“No,” he agreed, looking out the passenger window. “Pretty, though.”
“Don’t get attached,” she muttered, picking up her phone and glancing at the in-progress route to see how much farther they had. “I’m not planning to spend more than a night here.”
He lifted his eyebrows, which were better shaped than hers, thanks to his weekly—yes, weekly—grooming sessions. But, then, that was Simon for you. Perfectly coiffed wavy blond hair down to probably pedicured toes. “You think you’re that good, huh?”
Jordan grabbed the water bottle back. “If I were that good, I’d have been able to wrangle Luke Elliott over the phone rather than having to drive to the literal middle of nowhere to recruit the bastard.”
“I still can’t believe he never replied to a single email or voicemail,” Simon mused.
“Believe it. Either he didn’t get the messages or there’s actually a single man on this planet who doesn’t think getting paid to have twenty-something bikini-clad babes draped all over him sounds like a good gig.”
“Maybe he’s gay.”
She gave her colleague a look. “Don’t sound so hopeful. Jilted needs this guy a hell of a lot more than you do.”
Simon lifted a finger in objection. “I resent that. I’ll have you know it’s been two and a half months since I last had relations.”
“Oh gosh, really? Here, hold the wheel while I cry on your behalf.”
Simon reached over and chucked her under the chin. “Poor Jordie. How long has it been for you?”
Eleven months and counting.
She pulled her phone out of the console and tossed it to him. “The GPS doesn’t know where the hell we are. Can you guide us there the old-fashioned way?”
“Oh, sure. Let me just get my compass, lick my finger, and stick it in the air. . . .”
“Hey, you’re the one who insisted on buying cowboy boots for this little adventure. At least try to earn some country cred.”
Simon sighed dramatically, but he took the phone, zooming in and out on the map and cursing until finally declaring, “Straight, for another thirty minutes, give or take a cow or twelve.”
“So, for real, what are the chances that this guy’s gay?” Simon asked, turning down the radio. “It’d make sense, right? I mean, why else would he leave three women at the altar and then refuse to answer any questions about it?”
Jordan pursed her lips and pondered the very dilemma that had Simon and her driving through Nowhere, Montana, in the first place.
Luke Freaking Elliott, runaway groom extraordinaire, and hopefully the savior to Jordan’s career.
If she could get the guy to even talk to her.
As to Simon’s assessment that he was gay . . . maybe?
It was a good explanation for Luke Elliott’s complicated romantic history.
As Simon said, there had to be a reason he’d been the groom in three weddings that hadn’t happened.
But her instincts said that wasn’t the case, not here.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Jordan’s career needed Luke Elliott to be very much into women. Specifically, she needed him to be into twenty-five women, who would compete on national television to coax him down the aisle in a fairy-tale wedding, also on national television.
Forget The Bachelor.
Jordan’s network had taken the hit reality show and raised it a notch, focusing not just on sexy bachelors but runaway grooms—men who’d gotten darn close to saying vows, only to escape at the last minute.
To Jordan’s bosses’ thinking, a runaway groom represented the ultimate challenge. And, thus, being the one woman who could finally get a ring on his fourth finger represented the ultimate fairy tale.
As associate producer to the woman who’d pitched the TV show, Jordan had been tasked with candidate recruitment.
Trouble was?
While there were plenty of douchebags who ditched women at the altar, not many of them were redeemable.
Or even appealing.
Jordan had spent the past six months looking for a runaway groom who wasn’t a grade-A asshole, an immature jerk, or suffering from some substance-abuse or mental issues.
Luke Elliott was her best shot.
She’d read about the guy in a tiny local Montana newspaper. He was a thirtysomething firefighter who’d left three women at the altar over the course of the last decade and yet somehow had still managed to maintain his status as his small town’s darling.
The details had been sparse, but she hadn’t needed details. Just the picture.
Granted, the photo had been black-and-white and grainy, but there’d definitely been the promise of attractiveness.
