Resigning herself to her wakefulness, she sat up and clicked on the lamp, then leaned back into her pillows. While she’d been focused on Courtney, it had been easier to stave off the emotions, but being up here with nothing to do but listen to the clock tick was torturous.
She put her face in her hands, giving in to the rush of memories of the week leading up to Courtney’s wedding and the time she’d spent with Ben. Horseback riding. Enlivened conversations. Reading together.
And, of course, the wedding reception. She could practically hear the soft guitar and picture the little lights in the trees twinkling like a million stars. The world had felt as if it were made up of only two people. Sheila and Ben. It had seemed so right.
Lowering her hands, she looked up at the darkened ceiling and sighed.
Please, God. Take away this unwanted attraction and all the pain that goes with it.
She paused, as if expecting an immediate physical manifestation of her prayer being answered. When nothing happened, she folded her arms and slumped lower into the thick pillows.
Now what? After two restless nights, she should be exhausted, but no. She felt as wide-awake as if she’d slept eight hours and had a double shot of espresso. Normally, she liked to read before bed, but knowing how busy she’d be here and how many books there were at the ranch, she’d left her reading device at home. Her mouth twisted as she glanced around the room.
Talk about unfair. There was a full bookcase out in the sitting area, where she and Ben had sat reading together every night of their previous stay, but not so much as a brochure in her bedroom. If she wanted to read, she’d have to risk a close encounter of the Ben kind. Rolling her eyes up to the ceiling again, she spoke right out loud this time. “Lord, are You on my side here or not?”
Accompanied by the tick-tock of what was probably God’s silent amusement, she swung her feet to the plush wool rug and padded quietly to the door. Slowly, she pulled it open a crack and peeked down the hall at Ben’s open door and the dark room beyond.
Strange that he wasn’t back yet. She shook off the worry. It had probably taken some time for him and Tandy to drive to the north pasture, wherever that was, and they would surely have stayed at least a few minutes to keep Adam company. For all she knew, he could be downstairs talking to his parents and eating more of those yummy cookies his mom had baked yesterday. Whatever he was doing, it was none of her concern.
Setting her sights on the bookcase on the far side of the sitting area—which was really a wide place in the hallway, with a fireplace and a couple of nice big windows, that separated the two wings of this floor—she ventured a step. All she had to do was make it to the bookcase and grab a book, then hurry back before Ben came up the stairs. It wouldn’t take more than forty-five seconds, as long as she wasn’t too selective.
Just as she took another step, the creak of a floorboard sounded from the stairwell straight across from her. Alarmed, she scampered back into her room and quickly shut the door, then placed her ear against it. Even over the sound of her drumming heart, she definitely heard someone—Ben?—coming up the stairs. She shut her eyes and strained to listen.
The creaking got louder as he reached the top step, then stopped. Was he noticing the light under her door? Cursing her decision to turn on the lamp, she held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t come over and knock. Then the footsteps continued down the hall, and she released her breath.
She leaned against the door, catching a few more indistinct sounds. After a minute or so, she heard a door shut. With a fortifying breath, she pulled her own door open just enough to see that his was now closed and that a thin strip of peachy light emanated from underneath it.
Now was her chance.
Slipping into the hallway, her recollections of the morning after the wedding lapped over her in dizzying waves. She’d left her room then, feeling all swoony from dancing late into the night. On a whim, she’d gone down the hall to see if Ben wanted to walk downstairs to breakfast with her. When she’d held her hand up to knock on the door, she’d heard his voice.
My plane lands at about two-thirty.
Realizing he was on the phone, she’d lowered her hand, debating whether or not to wait. Before she could decide, he’d spoken again.
No, I don’t need a ride. My girlfriend, Stephanie, is picking me up.
Her stomach had dropped. His girlfriend? The word had hit with the force of a hurricane. Ben Jacobs, the man she had fallen for with every fiber of her being, would never be hers. Not only that, but he had played her in the worst way. He had stolen her heart with no intention of giving her his in return.
He’d laughed then—that wonderful sound that had been like music to her all week had suddenly felt like a knife plunging into her heart. Feeling dazed, she’d wavered, not wanting to hear more but unable to step away.
I know. I’ve missed her, too. We’ve been apart for a whole week.
Remembering that now, Sheila’s chest throbbed. Talk about feeling duped. She had retreated to her room to finish packing while keeping an inevitable crying jag at bay. She’d missed breakfast—who wanted to eat in the face of a major heartbreak, especially with the cause of that heartbreak sitting right across the table? It had been all she could do to keep from crying as she sat in front of him in Janessa’s truck on the way to the airport. Had she even said goodbye to him before rushing off to find her gate?
Now, as she stepped purposefully toward the bookcase, anger pushed aside her heartache. Just because she was single didn’t mean she was a willing candidate for a fleeting vacation romance. And now, of course, she had Kevin.
Seething, she stepped around the settee where she and Ben had made of habit of sitting. She wanted to kick the thing, but instead, she stopped, noticing that someone had left a book lying there as if they had intended to come back to it. Her cheeks chilled at the sight of the same first edition of The Great Gatsby that she and Ben had taken turns reading to each other.
