Finding Hope (Nugget Romance 2)

by Stacy Finz

  “The singer? Yeah. Why?”

  “That’s whose book I’m contracted to edit.” As long as she said “edit,” she wasn’t violating any confidentiality rules.

  “You’re kidding me.” He tossed his hat onto the entry table and grabbed her around the waist, giving her a little two-step twirl. “That’s a huge deal. You get to meet her?”

  “No.” Thank God. Telephone was bad enough. “I’ll do my end of it through email and phone. They’ll hire someone to do the cooking and styling for the photo shoot in Nashville.”

  “Good for you, pretty Emily.” He still had her hooked around the waist, moving in until he pressed against her. For a second, Emily thought he would kiss her. Not the peck he tried to pull the other day, when he’d insulted her with his stupid comment about Lauren, but a full-blown mouth meld. She could see it in his eyes and feel it in his stance. But at the last minute he pulled away, filling Emily with aching disappointment.

  She wanted him. Not for keeps. Not even for the short term. But long enough to make her feel like a whole woman again. It had been so long since she’d felt desire or even desirable. She missed having the warmth of another body next to hers, the way it made her feel cherished and safe. She missed hearing a tender voice in the night, when the silent darkness threatened to smother her.

  God, she was sick and tired of being alone. For once, she just wanted to give in and let someone hold her for a change—even if it was only for a little while.

  “You going to your meeting?” he asked, breaking the spell.

  Emily nodded. “Tomorrow evening. Would you like a ride to the airport?”

  “Nah. I park in the lot there. It’s easier. You’ll be okay going by yourself? Maybe Maddy could go with you?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s really only meant for victims. So it’s best if I go alone. Speaking of meetings, don’t you have one to get to? What do people do at a cattlemen’s meeting, anyway?”

  Clay looked at his watch and grabbed his hat. “Mostly whine about the price of beef,” he said. “Hey, thanks for Cody. I’m glad he talks to you. When we get back from New York, you and I should do something to celebrate your Della James deal. I could grill us a couple of steaks.”

  “Don’t you think Lauren might be uncomfortable with that?” she asked, partly to needle him.

  He seemed surprised that she would suggest anything as ludicrous as Lauren being threatened by little old Emily. “We’re not exclusive. I just started dating her. Besides, you’re my neighbor. I can have steaks with you anytime I want.”

  Can you now? “Well, have a great trip.” She walked him to the door, and he seemed oddly confused by the brush-off.

  “You want me to bring you back something?”

  How about some humility, she wanted to say. “Nope. I’m good.”

  The next night Emily went to her meeting. This time, the main speaker was a man whose son had been the random victim of a drive-by shooting. The boy had been walking down the street after finishing his shift at Pizza Hut, when a stray bullet caught him in the throat. Later, the shooter, who’d been aiming for a rival gang member, told the police that the victim was collateral damage.

  “ ‘It happens,’ the killer said with the same nonchalance you’d reserve for swatting a gnat,” the man told the group, trying to contain the tremor in his voice. “To this day I wonder how I had the willpower to keep from rushing the courtroom and choking the life out of that good-for-nothing scumbag.”

  After his son’s death, the man said his family was never the same again. Consumed with grief, he and his wife began ignoring their other children and eventually ignored their marriage. They were divorced now, he said.

  Emily knew the trajectory so well, she could trace it on a map. Drew had tried with all his might to hold them together. But whether real or imagined, she couldn’t look at him without seeing accusations. Blame for letting someone take their daughter when Emily had been only yards away. God knew if their roles had been reversed, she would’ve held him responsible. What marriage could survive that kind of self-recrimination?

  After the meeting, she made the drive back to Nugget. Despite the restorative qualities of her quaint barn, she didn’t feel like going home. Unexpectedly, she yearned to be someplace lively. Someplace that would lift her spirits. So instead of veering left onto McCreedy Road, she went straight into town. To the Ponderosa.