It was all the encouragement needed to stalk the man.
Or at least she’d tried to. He wasn’t on Facebook or any of the usual social media suspects. She’d found what she was pretty sure was his email address but had gotten nowhere with that.
She’d even sweet-talked her way into obtaining his phone number.
Nothing. Not a single response in three weeks.
And so . . . here she was.
Out in the middle of nowhere, hoping that a face-to-face meeting would convince this guy that he’d be the perfect star for the inaugural season of Jilted.
As far as how she felt about that? Somewhere between pissy and freaked out, landing somewhere in the middle zone of irritated.
Thank goodness for Simon’s company. In the four years she’d been working at CBC, he’d become both good friend and valued colleague. Simon was on the network’s legal team, known as their “on the ground” lawyer. He worked mainly with the network’s reality shows and was the guy they sent to answer contract questions from possible candidates, as well as to identify red flags and wild cards to be avoided.
Jordan sighed, and Simon shifted in his seat to study her, his blue eyes assessing. “What’s with you? You’ve been edgy ever since JFK. Is it because Starbucks was out of hazelnut syrup?”
She let out a little laugh. “We’d better hope that’s not the reason. There’s no hazelnut syrup where we’re going.”
“Yeah, no Starbucks in Lucky Hollow. I checked.”
So had Jordan. But it didn’t matter, because she had a plan: She’d get in, get out, and be back to her SoHo apartment by the weekend.
“For real,” Simon said, reaching over and poking her cheek to keep her attention. “What’s up?”
Jordan pursed her lips. “I just hate leaving the city.”
“You leave the city all the time.”
“Yeah, for other cities,” Jordan countered. “Big ones. Los Angeles and Lucky Hollow aren’t exactly the same thing.”
“So?”
She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s just, small towns sort of weird me out.”
“Because of the lack of Starbucks?”
She laughed again. “God, no. Okay, sort of. But because . . . it reminds me that I haven’t been home. Not in a long time.”
“Ahhhhhhh,” Simon said, acting as if he’d achieved enlightenment.
“Ahhh, what?”
“The mysterious Jordan Carpenter finally shares a sliver of her past.”
She frowned. “I talk about my past.”
“Um, no. Not in the four years I’ve known you. For all I know, you came into this world as a fully hot twentysomething, delivered to Manhattan by spaceship.”
“Have you been binge-watching Battlestar Galactica again?”
“The guys are hot, but don’t change the subject,” Simon said. “Where’s home?”
She swallowed. “Kansas.”
“More detail, please.”
“You’ve never heard of the town.”
“Try me.”
“Keaton.”
“Never heard of it.”
Jordan rolled her eyes.
“Okay, so, small town?” Simon nudged gently.
The smallest. “The population is less than most New York neighborhoods.”
“And you haven’t bee
n home in . . .”
“A couple years,” she muttered.
Twelve.
He studied her. “Why?”
“Because there’s nothing left for me there.”
“No family?”
Jordan’s stomach lurched. “Okay, new plan,” Jordan said, reaching out and turning on the radio. “We’re not talking about this.”
He shrugged and leaned forward, squinting out the windshield. “Just as well. Looks like our road trip is coming to an end.”
“What? You said thirty minutes.”
“I also told you I couldn’t read maps.” He pointed to the sign.
LUCKY HOLLOW. POPULATION 2,314
For now, Jordan thought. By the time she seduced Luke Elliott with the idea of hot women, household fame, and a fat paycheck, the town would need to update its sign to 2,313.
Chapter 2
“Just the one night, cutie pies?”
Simon leaned on the counter and smiled at the middle-aged blond woman behind the front desk of the motel. “Let’s say we end up needing to stay a few extra nights. Will that be a problem?”
“Gosh, no,” the woman said with a smile. “We’re almost never booked to capacity, except during the county fair.” She leaned forward too. “We’ve the best fair for miles around; everyone knows it. It’s in just a couple weeks if you want to stay.”
