Written in the Stars

by LuAnn McLane

  Grace looked up into his gorgeous blue eyes, which were so sincere. He ran a gentle fingertip down her cheek and she fell a little bit in love with him right then and there. “I might sound cliché, but this really is complicated, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Maybe we should sleep on it.”

  “You had to put it that way, didn’t you?” Grace asked with a groan.

  Mason leaned in and gave Grace a brief kiss that made her want to grab his shirt and pull him in for more, but she didn’t.

  “All right, girl, I need to walk you home.” The smile he gave her was tender, and she melted just a little bit more, but she nodded.

  “Okay,” Grace responded softly. She straightened up and took a step away, needing to put some distance between them. She sensed that there was still something on his mind that was bothering him. Grace wasn’t going to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “Is there something wrong? Anything I can help with? Other than kiss you, that is.”

  “Nope.” Mason shook his head.

  “No to both questions?”

  “There you go bein’ a busybody again.” He turned and walked out onto the boat deck.

  Grace followed. “And there you go avoiding the question.”

  Mason leaned one hip against the railing and gave her a long look.

  “Well?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Uh...no.” It was true. Not giving up was precisely why she had in excess of a million dollars from the sale of Girl Code Cosmetics. And then it hit her. Grace knew that look of panic when the walls start closing in on a business. Her mother had gone through it several times. Grace certainly had struggled financially with Girl Code in the beginning, nearly losing her investment several times before it finally took off. She put a hand on his arm. “Mason, we’re like family now. You can talk to me.”

  “Don’t say that. I just kissed you.”

  Grace inhaled an exasperated breath and blew it out. “It’s the brewery, isn’t it? Give it to me straight. I won’t tell a soul.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw, and he glanced away.

  Grace squeezed his arm. “Go on, then.”

  Mason finally nodded. “I had everything perfectly planned out, but I was sent some of the wrong machinery, which put me behind schedule.” He shrugged. “I had unexpected roof issues and had to replace the entire thing. I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth, Gracie.” Leaning over, he gripped the handrail. “I knew doing this was a risk. I had sleepless nights thinking about it. But...”

  “It was your dream.”

  “My fallback dream, but yes.”

  She squeezed his arm again, and he turned to smile at her. And that’s what did it. The smile. “I can help you.”

  Mason frowned. “What are you gettin’ at?”

  “Well...” Gracie raised her eyebrows and nibbled on the inside of her lip for a moment. “I developed an urban, edgy line of cosmetics called Girl Code.” She tilted her head sideways and continued. “Wende Zomnir, co-­founder of Urban Decay, paved the way for high-­voltage makeup. Before that we had lots of pinks and reds and beige, but purple, my personal favorite, was pretty much left out of the color wheel. And like craft beer, it’s not just about the product but the names. They came up with crazy fun names like Roach Smog, Oil Slick, Acid Rain.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  Grace shook her head. “Hey, it worked. You have to create a great product, but marketing is where you get sales. They launched their line in 1999 with ten lipsticks and twelve nail polishes. In 2000, Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton purchased Urban Decay.”

  “Wow, I might be a country boy, but I know who that is.”

  “Exactly.”

  Mason sat up straighter, clearly interested. “So tell me about Girl Code. What does that term even mean?”

  “Allow me to enlighten you.” Grace raised her index finger and nodded slowly. “Girl Code means you have to obey certain rules or guidelines, if you will, so as not to be kicked out of your community of girlfriends. For example, you must never date a friend’s ex or someone she was into.” She wagged the finger. “And never diss a friend’s boyfriend, even if he is a complete wanker. Inside jokes are not to be explained to outsiders. If a friend is drunk, never allow her to drunk dial her ex. Oh, and if a girlfriend is telling a story, never say, Me too, and steal her thunder. I can go on and on, but do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “I get the picture.” Mason tossed his head back and laughed. “But what does this have to do with makeup?”