  The restaurant–bowling alley held a full Friday night crowd, but a stool freed up at the bar and Emily grabbed it. A bowl of pretzels appeared and she ordered a beer. A cheer went up and it seemed that everyone in the place fastened their eyes to the flat screen on the wall.

  “Is that rodeo?” She must’ve said it aloud, because the proprietor—if Emily remembered correctly, her name started with an M—laughed.

  “Feather River College team.” She stuck out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Mariah.”

  “Emily,” she said. “They compete in summer?”

  “That’s when the intercollegiate finals are. Two years ago I would not have known this. Nor would’ve I known that it would be nationally televised. See what happens when you own a bar in Nugget, California?”

  Mariah turned to look up at the steer-wrestling scores on the television. “Looks like my staff’s making good tips tonight.”

  Emily laughed. “Where’s your partner?” She’d met Sophie a couple of times while eating at the restaurant, and of course at the funeral reception.

  “She’s taking a load off, upstairs. Working the bar on a night like this is too hard on the feet of a pregnant woman.” Last time Emily had seen her, Sophie had just started to show.

  “You are busy.” Emily glanced around the restaurant. Every table was taken.

  “Can’t complain. Business is good. So everyone’s buzzing about you working on Della James’s cookbook.” Mariah leaned over the bar. “So, what’s she like?”

  A narcissist. “She’s great.”

  Mariah must’ve seen how much it pained Emily to say it. “That bad, huh?”

  “Uh . . . let’s just say a little self-involved. But I’m thrilled to have the job.”

  “I bet,” Mariah said. “Sophie used to be in marketing. She was always trying to get big celebrity endorsements. It’s gotta help your business.”

  Emily crossed her fingers. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

  Mariah refilled her pretzel bowl and they continued to chat when the good-looking man from Los Angeles passed the bar on his way to the men’s room.

  Both women watched until he was out of earshot before Mariah asked, “You hear about him?” She found a coaster and slipped it underneath a patron’s pilsner glass.

  “That he’s buying the Gas and Go?” She’d only been in Nugget a little more than a month and Emily was already up on all the pertinent news.

  “Supposedly he’s buying Sierra Heights too,” Mariah said, wide-eyed.

  “Really?” Emily supposed it explained why Russ Johnson had suddenly appeared in town. Clay was right; it did have something to do with the development. At least he’d taken the boys to New York, away from talk of the sale, which would likely stir up more gossip. “A subdivision like that has got to cost mega bucks.”

  “Yep,” Mariah agreed. “Owen says the kid told him that he’d come into a small inheritance. But if he can afford to buy Sierra Heights . . . that’s no small inheritance.”

  “I still haven’t seen the place. Is it amazing?”

  “It’s got an eighteen-hole golf course, club house, and a resort-style pool. By Nugget’s standards it’s the Four Seasons. The houses are—” Mariah put her finger to her lips. “He’s coming back.”

  “This seat taken?” he asked Emily, nudging his chin at the empty bar stool next to her.

  “It’s all yours,” she said.

  “You the cookbook lady who’s working with Della James?”

  News spread faster than a brush fire in this town. Yet no one had confront
ed her about Hope. “That would be me.”

  “Cool.” He gave her a once-over and scooted his stool closer. “I’m not really into her music. How’s her food?”

  “That depends. How do you feel about ambrosia salad?” The beer must’ve gone to her head because she was feeling a little saucy.

  “Never had it.” He helped himself to Emily’s pretzels. “Good?”

  “Not my cup of tea. But she seems to like it. So, I hear you’re buying the Gas and Go . . . and rumor has it, Sierra Heights.”

  He smiled, and Emily noticed a chipped front tooth. It didn’t detract one bit from his appearance. The Baker’s Dozen gals had good taste—the guy was definitely a hottie. And Emily a cougar, if she didn’t quit gawking at him. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five.

  “Hard to keep a secret in this town,” he said.

