by Claire Cain
“You spying on the girl?”
I jerked my head. “Spying? No. We were both watching the sunrise. We air-toasted our coffee.”
He blinked. Then again. “Well, that’s just precious. Are you going to roast marshmallows and kiss by a fire later?”
My stomach dipped. Yes, please. “No. Idiot.”
He snickered and turned back to the eggs. I sat down at the bar, impatient for the food but not wanting to talk any more. I didn’t want to smash this odd little burst of hope that’d grown in me, even if it was about the stupidest thing ever. I wasn’t expecting anything from this woman, but I could try to talk to her, couldn’t I? See what kind of person she was.
Warrick shoved a plate of eggs and toast in front of me, breaking through my thoughts. He thunked down next to me and inhaled his food. I ate at a more measured pace but still finished in minutes. We sat, sipping coffee, the silence between brothers a familiar one.
Until he broke it. “You should probably stay away from her.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
He snorted. “Um, because she’s a man-eater?”
I turned to face him fully. “How do you know that?”
He gave me a look that said you are too stupid to live. “Everyone knows that.”
“What?”
His expression cleared a bit. “Oh, damn. You don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“That she’s Miss Mayhem.”
A laugh burst out of me, the claim utterly preposterous. “Right.”
He didn’t move. “No, really. That’s Miss Mayhem. Callaway Rice is Miss Mayhem.”
Little black dominoes tipped into each other in a long train inside me. She’d been cagey. She’d had that hat pulled so low. She… “That woman looks nothing like Miss Mayhem.”
Even as I said it, reality clicked into place. She did look like Miss Mayhem. Same dark hair, same height. I hadn’t seen her face clearly, but I’d known she was beautiful without seeing all of her anyway.
Warrick chuckled and pushed out of his seat. As he rounded the island to wash his dishes, he gave me a pitying look. “You have a crush on Miss Mayhem.”
Horrified, I reared back. “I do not. That woman is not my type.”
“Riiiiight. Yeah. Gorgeous, talented, passionate, loaded.” He made a face. “Disgusting.”
I handed him my plate and fork.
“That’s all well and good, but like you said, man-eater. Exhibitionist.” And then it hit me. All the recent headlines. “Drug addict? Did we just rent that house to a millionaire addict? What if she overdoses over there? What if—”
His giant hand shot up. “Pump the brakes there, killer. She’s not an addict. You know as well as I do you can’t believe everything you read. As far as we care, she’s a tenant and we’ll help her when she asks. Otherwise, we’ll stay out of her way, and I bet you she stays out of ours. After all the crap in the news, I bet you she’s up here in Nowhere, Utah to hide out.”
All the crap in the news was story after story about her the last few months, culminating in a supposed insider’s claim that she’d supplied the drugs to her addict mother who’d overdosed sometime in the last few years. I didn’t tune in to pop culture all that much, but I would’ve had to be living in a cave to miss the news about Miss Mayhem.
Her name said it all. Over the years, she’d pushed the envelope. She was a pop culture icon by now, and a sex symbol the world over. I didn’t know all that much about her, nor could I name more than a handful of her songs from the last decade, but I knew one thing. A woman like that?
Absolutely not my type.
I wanted someone steady. Predictable. Someone I could build a life with and be happy with. Nothing earth-shaking, but clearly not that woman. She was gorgeous, and I hadn’t even seen her up close where I could get a good look at her, but I didn’t need to now. She was off the list, and my date with Sarah this weekend was even more important.
“Well, no problem there. I will definitely be leaving her alone.”
FIVE
Calla
The truck rumbled to a stop next to where I stood by the entrance to the farm.
“You need something?” Wyatt Saint asked from a rolled down window, an unmistakable edge to his voice.
Maybe I was being sensitive, but I could tell it wasn’t a good edge. Not something flirty or curious, but something agitated or suspicious. The firm set of his jaw, like he was clenching his teeth, and that pouty mouth pulling down on both sides… wow.
