Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ back to the kitchen.

      She returned a short time later with Gina’s San Pellegrino and a tall, frosty glass of something else. “My husband told me to tell you this is on the house.”

      Her husband? Gina craned her neck around the large woman to see if there was a man behind her.

      “In the kitchen,” the woman said and rolled her eyes. “It’s our homemade sarsaparilla.”

      Aha, she was the owner. Gina was about to thank her for the drink when someone at the table next door beckoned the woman over. Laney, they called her.

      Gina was used to getting comped at restaurants. Everyone wanted something from a FoodFlicks star. A feature spot on the show, product placement, or just to rub elbows with a celebrity. But here, in her disguise, no one knew her from Adam.

      Gina took a sip, not expecting much. And then pow! It was amazingly good. Better than any wannabe sarsaparillas she’d ever tasted, which had mostly been root beer with a hint of licorice. This, though, had notes of vanilla and caramel and a touch of wintergreen. No artificial flavors were used, according to her taste buds, which were usually right on the mark. Just real sarsaparilla root. There was a nice even balance between bitter and sweet.

      She took a few more sips to make sure the heat and thirst hadn’t tricked her into believing the homemade concoction was better than it truly was. But after draining half her glass she came to the same conclusion: the sarsaparilla was a home run.

      And smart.

      It was the perfect drink for a Southern-style diner with a decidedly cowboy vibe. She hadn’t been in the food biz for more than a decade to not recognize the marketing genius of it, especially if the restaurant catered to tourists. And judging from the crowd, it did.

      Complimentary sarsaparillas for everyone who walks in the door to set the mood and a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop becomes a destination restaurant.

      Laney returned. “What’ll you have?”

      “What’s the house specialty?”

      “Everything here is special, but we’re most famous for our chicken and waffles.”

      “I’ll have that and a side of collard greens. The sarsaparilla was amazing, by the way.”

      Laney didn’t bother to write down the order in her notebook; she was too busy giving Gina side-eye. “If you think those sunglasses and hat are working, you’re crazy in the head. I knew you were Gina DeRose the minute you walked in, though you’re skinnier in real life. I guess what they say about the camera adding ten pounds is true.” Her eyes skimmed Gina’s chest and she tsk-tsked. “You check yourself into that rehab facility down the road or are you staying with the Dalton boys?”

      Boys? If Laney was referring to Sawyer, he was no boy. Not even close.

      She took in a deep breath and slowly glanced around the restaurant, worried that everyone in the place had also made her. “Shush,” she told Laney and motioned for her to sit down. “Rehab? What in heavens for?”

      Laney arched one dark brow. “Sex addiction.”

      “Give me a break. Does everyone know who I am?”

      “Jimmy Ray didn’t believe me when I told him, but I can’t speak for everyone else. Did Dan and Wendy send you here to hide?”

      Dan must’ve been Dry Creek’s success story. According to Wendy, he grew up in this godforsaken town. It stood to reason that everyone here knew him.

      She gave a slight nod. “Are you planning to rat me out?” Tabloid reporters would pay Laney good money for Gina’s location.

      “Not if you give me your recipe for that strawberry shortcake you’re famous for.”

      The cake mix was one of Gina’s top-selling items. It was 100 percent organic and just required eggs, milk instead of water (a trick to add density, fat, and flavor) and, of course, strawberries. Last year, they’d cut a deal with Whole Foods to double the grocer’s order. The secret was putting mascarpone in the cream frosting (sold separately) and flavoring the berries with a bottle of Gina DeRose basil syrup. Everyone from Martha Stewart to two first ladies had begged her for the recipe to make the cake from scratch.

      “You’re blackmailing me?” Gina continued to peer around the dining room to see if anyone else had identified her yet. What was she thinking coming out in public? That was her problem: She let her impulsiveness be her guide.

      From now on she vowed to stay on the ranch and order everything she needed from the internet.

      “You bet I am,” Laney said.

      “I’ll trade you for the sarsaparilla recipe.” At least Gina could do something with that.

      “Not on your life, sugar.” Laney got to her feet. “I’ll put in your order.”

      Gina deliberated on whether to cancel dinner and hightail it back to the log shack from hell. In the end, she decided she was too hungry to drive. Besides, the smell of fried chicken had hypnotized her.

      While waiting, she took in the crowd. Definitely not a Saturday-night scene in Los Angeles. No designer clothes, just a lot of cowboy hats and boots. If she had to guess, the tourists up for a weekend in Gold Country were the diners in shorts and T-shirts.

      Occasionally, 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 СКАЧАТЬ