  “Well, Girl Code palettes, meaning a box of color-­coordinating shades of makeup, have names like Girls Night Out—­in other words, bold colors to go out clubbing and dancing. “Let’s Do Lunch is lighter, more subtle shades meant for the afternoon. The Hangover palette contains concealer, lotions, and remedies for under-­eye puffiness. Do you get it now?”

  Mason nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do, but my biggest problem right now is financial. All of that marketing took some money.”

  “Absolutely. Money for development and pitching until I turned blue in the face. I know where you’re coming from because I scrimped and scraped, barely making ends meet. Finally, Sophia urged me to give samples of my product to high-­end hair salons, and little by little, it worked. I soon had too many orders to handle, which is another problem with a small business. Huge success can also become a problem unless you prepare for it.” She snapped her fingers. “And just like that I had a crazy offer to buy me out.”

  “Wow. It can happen that quickly?”

  “Yeah, at first I didn’t want to sell because there was so much more I wanted to do with the line, but the offer was so crazy big that I had to accept.”

  “I am really happy for you, but what does this have to do with me?”

  “Mason, I have this money just chilling in the bank. I need an investment. Why not invest in your brewery?” Grace tilted her head and saw hope in his eyes, but then male pride shut it down.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what if it still fails? Doing business with friends or family can get dicey.”

  “You run a family business. You know the ropes by now.”

  “But you don’t know anything about brewing beer.”

  “I’ve seen your facility. I’ve tasted the beer. Of course, I would want to sit down and see some numbers and get my accountant involved, but I’m looking for a new project. I’d love to do the marketing end to get you up and running.” She snapped her fingers. “And this would keep me in Cricket Creek near my family for at least a bit longer.” She raised her palms skyward. “I think it’s brilliant.” Reaching over, she pointed her fingertip into his chest. “And like I explained, I just happen to be a marketing genius.”

  Mason gave her doubtful frown. “I don’t know...”

  “Put everything together and we can meet in a day or so. Fair enough?” She stuck out her hand and gave him a challenging arch of her eyebrow.

  Mason hesitated and then shook her hand. “Yeah, fair enough.”

  7

  Upside Down

  BECCA SAT ON THE BACK DECK OF HER CABIN LISTENING to the Beatles while sipping a cup of tea. The late-­day sun dipped low in the sky, previewing what was sure to be a gorgeous sunset. Ever since the birth of Lily, Becca felt a sense of calmness, like all was finally right with her world. The birth of her grandchild made her rethink what she thought were wrong choices in life. Every step of the way, every fork in the road, led her to right here and now. If she hadn’t married Rick Ruleman, she wouldn’t have had Garret. And if she’d never met Marcus Gordon, she wouldn’t have had Gracie and Sophia, and now sweet baby Lily to shower with love.

  Knowing that she wanted an extended stay in Cricket Creek to bond with Lily, Becca had put the wheels in motion for her semiretirement from her clot
hing company. Still the major stockholder of BGC, she would have to return to London now and again for meetings, but with modern technology she could do most of her correspondence via conference calls.

  Becca had been winding down for months now, and she didn’t miss the long, meeting-­filled days, not even a little bit. She’d proven herself and was finally financially secure, so it was high time to stop and smell the roses. Although she had to admit that she was having a blast working with her designers on the children’s clothing line, called, of course, Lily. Funny, she thought, how one tiny human being changed her priorities.

  As soon as Mattie felt up to returning to the bistro, Becca had promised to help babysit. Between her and Miranda Mayfield, little Lily would be well cared for. Mattie’s brother Danny was adding on to the bistro, creating a playroom off Mattie’s office where Lily would eventually nap and play with a sitter. Mattie would run the restaurant but could also spend time with her daughter. But until then, the grandmas got to help out. Or Nan, as Becca wanted to be called.

