Country Heaven

by Miles, Ava

  He’d had to do a lot of crap in the business, but he’d never pretended to date anyone like other celebrities did. Wasn’t it just his luck that he’d be using a nice woman who was going to find the whole thing repellant. “I hate this.”

  “You have to turn the tide now. Rye, we lost another sponsor.”

  “Who?” he asked, dread heavy in his belly.

  “Levis.”

  “Shit.” No one had to tell him how huge that was. “Okay, we’ll try, but if the press doesn’t help, I’m putting a stop to it.”

  “Well, well, someone sounds a little guilty. I haven’t seen any signs of a conscience from you in years.”

  Rye flipped him the bird.

  Clayton moved to the door. “And try to be charming. If we’re going to suggest you’re falling for your anti–type, it would help if she actually looks like she’s into you.”

  “No need to worry about that. Women fall for me all the time.”

  Clayton had the audacity to tip his hat as he left. “Somehow I think she’ll be a tougher nut to crack. The girl’s got spine, and you haven’t come across that in some while.”

  Rye picked up a boot from the floor and pelted it against the closing door. Jackass. Interfering son of a bitch. What the hell did he know? He could make anyone fall for him. Soon she’d be eating out of his hands—even if she was the one doing the cooking.

  Being the cook at Diner Heaven for nearly thirty years, my Grandma Simmons dealt with some pretty mean truck drivers. They’d come in off the highway with bloodshot eyes and bark at the waitresses. One particular man was so mean, she fixed him a special stack of pancakes, certain they’d improve his disposition. Grandma believed the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but she didn’t think food’s power stopped there. She talked about the emotional reactions all people had to food. The mean truck driver wasn’t growling anymore after eating her special pancakes, so she added them to the menu with great success.

  Truck Driver Pancakes

  1½ cups flour

  1 tsp. baking soda

  ¼ cup sugar

  ½ tsp. salt

  ¼ cup cocoa

  2 eggs, beaten

  1 cup milk

  ½ cup butter, melted and cooled

  ½ cup chocolate chips

  Combine the dry ingredients. Add the eggs, milk, and butter. Stir. Add the chocolate chips. Shape into pancakes on the griddle and cook. Serve with maple syrup or bittersweet chocolate ganache.

  Tory Simmons’ Simmering Family Cookbook

  Chapter 3

  Maple bacon strips crackled and popped on the stove. Tory arranged the bowls holding the wet and dry ingredients for the pancakes and strained to hear if her boss was coming down the hall. His guitar had broadcast an angry melody not long ago, so she knew he was awake. Plus, he’d said he wanted to eat at ten o’clock. Her fork whisked the eggs for the tenth time.

  Today’s breakfast was critical. She planned to have him eating out of her hands.

  Her finger trailed down her grandma’s recipe in the makeshift binder she’d created. She could tame the beast with food—just like her grandma had taught her. And she’d start with her Truck Driver pancakes.

  Boots clunked down the hall, and then Rye appeared in the doorway, his face cleanly shaven save for the goatee. He tipped his hat—a white one today—and smiled.

  “Mornin’. Smells good in here.” And then his gaze dipped lower.

  She tucked her hands into the pockets of the only apron she’d found in the kitchen—a frilly confection of white lace and pink fabric that made her want to blush. Who made aprons like this, anyway? Frederick’s of Hollywood? She wasn’t surprised the former cook had slept with someone in the band. This was an apron with an agenda, and the only reason she was wearing it was because bacon grease stained like ballpoint pen ink. But you could bet your britches that a new apron was at the top of her shopping list.

  “I’ll…have breakfast up in a second.”

  She swiveled around and mixed the two bowls together. She added the chocolate chips to the batter and checked the griddle. It was smoking hot. Perfect.

  Tory looked over her shoulder. He was already sitting at the booth, reaching for the remote, and morning news filled the silence.

  “You look kinda cute in that apron.”

  Oh, great. Of course he had a comment.

  “It’s not what I would call a normal apron,” she muttered. “It’s the only one I could find.”

  “Looks fine to me.”

  Of course it did. It was a costume straight out of one of his country music videos. Sighing, she picked up the bowl and dobbed batter on the griddle. After making four circles, she shut the heat off under the bacon and dropped the glistening, steaming strips on a paper–toweled plate. The apron came off, and she gleefully stuffed it back into its drawer, hopefully forever.

  “You want coffee?”

  “That’d be great. And orange juice.”

  She served up his requests, watching the pancakes bubble as they cooked.

  He reached for the coffee and sipped. “I’m sorry about last night. You’re right. This will be your home for the next few months, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Won’t happen again.”

  Well, that was much more agreeable than she’d expected. “Thank you.” Her sensitive nose detected that the pancakes were ready to be flipped, so she turned them over. She started the microwave to heat the maple syrup.

  Minutes later, she set everything in front of him. He grabbed a bacon strip and popped it in his mouth. “Nothing better than bacon in the morning.” He looked at the pancakes. “Those aren’t blueberries.”

  “No. Chocolate chips. It’s my Grandma’s recipe.”

