Chapter Three
Rachael awoke at five o’clock, ten minutes before her alarm clock went off. Tiptoeing down the hall so she wouldn’t wake her guest, Rachael showered quickly, and then dressed in jeans and a deep-red sweater with a slouching neckline. She pulled her back into a ponytail, drew on coffee-colored eyeliner and swiped lip-gloss over her lips.
As she slipped downstairs, Rachael couldn’t get over how quiet it was. Although she always woke up before the guests, she could usually hear them stirring by the time she headed downstairs.
Not a single peep sounded from Cole’s room.
She got to work as usual, pulling out the electric frying pan and starting it up. She prepped the food: bacon and sausage, eggs and English muffins. Pouring a cup of coffee, Rachael sat down in front of the kitchen window. She sipped slowly and watched the sun rise, feeling delicious warmth radiate through her.
Guests usually came downstairs once they smelled bacon. Didn’t matter what time it was.
Cole’s sniffer must’ve been broken.
As she looked out the window over the sink and poured herself a second cup of coffee, two blacked-out Tahoes jerked to a stop at the curb. People filed out of every door. Opened up the back of the SUV’s. Stomped up the porch. Pounded on the front door.
It was a damn three-ring circus.
“Good morning,” she said to the burly man standing on the stoop. His hair was jet black, his eyes icy blue. “I assume you’re looking for Cole Turner.”
“Where should we put his things?”
“What…things?”
A string of people swept past her, charging into the house. Within seconds, speakers, instruments, and long, black duffle bags cluttered the living room floor.
A thirty-something woman in a tight red dress entered after everyone else, carrying nothing but an iPad.
“I’m Rita Flint, Cole’s manager,” she said, extending her hand. “I believe I spoke with you on the phone when I made the reservation.”
“Yes, nice to meet you.” Rachael took her hand, shook. “I’m Rachael McCoy.”
“Rachael.” The woman eyed her from her slippers to her sweater, and then smiled. “I think Cole’s going to do fabulously here.”
What did her appearance have to do with how Cole would enjoy the inn? She must’ve missed something.
“How’d he sleep?” Rita asked.
“Wouldn’t know.” Rachael shrugged. “He’s not up yet.”
“Not up?” She snapped to the burly guy who’d knocked on the door. “Bronx! Get him moving! We’ve got to be at StoneMill in ten!”
After Rachael directed Bronx to Cole’s room, she turned her attention back to Rita who strolled through the living room, checking out the old-timey pictures hanging on the walls.
“What is all this stuff?” Rachael asked, weaving around boxes.
Rita laughed. “Cole’s necessities. His guitars and—”
“Guitars, plural? How many can he play at once?”
“One, but there are different guitars needed for different sounds and songs. That one over there is his personal favorite, and the blue case holds the bedazzled one that matches his final outfit. We always say he should leave them in the van with the other instruments, but he insists on keeping them with him.”
Talk about high-maintenance.
Absentmindedly, Rachael wondered if Cole was the one who required the outfits and guitars, or whether that was his manager’s doing.
“The other boxes are his clothes, boots, and personal items. He carts those three boxes everywhere. A word to the wise,” she said, leaning close. “I wouldn’t touch those. He won’t let anyone see what’s inside, and he gets temperamental if he thinks you’re going to check ‘em out. It shouldn’t be a problem dropping his things here, seeing as I reserved the entire inn for Cole. Am I mistaken?”
“No.” Rachael knelt in front of the fire and threw a couple logs in. “You’re not mistaken. He can keep as many boxes here as he needs.”
“That’s what I thought,” Rita said from behind her. “I think this place will give him the space he needs to clear his head for this tour. He’ll need quiet and focus. Especially after what happened in Houston.”
“What happened in—”
In the upstairs bathroom, a faucet squeaked and Cole screamed.
Rachael stifled a laugh. Three men ran up the stairs—bodyguards, she assumed from their leather jackets and headpieces. Rita yanked her cell out of her pocket as if she was going to call the police. Heavy footsteps rained over their heads.
“Everything okay up there?” Rita hollered, leaning over the banister.
