Crazy in Love (Contemporary Romance) (Blue Lake Series)

by Kristin Miller

  As she stormed out of the room, Cole went rigid, muscle to bone.

  Ooh, the blood lurched through his veins now. No woman had ever stood up to him that way before. They were usually falling all over themselves, smiling ear to ear, leaning on his shoulder and playfully bumping him in the arm. He’d never been turned down. Never been denied when he’d wanted something.

  This woman had fire, shutting down his advances before he’d had a chance to really lay on the charm.

  Little did she know, there was nothing he loved more than a challenge.

  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.

  Chapter Four

  They drove forever. Okay, they drove thirty minutes southeast, but every bend looked the same—trees, rocks, rivers, wash, rinse and repeat—which made the minutes drag by. Cole thought they’d never reach the winery. The only reason he didn’t demand to be taken back to his room was because Rachael, the beauty he couldn’t figure out, sat beside him.

  She was stunning. Soft eyes, dark lashes that batted against pale pink cheeks, and a set of heart-shaped lips that he wanted to press his against. She was thin and toned, yet she didn’t look skeletal, like she’d stab him for a steak.

  The thing was, women like Rachael McCoy were usually all over him by now.

  He hadn’t slept a wink last night, and it was all her fault. It was only the two of them in that big inn, and she slept a few doors down…close enough that she should’ve been knocking on his door in the middle of the night for a quick romp. Every hour that ticked by, he checked the clock. Listened for footsteps to thump down the hall.

  And somehow, every single agonizing hour, he’d been let down. If it wasn’t for the thought of Rachael kicking him out and making a scene—and Rita freaking out for creating yet another problem during the tour—he would’ve knocked on her door.

  But he hadn’t.

  Tonight would be different. Tonight, she’d beg him to come to bed with her. He’d up his game and she’d be putty in his hands.

  She veered off the road and drove beneath a large arching sign that read: StoneMill Winery. The gravel driveway was long and winding, with vines of grapes lining either side.

  “Wonder why they put roses at the end of the vines that way?” he asked, watching out the window as row upon row passed with roses at the head.

  “There are diseases that strike grapes from time to time,” Rachael said simply. “Roses are more susceptible to getting those than grapes and serve as an early warning for the winery manager. If the roses are infected, the manager knows to take action. The grapes will be next.”

  “That’s crazy.” He leaned his elbow on the door. “How’d you know that?”

  “I told you, Lucy’s a friend of mine. We used to be in a book club together in town. We’ve remained close through the years, especially after she approached me about partnering for the Shows at StoneMill Package.”

  “What’s that?”

  The rows of grapes ended at a huge house—more like a mountain mansion, really—with large, rectangular windows in front. Rachael turned left, and drove around the building, to where parking stalls had been outlined with gigantic pegs of wood.

  “She only recently built the amphitheater where you’re performing,” she said, pulling into a stall. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the second musical act, and the one that’s going to really kick off the spring into summer music schedule. Lucy and I decided to partner and give discounted rates for the musicians who stay at the inn. You stay with me, I drop you off and pick you up if you need me to, and you play here.”

  She turned off her Rav4 and hopped out. Only after he was alone in the cab, did he really hear what she’d said. She didn’t drive him here because she wanted to, or because he’d asked her. She’d driven him because it was part of the deal with her friend. Part of the show package between the inn and the winery.

  She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want him.

  Gritting his teeth, Cole got out of the SUV and met Rachael at the edge of the lot. They’d parked on a hillside, the spread of the valley opening up below them. Grapes stretched over the land, to the east and west, north and south. In front of the stage, the hillside had been carved away to make room for fans to sit in a horseshoe-shaped grassy area. Below that, where the hill leveled out, hundreds of chairs had been set up in staggered rows. People buzzed about, setting up the stage and speakers, the chairs and security rails. Cole’s crew was unmistakable, dressed in their usual black coats and jeans. They’d have this place suited up for the show in no time.

  “Amazing set up, right?” Rachael said.

  He nodded, checking out the trees on the hills to the north and south.

  “All of this used to be vineyard,” she went on. “Lucy didn’t break ground until last year. The place has come a long way. I helped her with the landscaping over there”—she pointed—“and over there. And the guest shop inside had to be expanded. We worked out the plans for that together over dinner one night.”

  “I would’ve thought the inn dominated your hours,” he said. “When did you find the time to help revamp this place?”

  “You don’t find time to help friends…you make time.”

  “That was sweet of you.” Really sweet. “People in my line of work don’t help with anything unless they’re paid.”

  She shook her head. “That’s a pity.”

  It really was. There wasn’t a single person Cole could call who’d come to help him if he needed it. Not unless he was going to open up his wallet when the work was through.

  He had to admit, they’d done a great job with the place. The sights were spectacular. Just the way the place had been described to him: a music stage in the middle of the Sierras, and somewhere to play beneath the stars. The air smelled clean and sweet, consumed with the fragrant notes of the grapes.

  “I’ve never played outside before,” he said, his voice low.

  “Really?”

  “Playing in the open like this…” …was going to be something he’d always remember. He looked up at the pristinely blue sky before starting the trek down the hill on a set of wooden stairs. “It’s how Rita roped me into coming to Blue Lake in the first place, but I didn’t realize what I was getting into. People around here will really pay fifty bucks to sit out in the freezing cold for the night?”

  “No, they won’t do that at all.” Rachael followed a few steps behind him. “They’ll pay fifty bucks to sit out in the cold and listen to you play. You’ve got to be good to sell this place out.”

  He stopped on a stair halfway down the hillside and turned back. She jolted to a stop, crossing her hands in front of her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  �
�Have you heard any of my songs?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped. “I haven’t, but don’t take offense. I don’t listen to rock.”

  Fair enough. “What do you listen to?”

  “Country.”

  “Shit,” he swiped his hand across his jaw. “Should’ve known.”

  “What?” Smirking, she planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I look like a country girl?”

  “I should’ve glanced down.” He pointed to the boot toes poking from beneath the hems of her jeans. “Those boots give it all away, but I was too distracted by the twinkle in your eyes to notice your shoes. Forgive me.”

  She groaned and did some serious eye-rolling.

  He was going to have to bring his A game to win this one over.

  “Who are your favorites?” he asked.

  Along the way, he’d probably met a few of her favorite musicians. Dropping names was not beneath him. Not if it meant he could finally impress the stone-cold innkeeper.

  “Faith Hill, Sugarland, Keith Urban.” She grinned. “I’d sit out here on my ass and get frostbite if it meant I could listen to Keith Urban play live.”

  Although the notion was ridiculous, a tiny twinge of jealousy niggled in Cole’s side. Why wouldn’t she be willing to do the same for him? There’d be hundreds of screaming fans here tomorrow night. Hundreds of women who’d gladly get frostbite for him, too.

  “What is it about Keith that’ll make you sit out in the cold?” he asked.

  “There is no sound in the world like a man playing a guitar—”

  Check.

  “—and singing his own songs, written straight from the heart.”

  Damn it. He’d tried his hand at writing, and had been told his words fell flat. Apparently, his lyrics lacked emotion.

  “How do you know that dreamy Mr. Urban writes his own stuff?”

  “I don’t,” Rachael said. “But it feels like he does. That’s what’s missing from musicians today. When I’m watching a concert, I want to feel like I’m witnessing an intimate moment between a man and his guitar.”