  Rye bowed his head and then forked the whole stack onto his plate, pouring enough maple syrup on them to drown a city. Tory started to clean up, listening for his reaction. The first groan soothed the ball of tangled Christmas lights in her stomach.

  “Like them?” she asked, smiling easier.

  He gave humming sound. “They’re like chocolate chip cookies, but spongier. Incredible.”

  Thank you, Grandma. She loaded the dishwasher and scrubbed the pans.

  “You’re not eating?”

  When she turned to look at him, he was wiping his mouth with the blue cloth napkin.

  “No, I…”

  He pointed to the feast in front of him. “You eat everything you make, okay? Unless you don’t like it.”

  She noticed his orange juice was gone, so she poured him more. “I don’t make anything I don’t like.”

  He leaned back in the booth. “That your cookbook?” he asked, gesturing to the thick blue binder on the counter.

  “Well…it’s a family cookbook I’ve been working on it since my grandma died. It’s a collection of recipes with stories about her and her philosophy.”

  Rye drained half the orange juice before setting his glass down with a thunk. “You should publish it. If the other recipes are anything like these pancakes or the meal you made for me last night, you’d make a mint. Got any of your own recipes in there?”

  Standing while he was sitting felt awkward. “Yes, I’m an intuitive cook—just like she was.”

  His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I seem to have a knack for inventing food. Knowing what people like.” She wouldn’t discuss her grandmother’s belief that good food could sway people’s moods and emotions. That was like talking about acupuncture to a doctor. “My grandma said it was a gift, like knowing how to play the piano.”

  Rye nodded and stroked his goatee. “I like that. That’s how I feel about playing Old Faithful.”

  The geyser at Yellowstone Park? “Excuse me?”

  He picked up another strip of bacon. “My guitar. The only thing a man can count on in life besides a dog.”

  Tory disagreed, but then again, she and dogs didn’t get along.

  His fork drew circles in the remaining syrup o
n his plate. “Why don’t you quit college and go to cooking school? You’d make an incredible chef.”

  That’s what everybody said, and she’d always given the same answer. “My grandma wanted me to have an education. She was the cook at Diner Heaven for three decades, and she wanted better for me.”

  Rye broke the bacon in two. “Well, let me give you some advice. You should listen to your own gut and not your family when it comes to your future.”

  There was bitterness in his voice, and she remembered what he had said about his family. Clearly it was a sore subject, which only made her more curious. “And you know this how?”

  He looked away. “Personal experience. So, what are you in school for?”

  “Anthropology.”

  “What’s that?” he drawled.

  Something about the way he asked made her suspect he was playing dumb. While she hadn’t known him long, she already had the impression that there were a dozen different Ryes that he took out for the right occasion, rather like a man selecting his daily tie to accompany his suit.

  “It’s the study of the origins of physical and cultural development. I specialize in cultural anthropology, which looks at social norms and customs.”

  “What the hell are you going to do with it?”

  “Teach college, I guess.

  He popped in another piece of bacon and chewed. “What year are you?”

  “My coursework is finished, so I just need to wrap up my dissertation. I’m studying the effects of tourism on the Maasai people’s traditional way of life in Kenya.” She turned away to start the dishwasher.

  That was a mouthful. And it sounded as dull as dishwater, even to her. “You’re in graduate school? How old are you?”

  She pivoted at the surprise in his voice. “Twenty–eight. Why?”

  He rubbed his fingers on his napkin. “Well, shoot, you’re damn near my age.”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “I’m turning thirty this year.”

  “Oh.” For some reason she’d thought he was younger. Maybe because of the way he acted.

  He walked over with his mug to pour himself some more coffee. “Aren’t you a little old to still be in school?”

  “I had to take some time off when my grandparents got sick.”

  “How long is it going to take you to write your dissertation?”

  “Well, that’s kinda up in the air. My grant hasn’t come through yet, but I can do my field research and finish my dissertation as soon as it does.” Even thinking about the grant made her heart race. She’d never traveled outside the U.S. before, but soon she’d be heading to rural Africa.

  “So, you’re a smarty pants.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

  “Why?” she asked, scrunching her forehead. “You have something against education?”

  “No,” he said, taking a swig of coffee. “It’s just that some folks with too much schooling get it into their heads that they’re better than those who don’t have much. I don’t like that.”

  “I agree. You know, I’ve always hated studying.” And wasn’t it odd that she’d told him that? She’d never said it out loud before.

  “So why do it?”

  “Because it was Grandma’s wish for me.” More like her deathbed wish. Of course, Tory had been happy enough to grant it. Her parents had been educators, after all, and she knew from her grandma’s struggles that working in a restaurant was harder than teaching. This way she could be home in the evenings with the family she dreamed about having. Not serving up dinner specials like her grandma had done all her life, missing bath and bedtime.

  “So what’s your full name going to be when you get your degree?”

  She lifted a shoulder, a tad embarrassed. “Dr. Victoria Simmons.”

  He gave her a slow up and down look that made her jumpy. “Suits you.

  Since that wasn’t worth debating, she walked over to the refrigerator and pointed to the paper pinned with a magnet. “This is the Food Wish List, so you can let me know what you’d like to eat, including snacks and such. I’ll consider it when I make the menu and buy the groceries, but you have to give me a little freedom with the menu planning.”

