Country Heaven

by Miles, Ava

  Tory set her plate down on the table. “I know who you are.”

  “Dammit, you don’t.” He picked up the bottle of Jack and took another swig.

  Her face grew hot. “You’re just spoiling for a fight tonight. I’m going to leave now before you do something you’ll regret.”

  The bottle slide a few inches across the counter when he set it down. “Honey, Rye Crenshaw never has regrets. And he doesn’t run from anything.”

  When he reached for her, she swatted his hands away. “Stop calling me honey. You’re acting like a child. And everyone has regrets, so don’t give me that bullshit. Enough of this playacting. Have the decency to be honest with me. After all, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  A chuckle escaped, soft and harsh. “Yes. Yes, we are.”

  She softened, touched his arm. “Rye, I don’t know what good I can do for you here.”

  He stared at the floor for a long moment before looking up and meeting her eyes. “Just do what you do best. Cook. And, ah…listen to me.”

  Redness streaked up his neck, showing his embarrassment, and this evidence of his vulnerability squeezed her throat. “So I’m like your cooking confessor,” she joked to ease the tension between them.

  “I like you, Tory,” he said. His Adam’s apple moved. “Maybe I…have a thing for you.”

  She stilled. Oh no. While the attraction between them was unspoken and deep, she hadn’t imagined he would call it out like this. He shifted on his feet, his face the color of a ripening tomato.

  “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” she murmured, a tingle of fear and excitement shooting down her spine.

  He took his hat off. His thick hair was matted on the top, the ash–brown curls sticking to the back of his head. She wanted to twine her fingers through them like knitting needles.

  “I don’t say things I don’t mean. You…darn well know that.”

  Her eyes widened. The fact that he stopped himself from swearing—for her—had her heart rapping a spastic rhythm against her ribs.

  “We’ve become…close, haven’t we? And I think you’re …about as lovely as sunlight kissing the leaves of a birch tree in autumn.”

  She didn’t think his face could turn any redder, but it did. Somehow it did. Poetry? From him? It was the last thing she’d expected.

  He exhaled in a whoosh. “I need you here, or I don’t know if I can get through this. It’s…hard. That’s why I asked you to make the trip with me.”

  “Rye—”

  “You don’t have to do anything for me, Tory, except be here.”

  “Okay,” she whispered, overwhelmed by his words.

  His hands suddenly framed her face. “I don’t know what it is about you.”

  Ditto. He wasn’t the type of man she’d imagined herself with…but now he was the only one who entered into her thoughts. Her breath stopped. She tried to pull back to maintain the last vestiges of professionalism between them, even though she felt herself blossoming under his sweet hazel eyes. “Rye, this isn’t—”

  “Shh, don’t talk.” He leaned in and kissed her, a gentle pass across the lips.

  It might have been friendly, but the heat between them was undeniable. Tory pulled back to meet his burning gaze and couldn’t look away. Then he brushed his lips over her mouth again, nipping at her bottom lip this time.

  It wasn’t enough. Tory opened her mouth, wanting more of him. Rye tangled his tongue with hers and took the kiss deeper. He groaned, the sound reverberating across her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. She fisted her hands in his hair, seeking his mouth like cool water until she couldn’t breathe. Moaning, she let her head fall back for a moment, drinking in air with shallow breaths. Rye kissed the column of her neck before pulling her mouth back to his. The wet, deep kiss had her knees shaking. She sagged against him, tasting the spiciness of the whiskey he’d drunk. When he pulled her against him, she could feel his arousal.

  Tory moaned again and clutched his shoulders. Rye picked her up bodily, and her legs wrapped around his waist to hold on.

  Part of her knew they were out of control, but she just couldn’t seem to stop.

  He pressed her against the kitchen wall, his hand tugging at her shirt and slipping inside her bra to cup her breast. She gripped his neck when his fingers tugged on her nipple, her head arching back to hit the wall. When he replaced his fingers with his mouth, laving and then sucking, her hands dug into his biceps. Had anything ever felt this good?