  Thinking she’d like another spot of tea, Becca stood up, only to have the engine roar of a fishing boat disturb her peace. She didn’t like the way the boat created a huge wake, and she felt like waving an angry hand for the bloke to slow the hell down. Standing up, she shaded her eyes and knew that the boat belonged to the man living in a cabin directly across the lake. According to Mattie, he was Jimmy Topmiller, former fishing pro who filled in as a fishing guide at Mayfield Marina now that Mason shouldered the responsibility of his brewery. Intrigued, she’d Googled her neighbor’s name, and sure enough, he’d been one of the top bass-­fishing anglers ever.

  Jimmy Topmiller had a line of bait with his name on it, along with a whole slew of fishing-­related products he endorsed. He had to be wealthy, Becca supposed, but while she was out walking a couple of days ago, he’d gone bumping along in a beat-­up pickup truck, kicking up enough dust to all but make her choke. Perhaps he’d lost his earnings gambling or in bad investments—­not that she cared. She was simply curious. And if the gazillion pictures of him holding up giant fish were any indication, Jimmy Topmiller was good-­looking, if one went for that rugged, outdoorsy type...and of course she did not. Did she? Well, that might not be quite fair. She’d never really spent any time with someone in his profession. She reminded herself that her urban son fell in love with a small-­town girl who now embraced living in London for weeks at a time. Did she—­or rather, should she—­really have a type? Expanding her horizons could lead to an adventure, she mused, while recalling the steamy love scene she’d just read. Maybe she needed to step up her game and make love beneath a waterfall or in an elevator, like the spunky heroine in the novel. “Game?” she whispered. “What game?”

  Becca frowned at the water now wildly lapping against the shore. “Becca Gordon, maybe you need to get your groove back.” The dock connecting to her back deck bobbed up and down, and the pussy willows did a little hula dance. She supposed that the man wasn’t doing anything wrong, exactly, but he seemed to be disturbing the peaceful surroundings with his noise and waves. And it had to hurt when he hooked those poor fish. She’d seen him do it yesterday. He’d been fishing right up around her very dock, casting nearly onto her back deck, under and over things with amazing precision. She’d pretended to be concentrating on her juicy romance novel, but behind her big Gucci sunglasses, she’d secretly been watching him as he fished.

  Becca had almost lost interest until he’d hooked a big fish innocently swimming around beneath the lily pads and yanked the poor thing up into the air while it struggled to get free. She’d given him a good stare down. He’d responded with a tip of his baseball cap and continued to carry on right next to the cabin as if he owned the bloody lake. But since she didn’t know the protocol of where one was permitted to fish, she kept her fist at her side instead of raising a little hell.

  Not that she was a hell-­raiser. Becca kept her cool under the worst of circumstances. Just don’t mess with her children, because then all bets were off. After watching Jimmy Topmiller roar back across the water, she picked up her teacup and headed inside.

  The cabin was quite nice, she thought, as she entered the interior. Mattie had made sure that there were some lovely touches here and there in anticipation of her arrival. Becca ran her hand over the smooth surface of the polished coffee table, which Mattie said was built by Danny. The Mayfields were quite an interesting, talented family.

  Rather than confront Jimmy again, Becca was considering reading while soaking in a nice long bubble bath when her cell phone rang. Picking up her phone, Becca smiled, seeing that the caller was Sophia.

  “Hello, darling, what’s up?”

  “Grace and I are going to Sully’s for a light dinner and a martini or two. Sully’s makes the very best lemon drop around. Would you like to join us?”

  “Tonight?” Becca glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. “Sophia, it’s nearly seven.”

  “Oh, come on, are you going to turn into a pumpkin? Don’t tell me you’re already in a robe and fuzzy slippers.”

  “I’m not,” Becca said defiantly. That wouldn’t happen for at least an hour or so after...oh boy, she really did need to get out. “I’ll be there at eight o’clock sharp.”

  “Okay, if you get there before us, grab a high-­top table near the bar. That way we can watch the cute country boys shoot some pool. Maybe even join them.”

  “You play pool?”

  “How do you think I put myself through cosmetology school?”