Okay, then. I hadn’t spoken to this man since the first night here, and he greeted me like that?
“Just waiting for my ride. Thanks.”
I’d booked with a local driver but felt bad having them come up to the door, so I’d pinned the pickup location here at the big All Saints Ranch sign. Little did I realize, the five-minute walk here would wind me like I’d tried to sprint a mile, but I supposed I had to get used to the altitude at some point. Maybe it’d even double as effective cardio or something.
“How long until it comes?” he asked, eyes narrowing like my standing here was some kind of nefarious plot.
“Uh… looks like five more minutes? I didn’t want them to have to wait.”
He blinked, gaze still off somehow. Especially compared to our last meeting the day I arrived. He hadn’t been fawning over me or anything, but he’d been nice enough. Then the next day, he’d been out on his porch while I was on mine, and we’d had a nice moment of acknowledgement.
I’d learned a few things about Wyatt Saint. First, he was a creature of habit. In the four days since arriving, he had come and gone at the exact same time. He stood on the porch every morning at seven thirty after getting home from doing whatever he did a lot earlier than that. He left every afternoon for about three hours and came back early evening, then didn’t leave again. And granted, these weren’t exactly earth-shattering revelations, but compared to Warrick, who seemed to come and go ten times a day or not at all, it was notable.
And all that easily revealed how bored out of my mind I’d been. I’d been stalking the neighbors from my little barny cottage, and by this afternoon, I’d had to get out. No amount of yoga, meditation, or vocal exercises could help the time pass—but at least there was decent distance between me and the big house so my new neighbors couldn’t hear me singing scales and doing the other nonsense I did to keep my voice in shape.
I’d briefly considered asking Wyatt if I could pay him to take me to town since I’d bet that was where he went every afternoon, but I’d decided against it. I didn’t want to impose, and now, I was even happier I hadn’t asked.
Whatever problem this Saint brother had with me today had come out of nowhere. I’d done nothing… actual nothing. I hadn’t even stepped out on my porch to greet the day again, just in case my standing a few hundred yards away at the same time would steal this peaceful moment from him. I was only temporary, after all.
So that suspicion and attitude? Rude.
“You’ll freeze out here. You should get in.” He jerked his head to the side in a signal that must’ve meant I should get in his truck.
Yeah, right.
“No, thanks. I’m good.” I tucked my arms more closely around me because it was only about twenty degrees this afternoon. There’d been a brutal cold snap starting the day after I arrived. But I’d bundled up, and I’d only been out here five minutes before he showed up.
“Seriously, you could get frostbite just standing here. Get in and wait.”
His voice had a twinge of pleading in it, but mostly that bossy let me tell you how it is, little lady feel that made my jaw clench.
“Thank you, no. Plus, there’s the car.” I nodded to the road where headlights could be seen. No idea if it was actually my rideshare, but odds were good. I didn’t want to get my phone out until I absolutely had to because that would mean uncrossing my arms and losing some of the warmth I’d built up.
“Still a few minutes out. You should get in an
d wait with me.”
“Listen, I’m fine. I appreciate the offer. But you can be on your way.”
“You’re stubborn.”
My mouth dropped open. “Seriously? I’m stubborn? You don’t even know me, and you’re mansplaining cold weather to me and demanding I get in your truck to solve a problem that I do not even have.”
His eyes blinked like he’d been slapped. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the car zoomed up and stopped next to Wyatt.
“Hey, Wyatt! How’s it going? Just here to pick up Ms. Rice here. You ready?” The chatty young person in the car leaned almost all the way out his driver side window, hand waving at Wyatt, then me.
“Yep, all set, thanks!” I said and slipped into the back before Wyatt ever got a word in.
Inside, the car was spotless. A little basket of mints sat in the middle of the back seat. The driver introduced himself as Jake, then executed the slowest seven-point turn in history, all directly in front of Wyatt’s massive truck. My cheeks burned and I could practically feel Wyatt’s eyes on us as Jake zigged and zagged to get turned around. Finally pointed in the right direction, he zipped off down the road.
