers for you. In fact, I think they’d suit you just fine, considering your behavior.”

Where had Jenna found this girl, and how could I send her back to whatever hellhole she’d come from before she boarded the plane with us on Wednesday? I smirked, my elbow still against the wall, raking my callused fingers through my long hair.

“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” I dropped the bemused tone. Playtime was over the minute she got cheeky.

“Actually, I do.” She took a step forward. “I’m getting myself out of a really bad financial situation, which means your antics mean nothing to me. I need the money. I’ll see these three months through and keep you sober, no matter what.”

“You don’t know what ‘what’ entails, so I wouldn’t go around making promises if I were you.”

Her eyes flashed theatrically, and I was beginning to really lose my patience with this one. “Here I am, making a promise. Sue me, Mr. Winslow.”

Don’t fucking tempt me, New Girl.

I took a wide step, erasing the space between us, and now her small tits brushed against my stomach. Her eyes were kindled with enough determination to burn down the hotel. I was on the verge of tossing her out to the balcony with my very own hands when Saint Lucas, AKA Waitrose, appeared from behind my shoulder, stretching his arm toward her and saving her day.

“Lucas Rafferty. Drummer.” He flashed his megawatt, Brad-Pitt’s-Nicer-Brother grin. Her guarded expression liquefied into a smile instantly, and she released her hand from mine, taking his. That was when I noticed we’d been shaking hands for three minutes. So, New Girl was a creep, too.

Nice touch, Jenna. You’re getting a bin bag and a tabloid scandal for Christmas.

“Indie.”

“Hippie parents?” Waitrose’s soft chuckle probably melted her insides into marshmallow. Lucas had the ability to charm the knickers off of a fucking stapler, and although he kept his love life unusually private, women had the tendency to throw themselves at him. The irony was, Lucas didn’t deserve these girls.