  “Oh, God,” she cried, her breath choppy.

  “You really are a little thing.”

  Was he talking about her breasts? Suddenly embarrassment dug in, and she wanted to cover herself. “That’s not very nice of you to say.”

  He gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. “You misunderstand, darlin’. I’ve always heard people say good things come in little packages.” His fingers caressed her breast. “Seems they’re right.”

  Tory rolled her eyes. “Must be a news bulletin to you.”

  He pressed his forehead against hers suddenly, an endearing caress. “There she is. I was wondering where that sassy girl had gone.”

  Could he be any sexier? “I’m at a loss here,” she heard herself saying. “I don’t know what to think.”

  He kissed her softly on the nose. Moved on to her eyelids. “Neither do I. Can’t we take a time–out from being Rye the singer and Tory the cook while we’re here in Meade and just be together?”

  She let her legs loosen from around his waist and stood shakily in front of him. “I’m not too good at that.”

  Falling into bed with a man was rare for her, and it wasn’t something she took lightly.

  He pushed a curl behind her ear. “You’re one of those commitment types.”

  “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t have anything to offer a woman in the long–term.”

  She lowered her gaze to his throat. “I’m sorry that’s what you believe.”

  “Are we at odds, then?” he murmured.

  God, she hoped not. She didn’t want to be deprived of his touch. “No,” she said, “but we should probably stop. I work for you, and you said—”

  “I know what I said.” His hands took a leisurely stroll down her arms, making her shiver. “I don’t usually have regrets, but I’ll regret it if I don’t make love to you.”

  So would she. “We can’t always have what we want.”

  He finally stepped back and picked up his hat. “You usually can in my world. I don’t feel much like eating, after all. Good night, Tory.”

  “Good night, Rye.”

  He put a finger to the brim in a salute. As he left, she sought comfort in cleaning up the kitchen, but tonight it didn’t bring her peace.

  When my parents died, I was only twelve, and my grandma must have wondered what to do with me. When I came to live with them, they hadn’t had children in the house for decades, but I never felt like I didn’t belong. Grandma brought me into her magical world of cooking, which helped heal my grief. One of the first recipes she introduced me to was sugar cookies. Now most people make these at Christmas, but Grandma, well, she believed you could make them any time of year. So, we’d make the dough, and then pick from the cookie cutters she’d been collecting for years. If we didn’t have the shape we wanted, we’d improvise and make our own, using frosting to decorate instead of colored sugar. For me, it was better than cutting out paper dolls on a rainy day.

  Sugar Cookies

  1 cup butter

  1 cup sugar

  3 eggs

  3½ cup flour

  1 tsp. soda

  2 tsp. cream of tartar

  1 tsp. vanilla

  Cream the butter and sugar. Add the eggs. When the mixture is fluffy, add the remaining ingredients. Blend well. Refrigerate until the mixture is cold and hard. Roll out into the desired thickness. Cut into shapes. Bake 375 degrees for 10–12 minutes. Decorate.

  Tory Simmons’ Simmering Family Cookboo
k

  Chapter 10

  Tory was stirring scrambled eggs with a red spatula when Rye strolled into the kitchen. He’d gone for a run. His T–shirt was covered in sweat spots and his hair looked like he’d taken a shower. And he looked freaking sexy.

  “Christ, it’s muggy out. Going to be bitchin’ hot today.” He pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator and swigged the entire contents.

  Tory turned back to the eggs, not wanting the zip of attraction that shot through her. She’d tossed and turned all night, her body still warm and flushed after their rendezvous in the kitchen. Today she was plain grumpy.

  A black–and–white dog padded into the kitchen and headed straight for Rye. Her spatula clattered onto the counter, and she pressed herself against the cabinet, her heart rate spiking. The dog barked at her, revealing sharp teeth when it opened its mouth.

  “Where’d that dog come from?” she rasped.

