Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz
a man in a chef’s jacket popped his head through the window separating the kitchen from the dining room to call something to Laney. He must’ve been Jimmy Ray.
Let’s see what you got, Jimmy.
If the food was as good as the sarsaparilla, the trip to town wouldn’t be a total loss. But Gina had her doubts.
Laney finally brought her meal, which was large enough to feed Los Angeles. At first, she thought she was getting special treatment because…uh, Gina DeRose. But it was the same portion size everyone else in the joint got.
“Enjoy,” Laney said. “You can leave the cake recipe with the check.”
“You’d really sell me out?” Gina had been observing Laney for most of the evening. She wasn’t the hard-ass she pretended to be. In fact, Gina could tell which diners were local and which were visiting based on who Laney hugged.
“Faster than a hot knife through butter.”
“Whatever.” Gina stifled an eye roll. She’d give her the damn recipe and leave out the two extra egg yolks she threw in to make the cake moister, like she’d done with everyone else.
“Jimmy Ray wants to know what you think.” Laney’s gaze dropped to the heaping plate of chicken and waffles and greens. “Holler when you’re done.”
As soon as Laney left, Gina layered her fork with a crispy piece of chicken and slice of fluffy sweet-potato waffle and took a bite, letting the flavors—sweet from the cane syrup and a little spicy from the Tabasco—meld on her tongue.
Holy mother of God, was it good. So good she wanted to cry. She dipped into the collard greens and closed her eyes to savor the salty, pungent flavor. Everything down to the bits of smoky bacon was sublime.
How the hell did she not know about this place?
She continued stuffing her face while searching Google on her phone with one finger. Besides a smattering of Yelp reviews, there was nothing about a coffee shop in Dry Creek, California. No writeups or reviews in Zagat, Eater, TripAdvisor, Michelin Guide, or anything else.
Laney returned to find that Gina had cleaned her plate. “For a skinny girl, you sure can pack it away. I brought you a slice of my chess pie.”
“Laney, I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
“Just a little taste. You can bring the rest home with ya.” Laney put her hands on her hips and stayed rooted in her spot.
No didn’t appear to be an option.
Besides, Gina wanted to know if it was as good as everything else she’d eaten. She took a small bite, then another one, and before she knew it had devoured half the slice. Laney watched, a smug smile playing on her lips.
“Oh my God,” Gina said around another bite. “I’m going to explode, but can’t stop.” She pointed at the pie with her fork. “You guys should wholesale this.”
Laney grabbed Gina’s arm. “Tell that to Jimmy Ray.” She dragged Gina through the dining room.
Jimmy Ray was holding down the line by himself.
“Come meet Gina DeRose,” Laney said to him and Gina shushed her again. “No one can hear us out there.”
Jimmy Ray dropped a few battered chicken pieces into a skillet, took off his plastic gloves, and shook Gina’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. How was your supper?”
“So good that I think you guys should franchise.”
“Nah,” he said, but grinned with pride. “We like the coffee shop just the way it is, don’t we, Laney?”
Laney pulled a face. “I wouldn’t mind being rich for a change.”
Jimmy Ray kissed his wife on the head and said to Gina, “I hear you’re staying at Dry Creek Ranch.”
The word was certainly out. Gina gave it twenty-four hours before the paparazzi came knocking on her Unabomber cabin.
“Your wife promised not to tell anyone as long as I gave her my strawberry shortcake recipe.” Gina locked eyes with Laney and squinted in challenge.
Jimmy Ray laughed. “She’s joshing you. She won’t tell a soul, will you, Laney?”
“We made a deal” was her response. The woman drove a hard bargain.
Gina paid her bill and scribbled the recipe on a page in Laney’s order pad. On her way out of town, she stopped at the Dry Creek Market, deciding to risk detection for a few days’ worth of provisions.
The grocery store wasn’t the Santa Monica farmers’ market, but it didn’t completely suck. Gina left with a shopping cart full of grocery bags.
By the time she got home and put everything away, she was exhausted. She would’ve sat outside on what passed for a porch, but there were bugs everywhere and there wasn’t any outdoor furniture to speak of, just an old wine barrel turned upside down.
She poured herself a glass of wine, took it to the monstrosity of a couch, and scrolled through her emails on her phone. Her manager had sent a couple of invoices for her to sign off on; her agent and lawyer notified her that they were still fighting with FoodFlicks over the public morals clause in her contract; and Gayle King from CBS This Morning wanted an interview. Blah, blah, blah.
She switched to her fan email account, which had been taken over by Candace Clay devotees, threatening to boycott Gina’s show and her products. One person hoped she died and another offered to help her find Jesus.
Why are you reading these?
She put the phone down on the coffee table. It had a layer of dust as thick as Candace’s mascara. She went in search of a rag or the terry-cloth towel she’d used earlier, but got her laptop instead. Back on the couch, she flipped it open, turned it on, and did a search under her and Danny Clay’s names.
It was stupid, but she couldn’t help herself.
She clicked on the picture she’d been looking for and blew it up on the screen. There they were, barely clothed, on a sandy beach together. Danny with an ear-to-ear smile on his face. Gina’s breasts on display, looking even perkier than they did on her TV show.
She stared at the photo a long time, like she’d done a million times since the picture had hit the internet and had ruined her perfect life, then quickly slapped down the cover of her laptop.
Chapter 3
Something smelled fantastic and for a few cloudy seconds Sawyer thought he was still at the Park Plaza and room service had just been delivered. He rolled over, squinted at the clock on his nightstand, and tried to go back to sleep.
But there were sounds coming from his kitchen. Water running. Pots banging. The beeping noise his refrigerator made when the door remained open for too long.
He tossed his head against the pillow, let out a groan, and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Slipping on a clean pair of jeans, he ducked inside the bathroom to brush his teeth and strode into the kitchen in his bare feet.
“I thought we were clear on the fact that I live here and you don’t,” he said to Gina DeRose’s ass. She was bending over to put something in his oven.
“Ow.” She hit her head on the counter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
He started to tell her that she was the one sneaking around his kitchen, uninvited, but got distracted by the smell again. Whatever it was, it was making his mouth water. He sat at the breakfast bar and watched her work.
She was dicing onions with a utility knife. Not his. His were Henckels and hers didn’t have a brand or a logo. There was an efficiency and grace to the way she sliced. Like a choreographed dance with her hands.
“Pass me those carrots, would you?” She nudged her head at