Page 15 of The Sebastian Guarantee
“A news alert popped up on my phone about you and tweens . . . bloody hell,” his sister whisper-shouted, again perfecting their father’s rollicking British accent. “It’s Daddy. I hear his footsteps. I told him I was meditating with the donkeys.”
That was another quirk he loved about his family. They’d adopted two donkeys right after he’d come to live with his father and Libby in Colorado. To everyone’s delight, the pack burros were still alive and kicking.
“How are good old Plum and Beefcake?”
“They’ll get more treats than me if Dad catches me with this phone. I better go, and when you see Phoebe, remember, Sebby, she’s the one.”
The one?
He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he could respond. “Phoebe’s the one?”
He held his breath as neither of them said a word.
“Phoebe’s the one that you can’t tell about my costume. What did you think I meant?” Tula tossed back with a curious bend to the question.
“Right, that’s what I thought you meant,” he blathered. Jesus, maybe he was still hammered.
“And turn on your cell phone, Sebby.”
“Why?” he got out on a woozy breath, still reeling from their exchange.
“Because the universe wants you to do it,” the kid answered matter-of-factly.
“The universe is sending you messages, T?” He shouldn’t have been surprised. In most cases, when somebody said something like that, there was a decent chance they were a few slices short of a loaf. But with an aura-reading yogi for a stepmom and an insightful spitfire of a little sister, it was par for the course in his household.
“More like Briggs is sending a message,” Tula clarified. “He called the house’s landline last night and told Daddy he was sorry to bother us during our break but that he needed to talk to you. And Daddy said, ‘now theboyoisn’t answering your calls either?’”
Sebastian flinched. His father had every right to be mad. Last week, his playboy son had blown off a call—a damned important call.
“Mibby told Daddy to take five big breaths,” Tula continued. “You better be careful, Sebby. You’ve been doubleboyo-ed, and you’ve got some crazy energy,andyou should probably eat something. And about Phoebe . . . there’s something else I need to tell you.”
What else did Tula know about Phoebe?
His heart hammered. “Okay, Tula, I’m listening.”
“Oh no!” the kid whisper-shouted. “It’s Daddy. Gotta go.”
And then she was gone.
What a way to end a call.
Lightheaded from the whirlwind of an exchange, he set Tula’s super-secret burner phone on the bedside table and picked up his cracked device. He pressed the button, not even sure if the banged-up piece of tech would work, but miraculously, the phone came to life.
“Look at that,” he remarked, then damn near dropped it again when a message blinked across the splintered screen. He’d missed seventy-three calls from his publicist. Barely a second had passed before the phone dinged and Briggs Keaton’s name flashed across the damaged screen.
Tula wasn’t kidding. The man appeared to have one hell of a bee in his bonnet, but he couldn’t understand the guy’s urgency. The meetings Briggs had set up weren’t for another day—and the rest of the appointments were scheduled for next week.
Play it casual.
Briggs was a good guy—a little on the high-strung side, but a good man, nevertheless.
Sebastian picked up the call. “Hey, Briggsy, how are you?”
“How am I?” Briggs fired back in a puffed-up British accent coated with blistering exasperation. “I’m bloody terrible. I have a client on the verge of pissing away his chance to make a name for himself. Oh, and it appears he’s also a misogynistic wanker who steals cabs meant for little girls.”
Sebastian’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about?”
Chapter4