  Becca was rendered speechless until she realized that Sophia was pulling her leg. “You little minx.” While Sophia hadn’t picked up much of an English accent, she could deadpan with the best of them. “I’ll see you at Sully’s in a little while. I could use a nice, crisp martini.”

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  “I’m thanking you now and I’ll thank you later.”

  Becca hurried into her bedroom and started pushing through her closet. When she’d had to leave London so quickly, she’d tossed random clothing into her suitcase and now she didn’t know if she had anything to wear to go out for cocktails. Everything was just too casual. She finally found a little black dress that by some miracle had made it into her suitcase. “Yes!” And she had some strappy heels that would do nicely. Add a beaded bag and she had her outfit. “Perfect for a night out on the town drinking a lovely martini.”

  After freshening up her makeup and pulling her hair up into a French twist, she located a pearl necklace and matching earrings and thought she looked quite slinky. With a smile, she sprayed on some Chanel No. 5. A moment later she was out the door and on her way. “Early,” she said with a shake of her head. The older she got, the earlier she arrived; years ago she’d thought it classy to arrive late to make her entrance. “It’s good to be punctual,” she said, and then realized she hadn’t a clue where she was going. Oh no...“Siri?”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Directions.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  So polite, that Siri. “Sully’s.” Oh, wait. Restaurant? Café? Becca nibbled on her lip, trying to remember.

  “I cannot find Sol-­ease.”

  Becca rolled her eyes and was about to call Sophia when she spotted a sign up ahead on the left. “Sully’s...Tavern, not Restaurant and Lounge? Could that be it?” Well, there were plenty of nice taverns in London, so she must be in the right place. Becca pulled her rented SUV into the parking lot and noticed that it was pretty packed. “No valet,” she mumbled and parked as close to the entrance as she could. The heels she wore were not wearer friendly.

  As she walked up the sidewalk, she looked down at a text message from Garret that included a picture of Lily taking a bath. “Oh, so cute!” she said, nearly bumping into a group of people in front of her. They parted and a guy in a cowboy hat opened the front door for her.

  “
After you, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Becca stepped inside, but then pulled up short. This was...oh dear, a bloody honky-­tonk. She looked to the left and spotted pool tables and wanted to put the heel of her hand to her forehead. Country boys...pool tables, just like Sophia had said. What had she been thinking?

  Oh, dear God...

  The place was pretty busy, mostly with guys playing pool and darts, and old-­fashioned pinball pinged and clanged in the far corner. Country music blared from a jukebox. A group of women were doing some sort of complicated-­looking line dance with lots of spins and boot slapping. Becca sucked in a breath. There wasn’t a high heel in sight.

  Becca didn’t mind being here. She loved little hideaways and pubs, but not when dressed to the nines. Her Chanel seemed to slice through the aroma of deep-­fried food and beer—­not unpleasant, but she felt completely out of place.

  And people immediately noticed her. She felt as if she were back on the runway, with all eyes upon her. A cold bead of sweat rolled between her shoulder blades, and she knew she had to move, but she felt frozen to the spot.

  Although Becca had the urge to turn and hightail it out the door, she lifted her chin and headed over toward the bar, praying that Sophia and Grace were already here and had a lemon drop waiting for her, which she planned on tossing back in record time.

  Becca’s heels clicked across the slightly uneven hardwood floor, while the crowd parted for her like the Red Sea. Of course all of the tables were taken and her daughters were nowhere in sight. Go figure. With a thumping heart she pretended not to notice people staring and slipped onto the only vacant barstool, between two big men who crowded her personal space. She gave a brief smile to the man on her right. Looking a bit nervous, he smiled back and touched the bill of his baseball cap to her before turning his attention back to his pint of beer.

  The stares weren’t malicious, just curious, kind of like when looking at an animal at the zoo with quiet compassion, thinking the poor thing needed to be in its true environment. Sophia and Grace were going to have a field day with this one. Maybe she should take a selfie straightaway and get the laughter out of the way.