Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz

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      Stop whining.

      She reminded herself that she’d achieved the dream. Not the cooking so much, which had been her escape, her joy, the one thing that made her feel loved. No, her kitchen skills had never started out as part of the master plan. But being rich and famous…yeah, that had always been the goal.

      And now she stood a good chance of losing it all.

      There wasn’t a mop anywhere. Not in the pantry or the laundry room, or in the hallway linen closet. But she did find soap, a bucket, and a scrub brush. On her hands and knees, she cleaned the floor, which wasn’t as dirty as it looked. Just old and chipped and faded.

      And the physical labor did her good, even in the ninety-degree weather. It helped work off her nervous energy.

      Her T-shirt stuck to her like a second skin. Outside, she could hear the creek flowing and for a rash second considered going in. Sawyer had said something about fishing off the porch and Gina didn’t swim where she ate.

      Sawyer…ugh…what a jerk. She was trying to escape the press, not shack up next door to it.

      After he’d dumped her off here, Gina had called Wendy to give her a piece of her mind. Wendy had used that calming voice of hers to talk her off a ledge. She trusted Wendy’s judgment; she really did. Dalton and Associates was the best in the business when it came to quelling a crisis and Gina’s situation had morphed into full-blown catastrophe. But she was out of her depth in Dry Creek Ranch. Raised in Beverly Hills, dirt roads and cattle crossings gave her hives.

      At least Sawyer’s apartment had been modern and rather gorgeous, though it pained her to admit it. This place, though, didn’t even have a decent stove. It was freaking electric and not even induction. And a Mr. Coffee? Who even used those anymore? She planned to remedy that as soon as possible and hoped to God UPS, FedEx, or the US Postal Service delivered here in the middle of nowhere.

      She tugged off her sticky T-shirt and slipped off her shorts for a quick shower, letting a stream of cool water sluice over her. After twenty minutes, she got out of the tub, feeling human again.

      She rummaged through her newly-hung clothes, trying to find something that wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Gina finally settled on a lightweight peasant dress she’d bought at Fred Segal ages ago because she’d liked the way the blue fabric had matched her eyes. The dress still had the tags on it. Slipping on a pair of sandals, she grabbed her purse and hiked to Sawyer’s garage to fetch her car.

      His Range Rover was still parked in the driveway. She stared up at the barn loft, but couldn’t make out any signs of life through the big picture windows, not that she cared. How hard could it be to find the coffee shop he’d told her about? That’s what GPS was for.

      She pushed her oversized sunglasses up on her nose, adjusted her floppy hat, and opened the garage door. There was probably a switch that did it automatically, but she had no idea where it was.

      She backed her BMW out. Instead of taking the dirt road again, she used the same blacktop driveway she’d taken the night before and followed it to the gate. There, she set her GPS for the center of Dry Creek.

      Ten minutes later, she was hopelessly lost on a back road. The highway was nowhere in sight and nothing looked familiar. Just a lot of barns, cows, goats, and an occasional house. She couldn’t deny that the scenery was picturesque. It kind of reminded her of the Tuscan countryside where her father had grown up.

      But hunger and frustration killed any chance of enjoying the view.

      There hadn’t been much food in Sawyer’s house. Just a jar of beluga caviar, a heel of Manchego cheese, and some stale crackers. She’d helped herself to all of it, as well as to Sawyer’s excellent wine collection. The man had good taste, she’d give him that.

      “What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at her GPS, which had the good grace not to yell back. She’d managed to navigate Los Angeles’s labyrinth of freeways just fine. But a tiny backwater…She threw up her hands, then hung a U-turn.

      “Recalculating,” the damned GPS whined.

      She drove for what seemed like miles. But this time, judging by the Dry Creek sign—Welcome to the best cowtown in America—the fickle piece of equipment had come through. She cruised Mother Lode Road, peering through her window at the sights. Or rather the lack of them. Sawyer’s coffee shop, which didn’t appear to have a name. The obligatory supermarket, a seamstress shop with the cutesy name of Sew What, and a mishmash of other stores.

      She hung a right on Main Street and was equally disappointed. A construction company, some kind of county office complex, a Greyhound bus station, and as Main came to the end of the road, a high school and a park.

      Nothing to see here, folks.

      She pulled into a gas station, flipped around, and drove back to the coffee shop. Parking was definitely not a problem in this town. Gina pulled her hat down lower over her forehead and made her way to the restaurant. From the sidewalk it looked like a greasy spoon. There was a menu taped to the front door and she stood there a while perusing the offerings. Basic truck stop fare with a Southern flavor, which done right could take you to heaven.

      Gina had no illusions that this little diner would take her anywhere other than to heartburn hell. But starvation trumped standards.

      She let herself in and a bell hanging from the door jangled. The restaurant was unexpectedly crowded, but it was dinnertime after all. The hostess, a sturdy middle-aged woman wearing an apron, pointed to a sign-up sheet and shouted something into the kitchen. Gina scrawled Linda Jackson on the page. It was her business manager’s name and generic enough not to arouse suspicion.

      She sat on the bench, an old wagon seat, and waited for her name to be called. The place was just as unimpressive on the inside as it had been on the outside. A cash register that looked as old as Gina, scarred wooden tables and chairs, and lots of photographs of cattle. The pastry case was cleaned out, typically a good sign this time of day. There was a cake display fridge that was filled with pies and other desserts that looked decent. Gina wondered if they were made in-house.

      The hostess walked over, giving Gina a thorough once-over. She must’ve looked ridiculous wearing her sunglasses inside the restaurant, not to mention the floppy hat. But it was better than being recognized.

      “There’s a space at the counter if you’re interested.”

      “I’ll wait for a table.”

      “Suit yourself,” she said like she thought Gina was being high-maintenance and walked away to greet a couple who’d just come in.

      By the time a table came available, Gina had come close to leaving and hitting up the grocery store for something she could eat in her car. This town needed another restaurant. There probably wasn’t anything else for hundreds of miles, though she remembered driving through a good-sized town only thirty minutes from the ranch.

      Maybe it was Taco Tuesday on Saturday here at the greasy spoon. At this point she didn’t care as long as she got fed. Miss Congeniality led her to a table.

      “What wines do you have by the glass?” As soon as the words left her mouth she realized the ridiculousness of it. “Never mind, I’ll just have a San Pellegrino. You do have that, right?”

      “All day long,” the СКАЧАТЬ