  “It’s my Daddy’s hunting dog, Buster,” he said, petting the animal. “Our property manager, Mr. Pullins, takes care of him and the horses. Buster here kept me company on my run. Makes me miss my own dogs, but I know my pal J.P. is taking great care of them like he always does when I’m on tour.”

  “Rye, could you please take the dog outside?” she whispered, her old fears making her hands sweat.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m afraid of dogs.” She pressed her hand to her chest when it became hard to breathe.

  Rye studied her for a moment. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

  Her lips trembled as the memories rode in like an unwelcome guest. “My parents swerved to avoid hitting a German shepherd once.” She could still feel the cold glass of the window as she crashed into it. Hear her mother cry out in alarm.

  Rye grabbed the dog by the collar when it tried to approach her. “What else?”

  She gulped in air. “A tire blew. My dad lost control of the car. We hit a tree.”

  “That must have been scary,” he said. “Keep going.”

  She couldn’t take her gaze off the dog. Her ears were ringing, and sweat broke out on her temples. “My parents died on impact. The car didn’t have airbags.”

  “Oh God, Tory. I’m so sorry.”

  Her arms wrapped around her middle. For some reason, hearing him say the words meant more because it wasn’t perfunctory. “The dog didn’t go away. He came up to the car and started barking. Wouldn’t stop. I thought he was trying to hurt me. The police officer who found us later told me he was trying to help. They’re smart, he said, and the dog knew people were injured inside the car. Still, I couldn’t get out of my seatbelt for almost thirty minutes, I was later told, and the whole while I just heard him barking.”

  Her hands had clawed at the belt until they were bleeding, and she’d screamed until she was hoarse. That was when she’d started crying, having realized her mom and dad couldn’t help her, would never be able to help her again. “Finally a car stopped, and an older man helped me out and then called the police. But even then the dog wouldn’t stop barking, and the man had to set me down and chase him off.”

  Rye’s hand tightened around the dog’s collar. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Let me take him out, and I’ll be right back.”

  She jumped when the dog let loose another bark. “It was a long time ago.” And she’d tried to work on her fear of dogs with one of the school’s counselors, but it hadn’t abated. While she knew it wasn’t rational, it didn’t matter. The old fear was always there, simmering beneath the surface.

  He gave her one last look before turning to leave, and the look in his eyes made her feel like crying. She took slow, deep breaths and turned to stir the eggs.

  His tennis shoes squeaked on the floor a few minutes later, and then his hands settled gently on her shoulders. He turned her around and brought her to his chest. Giving in, she nuzzled her face against his sweaty T–shirt. When he kissed her temple, she wanted nothing more than to curl into him and let him help her forget.

  “My poor Tory,” he murmured.

  The dam of her tears threatened to break, so she pulled back. “You’d best hit the shower. Breakfast will be ready in a few.”

  Fortunately, he gave her space, only stopping to trace her cheek with one fingertip before leaving the room. She moved to the stove and turned the now overcooked eggs. When she dumped them on a plate, she leaned against the counter and watched the steam rise. Reining in her emotions was like pulling in a canoe during a storm, but after a few minutes, she managed to shove them into the box where she always stored them.

  Tory made Rye a plate and decided to take a walk before he came out, wanting some air. When she opened the door, she scanned the yard for Buster. No sign of him. She tiptoed outside, only resuming her normal pace after she made her way past Rye’s truck.

  The humidity and heat were suffocating. Sweat broke out on her upper lip and between her breasts. Swatting away mosquitoes the size of small birds, she walked to the gravel road that led from the house. Unlike Kansas, the shade from the trees didn’t make the heat any more palatable. Firming her shoulders, Tory scanned her surroundings, grateful for the distraction. The land was beautiful and lush, and there were about a thousand different shades of green. Ferns thrived in the natural hothouse, and moss grew around the bases of the trees and dripped from their bark. Branches towered over her, thick with leaves, blocking out the sun.