  Maybe, maybe not. “So it’s true then?”

  “Definitely the Gas and Go. I’m still mulling whether to buy Sierra Heights. What do you think?”

  “Of Sierra Heights?” she asked, a little surprised that he would ask a stranger’s opinion. “I’ve never seen it.”

  “My bike’s outside; I’ll ride you over there.”

  When she heard herself giggle, Emily knew she was officially tipsy. She probably should’ve eaten more than a handful of pretzels before drinking that pint. “At the risk of sounding presumptuous, are you trying to pick me up?”

  That chipped-tooth smile again. “Are you married?”

  “No. But I’m old enough to be your . . . your much older sister.”

  He called over one of the bartenders—Mariah seemed to have disappeared. “Another round, please.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m Griffin, by the way.”

  “Emily,” she said, and immediately started in on that second beer.

  “How long have you lived here, Emily?”

  “Not long. Little more than a month. I live on McCreedy Ranch. In a barn.”

  “A barn.” He let out a soft chuckle and hooked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “What brought you to Nugget?”

  “Change. I wanted something different. You?”

  “I came here once when I was a kid. Never could get the place out of my mind.” He paid for their drinks and left a ten-dollar tip, she noticed. “I’m thinking it’s a good place to settle down.”

  “Don’t like Los Angeles?” she asked, and he shook his head no. “Is it true that you’re a Hollywood stuntman?”

  He let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t know where that one came from. But I guess it’s better than the other rumor that I’m a drug dealer.”

  “Hadn’t heard that one.” She took another big chug of the beer and nearly lost her balance.

  “Maybe you should eat something—besides pretzels.”

  “What? You think I can’t hold my liquor?” She had a nice buzz going. That’s all.

  “I’m not saying that. But maybe I should’ve checked with you before I got you the refill.”

  “I’ve only had two.” She held up the near-empty glass and hiccupped. “I usually drink wine.”

  He flagged the barkeep over and asked for a menu. “Have some dinner with me, Emily.”

  “Okay.” She was hungry. “But this isn’t a date.”

  “Whatever you say.” He perused the list of entrées and turned the menu so she could see it. “Anything look good?”

  “That.” She drained the last of her glass and pointed to the Trumer Pils in the beer selections.

  “I’ll get you another one.” He laughed. “But first food. How ’bout a steak?”

  “Oooh.” She giggled. “I love me some McCreedy beef.”

  He looked at her a little funny and ordered them both rib eyes. “I’m guessing you know a lot about food, being a cookbook author and all.”

  “Yep. I’m a food connoisseur,” she heard herself slur. “And a connoisseur of good-looking men. How old did you say you were?”

  “I didn’t.” Griffin’s mouth quirked. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to know better. But you are soooo cute.”

  Their food came and Emily ordered another beer. Griffin looked like he wanted to stop her but held his tongue, for which she was thankful. She hadn’t been this loose in a long time, and frankly it felt wonderful to be sitting in the quirky Western-style saloon with its dark-paneled walls and red velvet curtains, filled with people, flirting with a man she’d just met.

  “This is good,” Griffin said, cutting into his steak. “Though a little rare for my taste. I like my beef well-done.”

  Emily huffed. “Good thing you didn’t order it that way. The chef would’ve spit on it.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. The only way to eat a steak is rare. Any other way is blasphemous.” She bet Clay knew that, being a cattleman . . . and being even hotter than Griffin.

  “Okay, Miss Foodie, here’s one I can never figure out. On which sides do the bread and water go?”

  “This is how you remember it.” She made a b with the fingers on her left hand. “This is bread.” With her right hand she made a d. “This is drink.”

  “That’s freakin’ genius,” he said, making the letters himself and positioning his beer and bread plate appropriately on the bar.

  “A little trick of the trade.” Emily polished off the third beer, stood up to go to the restroom, and lost her footing. Griffin caught her before she fell on her face.

  “Need a little help there?”