Yeah, that’s a no.
Still, Jordan would give the motel credit for being adorable. She’d assumed motel would mean a tiny, rundown building meant to put a roof over the head of the occasional passerby, with maybe a vending machine and not much more.
Instead, Maeve’s Motel had a decidedly homey, bed-and-breakfast feel to it. A quaint little house, painted pale pink, right down to the picket fence in the yard. The lobby area smelled like freshly baked cookies because there were freshly baked cookies, alongside a crystal pitcher of lemonade.
Still, no matter how charmed she found herself, Jordan had no plans on staying longer than she had to.
She slid her corporate credit card across the counter. “Just the one night. Two rooms please.”
The woman’s smile didn’t dim. “No problem, sweetie. I just love your hair, by the way; how’d you get it to do that beachy look? Mine just goes straight to frizz unless I wrestle it into submission with a flatiron.”
Jordan resisted the urge to touch her shoulder-length blond hair self-consciously. “Oh, it’s this . . . stuff. A saltwater spray. I can get you the name.”
It was also embarrassingly expensive for what was probably literally salt and water, but Jordan didn’t mention that part.
“I’d love that. I’ll be here all day and tomorrow morning, but if you come by tomorrow afternoon, just leave a note; tell April to give it to Vicky. That’s me!”
Jordan smiled. “Will do.”
The other woman hummed happily as she slowly typed their information into the ancient-looking computer system, her long pink fingernails clacking the keyboard one key at a time.
Vicky was in her early sixties, pleasantly plump, with a wide face and even wider smile. Today was apparently one of the days where she’d beat her blond bob into submission, because it swished happily against her chin as she grooved to the music in her head.
“Okay, here we are,” Vicky said, sliding two plastic key cards across the counter. “Rooms nine and ten, right across the hall from each other on the second floor.”
“Perfect,” Simon said. “Which one’s bigger? That’ll be mine.”
“Same size. But nine has a view of Main Street, which can be a bit noisy, so if you want quiet, pick ten.”
“I could go for a bit of quiet,” Simon said, reaching for the key to 10.
“I could get you a room on the same side,” Vicky told Jordan. “If you want quiet too?”
“I’ll take my chances with Main Street. I’m guessing it’ll be quieter than where I’m from.”
“Oh, where’s that?”
“New York,” Jordan answered, deliberately interpreting the question as where she was from now, not where she was from originally.
Years of dodging her past had taught her that the more confident your tone, the less likely people were to listen too closely for what you were hiding.
Vicky gasped in delight. “No. Really? New York City?”
Jordan smiled and took the key card.
“No wonder you’re so pretty and fancy,” Vicky said. “Although I always thought it was just a stereotype that New Yorkers wore all black.”
Jordan glanced down at the black halter top, skinny jeans, and basic black pumps. Black purse. Black suitcase. Black bangles at her wrist.
Not all black, but close.
“Not me, though, Vicky,” Simon was saying, holding his arms to the sides. He was the very definition of flamboyant pretty boy. Tall and lean, short blond hair with just the right amount of product, white jeans, purple shirt, and shoes that cost more than Jordan’s entire wardrobe.
“No, not you,” Vicky said with a happy laugh as Simon spun in a slow circle. “I’ve never see a man wear lavender paisley before.”
The utter disbelief on Simon’s face had Jordan biting back a smile.
She touched his elbow before he could launch into a lecture about how paisley was in right now.
Jordan reached for the handle of her suitcase, then turned back to Vicky with her friendliest smile.
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Luke Elliott, would you?”
Vicky’s wide brown eyes blinked for a moment. “Well, gosh, what’s today—Monday? He should be down at the firehouse, I’d guess. Thursdays and Fridays are his days off.”
Simon scratched his cheek in bemusement. “Exactly how tiny is this place that everyone knows everyone else’s work schedule?”
