Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 a colander filled with vegetables.

      He slid it across the granite countertop. “What are you making?”

      “Spinach and cheese soufflé for breakfast and chicken stock to freeze.” She lifted her gaze and stared at his chest. “Do you ever wear a shirt?”

      “Not if I can help it. What’s wrong with your kitchen?”

      She snorted again. “You’re kidding me, right? Hand me that, please.” She pointed with her chin because her hands were full of chicken.

      He reached across the counter and handed her a box of kosher salt. There was fresh coffee and he got up to pour himself a cup. She had a knack for making herself at home. Since he planned to get a meal out of it, he wasn’t about to complain. But she couldn’t just come and go as she pleased in his apartment.

      “Why are you looking at me like that? Collecting information for your next exposé?”

      He laughed. “You’re a little obsessed with yourself. I write exposés about totalitarian governments that starve their people, drug cartels СКАЧАТЬ