  “I’m good.” But by the time she staggered back from the restroom she was not so good and told Griffin she needed to go home.

  He eyed her half-eaten food. “How about a few more bites. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Just the sight of the plate made her queasy. “Uh-uh.” She grabbed her wallet out of her purse.

  “Hey,” he said, slapping some bills on the bar. “What are you doing? I’ve got this.”

  “No, no, no.” She wagged her finger at him.

  He made a shushing sound and took her hand into his much larger one. “You get me next time. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  Emily started to argue, then quickly decided she wasn’t in any shape to drive. When they got outside, he said, “We’ve got two choices. I can either take you in your car or on my bike. The fresh air would probably do you good. But are you sober enough to hold on?”

  She was definitely drunk enough to say yes. She felt the same way about motorcycles as Cody felt about taxicabs. Griffin led her to the Ducati, took her keys and wallet, and stuck them in his pockets. Then he popped the helmet on her head, fastened the strap around her chin, and had her get on behind him.

  “Now hold on to me tight,” he told her. “Just lean your head against my back and I’ll go slow.”

  Once they got away from the square, he shouted back to her, “You all right?”

  “Yes. Do you know where to go?” She clutched his waist, feeling his rock-hard abs and his strong back against her chest.

  “The same road as Lina Shepard?”

  Hmm, those two would make a beautiful couple, she thought as she clung to him. But maybe she could borrow him for just one night. She tightened her hold, afraid that the booze and the comforting vibration of the ride would lull her to sleep and she’d slip off the bike. The beer had made her drowsy.

  But being out in the open, on an empty highway, felt amazingly liberating. Not scary, like she had expected. Griffin handled the bike beautifully, leaning into every curve like it was second nature. Or maybe the booze had made her brave.

  “Almost there,” he called.

  When they pulled off onto McCreedy Road, he found Clay’s drive on his own. They passed the big farmhouse, which was dark, and she guided him to the barn. He parked the bike, hopped off, and helped her with the helmet.

  “You did good,” he said as she tried to find her feet. “I got you.” Griffin held his hands out to steady her, then lifted her into his
arms.

  Emily nestled against him, lowering her eyes, while he carried her into the house and found the bedroom. With one hand he managed to pull back the covers and gently laid Emily on the bed, going down with her.

  “Griffin,” she murmured, her liquid courage evaporating. “I can’t do this.”

  “I know,” he said, and flashed a sweet smile. “After that third beer, I’d pretty much put the idea out of my head.”

  “You’re a great guy, but you’re conshiderably younger than me.” Her words came out garbled.

  He laughed. “Nah, we’d be cool. But I know where you’re coming from.”

  Emily propped up on both elbows. “You do?”

  “There’s a young lady I’ve become friendly with . . . And, yeah, she’s completely age inappropriate.”

  Aha. Call it a premonition. “This young lady wouldn’t happen to be Lina Shepard, would she?”

  “Emily”—he rolled to the side of the bed—“thank you for an awesome evening. But I’ve got to get going.”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” She pulled him back down. “How old is Lina?”

  “Eighteen. I’m twenty-six.”

  “Not so terrible,” she said, trying to do the math in her hazy state.

  “You just got done saying that sleeping with me would be robbing the cradle. She’s not even legal to drink.”

  “Drinking is highly overrated.” Just ask her tomorrow. “I’m sorry, Griffin. I do see your dilemma.”

  He gave a half shrug. “She’s going off to college in a few weeks and you know what they say: Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “So,” she said, hesitant to ask the question, “was I like a distraction from Lina?”

  “Hell no. I’m very attracted to you—was the first second I saw you sitting there at the bar. So how much older than me are you, anyway?”

  She grimaced. “Eleven years.”

  “Seriously? I had you for four, five at the most. You gotta know you look good, Emily.”

  Not according to Clay. “Thank you, Griffin.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. Not so much a romantic kiss as a sweet one. But it was lovely just the same.