Vicky laughed. “Welcome to small-town life, sweetheart. But I have a better sense than most. My husband owns Tucker’s Tavern, and I help out some nights. I know when I’m most likely to see Luke. And most everyone else,” she added with a wink.
Jordan pushed aside a stab of disappointment. A bar would have been the perfect place to make her initial pitch, but no way was she sticking around until his off-day on Thursday.
“Thanks for the help,” she said with a smile to Vicky, reaching once more for the suitcase.
“Anytime, doll. You know Luke?”
The question was unapologetically nosy, but Jordan didn’t take offense. She knew firsthand that in small towns like this one, there was no such thing as somebody else’s business. Everybody’s business was everybody else’s.
Still, she hadn’t spent the first eighteen years of her life in a tiny town for nothing. She knew precisely how to evade without ruffling feathers.
“Not yet,” Jordan said with a saucy wink at Vicky as she backed up. “But I plan to soon.”
Vicky’s brown eyes lit with friendly curiosity, but Jordan turned away before the older woman could pry further.
“I’ll bring the name of my hair stuff down in a bit,” Jordan called, wheeling her bag toward the staircase. No elevators in Maeve’s Motel.
“So what’s the plan?” Simon asked, coming up beside her and nudging her hand away from her suitcase, lifting both of their bags to trudge up the steps. The guy might be lean, but he was diligent about his daily workouts, and it showed.
“We take five, freshen up, and give you a chance to get your hormones all tamped down and tucked away.”
“Vicky’s a delight, but she’s not my type,” Simon whispered.
“We’re not sticking around here,” Jordan explained. “We’re about to storm a firehouse.”
Simon rested a hand across his chest. “Oh sweet Jesus, I think I might faint. Do you think I could talk one of them into wearing just the suspender things, no shirt?”
“You talk to whomever your loins want you to,” Jordan said, wheeling her bag toward Room 9. “I’ll only be talking to one elusive Luke Elliott.”
The rest of the town was every b
it as adorable as the motel, like pure Americana perfectly cared for and tied up nice and tidy with a red, white, and blue bow.
Not that it was brand-new or glamorous, but, then, that was part of the charm. A handful of buildings that had seen better days, and there was no shiny new Starbucks, no fancy frozen-yogurt chain. But even the most tired of buildings were adorned with tidy potted petunias or friendly fuchsias dangling from hanging baskets and clinging to the last bits of summer. The lawns were mowed, the paint fresh, the streets free of litter. There was an American flag in every yard, a welcome mat on nearly every porch.
Everything about it was lovely and hit Jordan with a wave of homesickness so strong and unexpected that her eyes watered. It had been so long since she’d been in a town where drivers waved and smiled at other drivers instead of honking. A place where residents took simple pleasure in the process of getting somewhere, rather than focusing solely on the destination. A place where people cared enough about something other than themselves to give a curious smile to a newcomer.
Keaton, or at least what she remembered of her hometown, was a touch less picturesque, maybe a bit less postcard worthy. But the important stuff, the essence of the towns, was the same.
She’d been trying to avoid this for so long—the familiarity that reminded her of everything that she’d lost. But now that she was here, she didn’t have the sadness she expected. If anything, she had the sense of connecting with a part of herself that had been dormant for a long time.
Too long?
Damn it. See, this was why she hadn’t wanted to come here. Jordan and small towns had unfinished business, and she wasn’t at all liking that she was already feeling the pull.
“You okay?” Simon asked, doing a double take when he saw her expression.
She forced a smile. “Totally. Just trotting down memory lane.”
“You know,” he mused, “considering we’re on actual Main Street right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if this town did have a Memory Lane. I feel like I’m on a movie set.”
Jordan pulled the rental in front of their destination, and Simon gave an extra-dramatic gasp at the firehouse. “You see what I mean? Movie set. That firehouse belongs on Leave It to Beaver.”
“That’s a TV show.”
I Think I Love You Page 21