  She hadn’t gone halfway down the road before realizing she’d need to shower when she returned. How did people function in this heat? Or before air conditioning? She remembered how Southern women constantly fainted in old movies, falling over in their hoop skirts and lace. As she trudged through the suffocating veil of moist air, she formed a new understanding of that phenomenon. Wearing a corset out in this heat could be an Olympic sport. Tory could barely breathe, and she wasn’t even cinched up.

  She turned onto the main road. A shiny white BMW SUV slowed as it approached. Tory stepped to the side, eyeing it with caution. When she recognized Tammy through the windshield, she prayed she would pass and leave her in peace.

  As the car came to a halt, Tory realized her luck hadn’t been so great lately.

  ***

  Tammy forced her mouth to relax when she saw Tory power walking on Kraven Hill Road. What in the world! She hit the button to roll her window down. “Tory, what are you doing on the road? Someone could have hit you.”

  The woman visibly shuddered before striding forward. “I was taking a walk.”

  A walk? The woman seemed nice, but despite being educated, she didn’t have a lick of sense. It was sweltering out, and even if it hadn’t been, no one walked on the road. It just wasn’t done. Perhaps she hadn’t realized, since she was as out of place in Meade as a Kansas blizzard.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be out here. People don’t walk on the road around here.” Except vagrants, but she didn’t add that.

  Tory lifted her hand above her eyes as the sun emerged from behind a cloud. From the rear view mirror, Tammy saw Annabelle wave from the backseat. Rory simply stared.

  “Rye went running this morning. Where did he go?” she asked.

  Tammy tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “Knowing Rye, he probably ran on the road, but he’s always done what you shouldn’t do. You’d do better not to take after him.”

  Her words weren’t very nice, but she couldn’t help it. Having him back here was downright discomfiting, and Mama had been in a mood all morning because of it.

  Tory reached down and re–tied one of her shoes. “Would you be able to give me a ride back to the guest house? It’s a lot hotter out here than I expected.” She fanned herself.

  “I’ll have to drop you off after I leave the kids at the big house.”

  “That’s fine.” Tory came around to the passenger side.

  “Hi guys. What are you up to today?” Tory asked the kids after putting on her seatbelt.

  Guys? That�
��s right. People in the Midwest used that term for everyone. Tammy tried not to frown. Eyes flicking to the rear view mirror, she saw Annabelle lean across Rory to better see Tory, but he gave her a gentle push back into her seat. He wasn’t fond of anyone getting too close. It worried her. Did all boys push people away or just hers?

  Annabelle bounced up and down. “Mama has a meeting, so we’re going to stay at Grandmama’s house today.”

  “That sounds nice,” Tory replied.

  Even Tammy could hear the insincerity. No doubt Rye had filled this woman’s mind with all sorts of bad stories about Mama. Tammy knew she was difficult, but she was still her mama. That meant something.

  When they arrived at the house, Annabelle grabbed Tory’s hand, ever the open–hearted child.

  “Mama, can Miss Tory stay for a while and play with me?”

  Tammy picked up her Coach purse and shut the door. “No, Annabelle. I’m sure Ms. Simmons has things she needs to do for your Uncle Rye.” Hopefully Annabelle would understand Miss Tory was too informal, but she was still learning manners.

  Tory swung Annabelle’s hand in hers, making an arc. “Actually, I don’t have a thing to do. I’d love to stay and play. I bet you have some pretty dolls.”

  Her daughter grinned. “Yes, I do. We can have a tea party. My dolls love them.”

  “Well, we’ll have to fix something nice for them.”

  She wasn’t sure why, but Tammy pulled on Annabelle’s other hand. “Honey, you shouldn’t bother Ms. Simmons.”

  “It’s no bother, really, and please call me Tory. Let’s go inside, Annabelle. You can show me your dolls.”

  So Tory was ignoring her request? “My children are expected to use their manners when addressing adults.”

  The pause was slight, but telling. “Of course. How about Miss Tory? I feel ancient when I’m called Miss Simmons.”

  Tammy still thought it was too informal, but she nodded.

  “Why don’t you come along with us, Rory?” Tory asked.

  He shook his head. “Boys don’t have tea parties.”