Did all drivers in Silverton have J names? Was that part of the application process? First, Jarrod from the airport, and now plucky Jake. If I had a third with a J name, I’d give myself a prize.
Oh dear sweet child, Calla. It’s good you’re getting out.
I focused on my phone, making a list of groceries I’d need and reviewing the order I’d pick up from the restaurant so I could enjoy food I didn’t cook for at least one meal.
The unsettled feeling chased me all the way, though—that odd exchange with Wyatt made me twitchy and frustrated. What was his deal? Why should he care if I stood outside for ten minutes waiting for a ride? It was none of his business.
And why had he come at me with that tone like I’d done something wrong? He’d been welcoming and nice the other day. I couldn’t have messed this up already without even realizing it, could I?
I browsed the market slowly because I had no plans this evening, or tomorrow, or really ever again, so why not? I wasn’t that recognizable, especially without full makeup and hair, so hopefully between the cream-colored beanie on my head and keeping my eyes down, I’d go unnoticed.
I’d wandered the three streets that made up the bulk of downtown Silverton for an hour, stretching the time out as long as I could. I’d spotted a cozy little diner I wanted to try, I’d purchased a bouquet of flowers at a tiny shop called Bloom, and I’d eyed but not entered a shop with a sign that said Pluck and had a little ironwork guitar next to the name.
My feet had nearly steered themselves to the doorstep, but I’d resisted. I hadn’t written in years—not anything at all since Candy’s death, but it’d been before that, too. I hadn’t brought my guitar here, anyway. I had no business buying yet another instrument that would sit in the corner of that small cottage and judge me for not doing anything creative.
No guilting myself. This time was about rejuvenation and reinvention and not having to cow to the habits and ways of thinking I’d established. All the things that’d frosted over my already frozen heart.
So, I’d walked on, ignoring the pull toward the tiny shop. Rounding the corner to Main Street, I’d considered ducking into a little coffee shop adorably named Rise and Shine but then saw how crowded it was inside—all the tables full of people caffeinating après-ski, I supposed.
I could ski. I liked it well enough, and I was decent. I could probably just go without a lesson or maybe get a private instructor. But if I fell and broke something, my manager would kill me.
Dread sloshed through me. No more thoughts of managers. Focus on the here and now. But also, decision made—no skiing for now. Kristoffer would be annoyed by having to help me figure out what to rent or by having to fly out and attend my bedside if I broke something. He’d consider it his duty even if I refused.
Other than Jenna, Kristoffer was my only friend, and he was paid to be one. We weren’t even all that friendly—he was pure business and very professional. I was thankful because that meant he gave me space and didn’t tattle on me to my manager, agent, or publicist when I decided to up and disappear from life. I’d told him and my security team the specifics, and no one else.
Checking out at the market went smoothly—the woman who bagged my food didn’t seem to recognize me, or maybe she just didn’t care. An alarm chimed on my phone—five minutes until my food would be ready. I’d put in an order at the local Mexican food place named Guac. I had to admit, I loved all the store names and wished more than once I’d found a place to stay in town. Who cared if people knew where I was?
A lot of people. People who will be angry once they realize what you’re doing.
I inhaled the utterly frigid evening air. The sun was almost gone, so I was shrouded in more anonymity, but that didn’t stop me from recognizing Wyatt Saint giving his brother Warrick a shoulder slap and kissing a woman’s cheek not five feet in front of where I stood. The two men wore winter coats—Warrick’s puffy and sporty, Wyatt’s that same canvas-looking thing that practically screamed I’m a cowboy, dammit! and hats. Part of me expected to see Wyatt in a Stetson, but so far, no dice. Plus I suspected, despite his rudeness, that same eager sliver of me would expire on the spot from the sight of that man in a cowboy hat.
The woman with them was older but still quite lovely from what I could see. She was bundled in a knee-length jacket, hat, and gloves.