“We’re clear!” Bronx answered.
Rita put her phone away as Cole’s guards stomped down the stairs. It probably wasn’t the best time to jump back into a conversation about what happened in Houston, or why his manager wanted to keep him somewhere quiet.
“So where are the rest of you staying?” Rachael asked, twisting up newspaper and throwing it into the hearth.
Rita sighed. “Blue Lake Motel. Would it kill you guys to put up a Hilton?”
It would actually, yes. The town prided itself on small, mom-and-pop shops and the ability to keep big businesses out of the area.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Rachael asked, waiting for the fire to light.
Rita shook her head, and for the next thirty minutes, she asked a ton of questions about Blue Lake, the hotel, winery, and the Big Box stores they refused to let in. When Rachael mentioned they didn’t have a mall, Rita paled. Rachael covered a laugh by taking a long drink of her coffee.
Cole traipsed down the stairs, his entourage behind him. He’d dressed in dark-washed jeans, combat boots, and a long-sleeve T-Shirt with the Rolling Stones mouth printed on it.
“You’re late,” Rita said, jabbing a finger at her iPad. “I’ll call StoneMill and let them know we’re on our way.” She kinked her head, looking irritated. “Apparently, they’ve dropped off the face of the earth. They’re not listed in Yelp.”
“Morning, Rachael,” Cole said, his voice deep and velvety.
Her stomach fluttered and she tried to hide her smile with her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Turner. Did you sleep well?”
“I slept alone,” he said flatly, and then sniffed toward the kitchen. “Dude, what’s that smell? Is that…sausage?”
“Bacon and eggs, too.” She started toward the kitchen. “Want a plate to take with you?”
Holding a hand to his stomach, he growled. He actually growled. “That sounds—“
“No time!” Rita grabbed him by the arm and tried to drag him toward the front door. “Ms. McCoy, you wouldn’t happen to have a phone book, would you? The winery’s not listed.”
“Lucy Stone’s cell is 209-555-6956,” she answered.
Rita stopped, stared. “How do you know that off the top of your head?”
“Lucy’s a great friend of mine.”
Cole grinned. “Perfect. Rita, take the crew to the winery and I’ll meet you there.”
“And how exactly are you getting there?” Rita spat.
As he stood at Rachael’s side, she picked up hints of his aftershave, crisp and spicy. “She’ll make me a plate, and take me over in her car. I’ll eat while she drives.”
Demanding, much?
“You do have a car, don’t you?” he asked, looking down at her.
“Oh, I can get you to the winery.” She nodded. “It’ll only take me an hour to water the horses and ready the carriage.”
He smirked, but no one else in the room seemed amused.
“Fine,” Rita said, “but we had things to discuss on the drive over.”
“We’ll talk later.” His gaze caught Rachael’s. “You don’t mind dropping me off, do you?”
Yes, I totally mind.
“No, I had to head out of the house anyway,” she said. “But I’m just dropping you off. I can’t stay. I’ve got errands to run this morning and work to do around here this afternoon.”
“Perfect,” he said, and the intensity of his gaze started to burn.
Rachael disappeared into the kitchen and breathed deeply. The air was cooler in here, thank goodness. She made Cole a plate and cleaned up the breakfast mess. Out the window, his entourage hopped back into their cars. Rita caught Rachael staring, and glared, slamming the door shut behind her. Rachael had just finished putting away the last dish when she felt Cole’s presence behind her.
“You should’ve gone with them,” she said.
“Nah.” He stole a piece of bacon off the plate she was moving to the fridge, and chomped off a huge bite. “When in Rome, you should cruise around town with people from Rome, right?”
“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, but something tells me you wouldn’t care anyway.” She dried off her hands, and then grabbed her coat and keys. “You ready?”
He nodded. “Lead the way, gorgeous.”
She stopped, her chest tingling with warmth. “Please don’t call me that.”
“All right, Miss Rachael McCoy,” he said with a wink and a show-stopping smile. “Show me the way to your carriage.”
This was going to be the week from hell. Not because she hated the way Cole Turner talked to her, or the way he looked at her.
But because she liked those things too much.