She took in a breath. Surely it hadn’t been sitting here all these months? No, she was certain they’d put it away.
She picked up the book, feeling its weight in her hands and smelling that delicious and faintly musty scent of the aged paper. Was God telling her He had answered her prayer to remove her attraction to Ben with a resounding no?
Her breath came out in a long whoosh. If that was the case, it was more than she could stand.
A noise from Ben’s room sent her scurrying back into her own. Leaning against the shut door, she stared at the volume she still clutched in her hands as if she’d stolen it. Just great. She’d acquired reading material, all right, but it was the one thing that would only serve to dredge up more of the memories she was trying to squash. So did she return the book and risk running into him, bringing up the potential for a conversational stroll down bad-memory lane, or did she stay put and stealthily return it to its place tomorrow?
Ugh. Her head pounded from her sleeplessness the night before. That was it. She wasn’t thinking clearly, because she needed a good night’s sleep. Surely if she just read a few pages, she’d be out like a rock, and her perspective would be clearer in the morning.
She moved to the bed and slipped under the blankets, pulling them up to her waist and sitting back against her pillows. With trembling fingers, she opened the book, then looked upward at the ceiling. Fine. If God wasn’t willing to eliminate her pointless attraction to Ben, maybe He’d consider a compromise. Fingering the pages of the book, she sent up another prayer.
Please, God. If I’m going to make it through this, at least give me strength to resist that man You made to be so maddeningly appealing.
* * *
After getting lost in the story of Jay Gatsby’s obsessive love for the flighty Daisy Buchanan, Sheila had slept fitfully the previous night. Her dreams had once again been invaded by Ben—something about the two of them
tossing shirts in the air, thanks to Mr. Fitzgerald’s vivid imagination. At this rate, she was going to need a vacation to recover from her vacation.
Now, as she and Courtney walked around the corner on their way to the Golden Pear, the sight of a large white van with a huge antenna sticking out of the top and the words Food Fight emblazoned across the sides and a line of people leading up to the door of the café gave her hope that at least for a while she’d have something non-Ben-related to occupy her mind.
Courtney let out an audible breath, and Sheila slowed her steps. Ever aware of her friend’s impending due date, she didn’t like the look of worry on her face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Her tentative tone did nothing to support the affirmative response. “It’s just that all this reminds me of what happened when Breaking Story came to town. Remember that?”
Sheila rolled a comprehending look at the scene in front of them. “How could I forget?”
She should have seen this coming. Courtney had experienced a near disaster two years ago when the popular infotainment show had done a report on Thornton Springs for North to Montana. She had inadvertently told the reporter that Angela Bijou, the star, had instructed Courtney to set her up with Adam. He hadn’t realized until he saw the show that Courtney had been asking him out on a date not with her but for her boss. Poor Adam had been humiliated in front of the whole town. The whole country, for that matter. It had almost ended the romance between Courtney and Adam before it had even gotten started.
In spite of her friend’s apprehension, Sheila had to smile. One look at the ring that now adorned Courtney’s hand, not to mention her tummy protruding under her pink-checked maternity top, offered a happy reminder that it had all worked out fine for everyone. Even Angela had found a Hollywood ending with her handsome costar, Jeffrey Mark Caulfield, that not even the tabloids had sullied.
“Courtney,” Sheila said, “I think this show is a little more reputable than Breaking Story.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She still didn’t sound entirely convinced. “But if I wasn’t so determined to keep an eye on my mother-in-law’s romantic interests, I wouldn’t have gotten up so early to come here for breakfast.”
“Right.” Sheila switched her purse to her other shoulder, remembering why she normally preferred to do her away-from-home reading on a lightweight e-reader. First-edition hardbacks weren’t exactly built for convenience, but she had wanted to have it today just in case. Judging from the crowd, this could take a while, and if Courtney got much more involved in her reconnaissance, Sheila might just polish off another chapter or two.
They joined the line of curious customers chatting excitedly and straining to see through the windows. A young woman wearing an ID badge on a lanyard around her neck handed them each a couple of papers that had been stapled together.
Sheila read from hers, “‘Food Fight Rules and Confidentiality Agreement.’”
“Oh, so we have to sign this in order to be on the show.” Courtney gave it a quick glance, then looked around at the crowd.
“Guess so.” Sheila read more. “‘No cell phones, cameras or recording devices, and no talking to the judges.’ Sounds serious.” She took out a pen and signed her agreement, then separated it from the rule sheet.
Courtney drifted closer to the window to get a better look, while Sheila tucked her rules into her purse and shoved her hands in the pockets of her distressed-denim jacket. She shivered against the morning chill. What she wouldn’t give right now for a nice vanilla latte to warm her hands.