“Callaway—Ms. Rice, is that you?” Warrick Saint waved a giant hand my way.
I smiled at him and closed the distance, not wanting to yell or draw any attention. “Hello.”
“Nice to see you out. Everything going well so far?”
“Going great.” All except the whole Calla can’t feed herself issue, but that wasn’t his problem.
“Glad to hear it. Let me introduce you—this is my mom, Jane Saint. And you know my brother, Wyatt.”
I took his mother’s proffered hand. “So nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine. Are they being hospitable?” Her brows raised in expectation, a sweet mother waiting for rave reviews about her towering, handsome sons.
I glanced at Wyatt, irritation and a little temptation to tattle on his rudeness earlier slicing through me. Ignoring that petty impulse, I told her the truth. “They’ve been lovely.”
Jane Saint looked completely pleased with this news. I smiled, feeling the residual effects of her motherly satisfaction.
Wyatt cleared his throat, his eyes flickering over me before he spoke to his mother and Warrick. “We should be getting inside.”
“Don’t let me keep you. Have a nice evening.” I stepped back with a raised hand.
“Holler if you need anything!”
Warrick’s cheery parting words rang out in the space between me and Wyatt. Warrick ushered his mother inside, and Wyatt turned his body, but his eyes caught mine and held. My stomach tightened in response to that serious gaze. What was his deal?
“Night, Ms. Rice.” And then, he slipped into the bright glow of the restaurant.
Shaking off the mystery that was Wyatt Saint, I stepped up to the takeout window just in time for a man to hand me a giant bag filled to the brim. Jake pulled up right on time, and I slid into the back. We chatted for a few minutes but eventually fell silent. All the way up the canyon, I thought about the strange pull to follow after the Saints and go inside the warmth of the place instead of traveling this road back to my house all alone.
It made no sense. I’d come here to get away from people and pressure. I’d longed for solitude. But these people I hardly knew had what I didn’t right now… maybe what I’d never had.
Something in my belly twisted and pawed at me for attention but I shook it off. Must be hunger pangs.
Yes, definitely hunger pangs. Not something else.
Not anything else…
SIX
Wyatt
Warrick
’s little smirk made me want to shove a bowl of salsa in his face.
I didn’t, of course. I hadn’t done something that childish since I was, well, a child. I’d always kept it together, even when his knee bouncing under the table and that little twist of his lips told me he desperately wanted to say something, and he just knew it’d be cute when he did.
“Out with it,” I said, not giving him my full attention even though I knew exactly what I’d order and had no use for the Guac menu.
“What are you so bouncy for, War-baby?”
My mother’s continual use of baby with Warrick’s name, even though he was rounding the corner to thirty and weighed well over two hundred and twenty pounds, would never cease to amuse me or please him.
“Did you recognize her, Mom?” He dropped his voice low, at least.
“Ms. Rice? Can’t say that I did. Should I? She’s certainly striking. All that long, dark hair and that perfectly creamy skin. She’s just gorgeous.”
Warrick raised his brows at me, then ducked his head close to our mom. “She’s a musician. Super famous. You’ve heard of Miss Mayhem?”
Mom’s eyes went large, and her mouth made a little o. It should’ve been comical, but I was still stuck on all that long, dark hair and that perfectly creamy skin. Yeah. She was flat-out gorgeous, and getting an even better look at her just now from a few feet away had only intensified my reaction to her despite what I knew about her.
“I have! That’s her?”
“Shh!” Warrick pulled her into a side hug in their booth, then whispered, “No one can know. I’m not blowing this.”
Mom pressed her lips together and nodded, all seriousness.
“Better change the subject or you’re doomed,” I mumbled, irrationally annoyed at their shared excitement. She was a world-famous model-turned-popstar. She was easily the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in real life, and I hadn’t even let myself look at her full-out. She was also bad news, probably a druggy, and mixed up in some kind of mess that made her hide away in a mountain town and wear hats low on her head so no one could see who she was.