  “After what I’ve had of your cooking, I trust you.” He took out a pen from his pocket and wrote on the paper while standing up.

  “Veal piccata and taco salad?” she read aloud. “Dr. Pepper and Perrier?”

  “I have an eclectic palate. I’m going to make some calls.” He looked at his watch. “We should be getting to Minneapolis pretty soon. I’ll introduce you to the band tonight before the concert.”

  She straightened the magnet and the paper in a perfect line. “I told you I’m not a fan of country music.”

  “I’d like you to meet everybody anyway. You’ll be running into them, and I like a cohesive tour. Plus, you know you want to see me in concert.” He leaned against the refrigerator and undid the order she’d just achieved.

  It was hard to restrain the eye roll, but she managed. “Who’s cooking for everyone else by the way?”

  “A caterer. They’re good, but nothing like you. Just go once. You’ll be backstage,” he drawled.

  Like that would tempt her. “Fine, I’ll go.”

  “Good. I’ve gotta run. We’ll get to know each other better later.” He sauntered out.

  Get to know each other? What in the world did he mean by that?

  As she watched him leave, she realized he had a great butt.

  Definitely not a thought she needed to be having in these close quarters.

  ***

  Tory was dipping chocolate cupcakes into espresso frosting when Clayton came to take her backstage before the concert. He didn’t have a hat on this time, and he was wearing a gray dress shirt and black slacks.

  “Those look so good they should be illegal,” he said, waving his hand at the cooling rack stacked with cupcakes.

  Taking her knife, she smoothed frosting along the edges of one of them and set it aside. “The receipt from the cab I took to get the groceries is over there,” she said, nodding to the counter. Plucking up a cupcake, she held it out to him with a smile.

  “Oh, Rye’s going to be jealous I had the first taste.”

  “We won’t tell him. So, I’ve never been to a concert before,” she confessed.

  “You’re kidding?” he said, removing the liner from the treat. “Why not?”

  “Just not a priority, I guess. Plus tickets can be expensive.” And money had always been an issue.

  “Well, you’ll have the best seat in the house tonight.” And then he took a bite. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment. “Oh, yeah. I can now see why Rye hired you.”

  They stepped off the bus, Clayton still eating the cupcake, and made their way through a scattering of people, some dragging heavy equipment.

  “It’s always crazy,” Clayton commented when someone almost ran into them. “We have our own set–up crew, but there’s always a local one as well. Coordination can be a challenge.”

  He led her through the back door of the stadium. Groups of people were milling about, shouting back and forth about the lighting. There were wires running everywhere, taped to the scuffed wooden floor by duct tape. Wearing a yellow dress with cowboy boots, Georgia stood in the middle of the madness talking with a man in a suit with some leather–like tie at his neck secured with a silver and turquoise clasp. Tory tried not to ogle their fashion choices as she tugged at her plain red T–shirt.

  Music thrummed in the distance beneath the roar of the gathered crowd. Her eyes widened when she saw the black curtain in front of them. It was as tall as a small mountain.

  “We pipe the music in to get the crowd in the mood,” Clayton said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. He gestured to a door that said Private. “Rye and the band are chilling in the lounge.”

  He didn’t knock before entering. Tory stepped inside and came to an immediate halt. Rye and his band were
all decked out and looked ready to face down the bad guys at high noon in a gun fight. She’d read Louis L'Amour books as a kid, but she’d never seen so many cowboys in real life. They looked…well, foreign. And imposing.

  Rye grinned when he saw her and sauntered forward. “Boys, this here’s Tory, my new cook. She’s never been to one of our concerts, so we’ll have to play extra good tonight.”

  He stopped in front of her, his smile reminding her of a wicked sorcerer. There it was again, that unwanted but undeniable thrill of attraction. She edged back until she hit the door. She hadn’t seen Clayton close it. How embarrassing.

  He only smiled wider. “She’s not easily impressed,” he murmured, “but that’s part of her charm.”

  Her charm? What was wrong with him? He was looking at her like she was…a Twinkie he wanted to eat, sucking the cream out of the middle. Her wave was a light flutter of her hand.

  “Hi,” she said lamely.

  Rye introduced her to six men. She didn’t catch all the names, but she caught most of the instruments—violin, drums, piano, and three types of guitar.

  “So which one of you had the pie heaved at him?”

  The one guy whose name she did remember—he’d been the first in line—started laughing. Tucker pointed at Rye. “You blaming us for your misdeeds now?”

  Her mouth gaped open as she turned to look at Rye.

  His eyes narrowed, and that unnerving smile vanished. “Shut up,” he ordered.

  Tucker held up his hands before reaching for his beer. The other band members looked away and picked up their own longnecks.

  “You slept with your cook?” She checked her foot from kicking him, but oh, how she wanted to. “You lied to me!”

  “No, I said she slept with someone in the band.” He pointed at his chest. “I’m in the band.”

  She turned to Clayton. He lifted his shoulders as if to say don’t blame me.

  “Well, that explains the apron. There’s no way anyone with an ounce of talent would cook in that.”