She glanced through the café window, trying to calculate how many people stood between her and the espresso machine. Not only was the place packed to the gills with diners, but the television crew had strategically placed large lights on stands backed by big screens and various other pieces of equipment. People stood around holding clipboards or mics on poles, and at the center of it all was the Brian Leary. He spoke to a couple sitting at a table in the middle of the room with smiles on their faces and forks suspended above their breakfasts. Blair stood behind him, alongside a tall man who towered over them with a camera on his shoulder.
Sheila found herself shifting to get a better look at Brian, just like everyone else. With his open collar, pale blue dress shirt and charcoal-gray jacket, he came off as very GQ in a distinguished early-fifties sort of way.
“Impressive,” she said to no one in particular. “If you’re into that celebrity thing.”
Courtney stepped back into line. “No sign of Mr. Bloom.”
“Well, that ought to make your surveillance job easier.”
Courtney tossed her a playfully defensive look. “I’ll just be happy to see a certain excessively poised producer leave town, is all. I have to look out for my family.”
The woman from the show came back down the line then, collecting the signed agreements and speaking to the crowd. “Remember, folks, when it’s your turn to dine, please don’t dawdle at your table any longer than you normally would. Anyone wearing stripes, patterns, offensive or all-white clothing will be asked to either change or come back later today or tomorrow. And no autographs while Brian Leary is working. He’s an artist and he has to focus.” That last part was said with such seriousness that Courtney and Sheila looked at each other with restrained mirth.
The door to the café opened and Janessa came out carrying a couple of lidded cups. Much to Sheila’s delight, she headed straight for them, offering up the drinks as she neared.
“I saw you two out here and I thought you could use a warm-up while you waited.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” Sheila held her hot cup up to her face, inhaling the delightful aroma of coffee and vanilla. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”
Janessa gave a quick roll of her eyes. “We’re shooting our bios today and tomorrow, so I’m taking a couple of days off from class. I’ll make up for it next week. Did you get a look at Brian Leary?” She gestured toward the café, where the focus had shifted to a table full of college-aged women who looked up at the host with complete adoration. “I can see why all the women have been waiting for him to get here.”
Courtney sipped her tea and looked through the window with an assessing eye. “He’s pretty nice-looking in person.”
Sheila scowled. “You two are not allowed to ogle. You’re both off the market.”
“I beg your pardon.” Courtney raised a brow. “We’re not ogling. We’re merely observing.”
“You’re entitled to ogle, though,” Janessa chided. “What do you think?”
“Of Brian Leary?” Sheila shrugged. “He’s okay, but he’s not really my type.” They progressed forward a few feet in line.
“I know your type.” Courtney glanced around. “You’d pick someone like...him.” She nodded toward a guy in a yellow pullover sweater leaning on a car in front of the ice cream store and checking his phone messages.
“Him?” Sheila scoffed. “No way. If I was going to ogle, I’d pick...” Giving a quick scan to what she could see of the main street, she tipped a nod toward a guy in jeans and a gray sweatshirt who had his back to them. Something about his broad shoulders and the way he carried himself made him stand out in the crowd. “That guy.” She turned to Courtney and Janessa, satisfied with her selection.
“Him?” Courtney sputtered, holding her hand to her face as if tea had just come out her nose. “You think he’s ogle-worthy?”
“Well, yeah...” Her voice trailed off as she turned around to see the guy she’d pointed out cross the street come toward them. He was now close enough that she could easily identify him. It was Ben.
She whipped back around, flustered.
“Wait till I tell him.” Courtney laughed as though she found this seriously amusing.
“Oh, please don’t.” Sheila did her best to affect a playful tone to cover up the seriousness
of her plea. “You know guys. It’ll just go to his head.”
“Yeah, right.” Courtney let her laughter die off as Ben approached.
Sheila pretended to have an intense interest in the progress of the line, grateful that her friend’s eyes didn’t linger on her heated and probably mottling face.
“What are you doing here?” Courtney greeted Ben. “You promised me you’d supervise Dad while he paints the ducks.”
“He’s finishing the walls on his own, and we’ll tackle the little mural this afternoon. I thought I’d see how things were going around here.”
He turned his million-watt smile on Sheila, and her knees became putty. All she could do was lift a feeble smile and an even feebler wave. That won her a second knee-weakening grin, and she concealed her inability to speak by taking a major gulp of the potent latte she so clearly needed if she wanted to survive this day.
Thankfully, Courtney appeared to remain unaware of Sheila’s arm-wrestling match with cupid as she continued her exchange with Ben. “Okay, but if he so much as attempts to paint a feather without you there to help him, you’re going to be the one to paint over it, mister.”
He gave Courtney a playful salute.
Sheila swallowed a sigh. If that wasn’t the cutest thing she’d ever seen, she had no idea what was. Okay, maybe the sight of him at age four wearing those adorable glasses and clinging to his toy microscope. Now, that was cute.
“Hey, Court.” Janessa pointed toward the café window. “Let’s go snag you that table that’s about to open up so you can sit.” She turned to Ben as she nudged Courtney toward the door. “You keep Sheila company in line, and I’ll bring you a latte.”
“Oh...okay.” His eyes flitted over Sheila in a way that made her want to run but rendered her immobile.
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