Lucky 7 Bad Boys Contemporary Romance Boxed Set

by Pineiro, Charity

As he made his way through the dining room, the smell of garlic and pepper struck him hard. His stomach growled.

  “What’s that smell?” he said, striding into the kitchen.

  Rachael jumped and spun from the sink. “Umm…steak and eggs.”

  “Did I scare you again?”

  “You took me off guard, that’s all.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Guests usually wait in the dining room for me to serve them.”

  He pointed to a small table near the front window. “Can’t we eat here?”

  She stared, her hands fidgeting in front of her. “I don’t dine with guests.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “When people go on vacation, they don’t particularly want to eat with the wait staff.”

  “I get that,” he said, laughing. “But I don’t like eating alone, and since I’m the only person here, I think this table will work.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re used to getting everything you want, aren’t you?”

  He winked. “You nailed it.”

  What he wouldn’t give to nail her. Right against the counter, on the table and floor. Untie that apron and let it fall. He couldn’t help but let his gaze wander from her silky gold hair, to her full breasts, to the dip in her waist.

  As a smile turned her lips upward, she turned back to the grill and started flipping. Oh, she felt the attraction, too. Only she didn’t want to let him know it.

  “How was the drive up?” she said, her voice tight.

  “Sucked hard.”

  He slid into the chair near the window and peered out. The glass was fogged, but the condensation raining down allowed him to see the cobblestone street and wood-planked sidewalks. Three iron posts stuck out of the gutter…in case he wanted to tie up his horse. Looked like the town hadn’t changed much since the early 1800’s. “Our SUV blew a tire. No one knew how to fix it. Know what it’s like to slide on your back through the mud on the side of a busy highway?”

  She tossed a fat steak on the plate next to the grill. “You changed the tire?”

  “Don’t believe me?”

  “You don’t strike me as the tire-changing type.” She set the plate in front of him. “But what do I know?”

  “I suppose I should be thankful the flat wasn’t on the tour bus. We’d probably still be stuck out there.”

  He dug in immediately. The meat was juicy and tender, seasoned perfectly. And the eggs—she hadn’t asked how he liked them, but they were scrambled with cheese and peppers. The food was hearty, warming him from the inside out. He’d been on a chicken, fish and vegetable diet for the last three months; maybe that’s why the food tasted like sin on a plate.

  “Delicious,” he mumbled between bites.

  “Thanks,” she grinned, and her entire face lit up. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got Pepsi, water, beer.”

  “Beer would be great.”

  She popped the top and slid it over, and then made a second plate. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Okay, then. Enjoy.”

  As she strode past him into the dining room, Cole continued to shove his face…until he realized she wasn’t coming back. He took his plate and beer and walked into the dining room.

  Empty.

  He found her in the living room sitting in one of the chairs in front of the fire, her plate in her lap.

  “What are you doing?” he said, sitting in the chair across from her.

  “I don’t know what they call it in Hollywood…” She took a dainty bite without looking at him. “…but around these parts, we call it eating.”

  “I asked you to sit with me in the kitchen.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I did, I said…” He replayed the words in his head. He’d said he didn’t want to eat alone, that the table would be fine. Damn it. “…mind if I sit out here with you?”

  She shook her head, keeping those light brown eyes focused on her plate.

  “Who else works here?” he asked, as the fire crackled with warmth.

  “Just me.”

  “You run this place by yourself?”

  “Don’t believe me?” she mocked.

  “Touché.” He clinked his beer against the side of her plate and then took a long swig. “How long have you lived in Blue Lake?”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “My entire life. I was raised not far from here. My parents owned the inn before me, and my grandparents before them.”

  “Family business. Nice.” He finished off his plate and then set it on the table next to him. “Nobody in my family could sing. At least not that I knew of, but it’s too late to ask anyone about it now.”

  She put down her fork and stared to say something, but stopped herself short.

  “So what should I call you?” he asked, leaning back in the chair. “Mrs. McCoy?”

  The corner of her lip turned into a smile. “Rachael is fine.”

  She didn’t answer his question. Not really.

  “Are you married, Rachael?”

  “No.” She sawed off a large bite of meat.

  “Surprising.”

  She glared, chewing slowly.

  “Ever been?”

  “Not that I recall.” She pursed her lips. “You?”

  A deep laugh bubbled out of him. “I’m about the farthest from married that I could get. But if I found the right woman, I wouldn’t be opposed to settling down. At some point I’m going to tire of living on the road, and wouldn’t mind having a wife and a few children to welcome me home.”

  Wasn’t a total lie. He did want to settle down someday, just not anytime soon. He was in the middle of building a career, of becoming a legend. At least that’s what his manager and recording label kept telling him. As long as he kept singing the songs they wanted him to sing, he was rocking down the right road.

  “Is that right?” she said, setting her plate at her feet. “I bet you could see yourself in a place like this. Snow falling outside the window. Feet kicked up in front of the fire. Dinner hot on the stove. A woman curled up beside you as you strum your newest song on the guitar.”

  His chest warmed at the picture she’d painted in his head. That sounded like heaven. Absolute perfection.

  She scooted to the edge of her chair and leaned in close. She smelled like a mouth-watering blend of steak and peppercorn, smothered over something softer. Was it vanilla? She was downright edible.

  “I have you tell you Mr. Turner, that you’re not the first man to walk into the inn and have that vision. You ain’t the first, and you won’t be the last. You’re a guest for the next few days, and I’m here to take care of whatever you need. But if you think you’re going to sit there and sweet talk me, acting like I don’t know what kind of player you are, you’re sorely mistaken.” She stood, and stacked the plates. “I’ve read the magazines and I know all about the women you leave in your wake. I don’t plan on being one of them. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  As she stormed out of the room, Cole went rigid, muscle to bone.

  Ooh, the blood lurched through his veins now. No woman had ever stood up to him that way before. They were usually falling all over themselves, smiling ear to ear, leaning on his shoulder and playfully bumping him in the arm. He’d never been turned down. Never been denied when he’d wanted something.

  This woman had fire, shutting down his advances before he’d had a chance to really lay on the charm.

  Little did she know, there was nothing he loved more than a challenge.

  Chapter Three

  Rachael awoke at five o’clock, ten minutes before her alarm clock went off. Tiptoeing down the hall so she wouldn’t wake her guest, Rachael showered quickly, and then dressed in jeans and a deep-red sweater with a slouching neckline. She pulled her back into a ponytail, drew on coffee-colored eyeliner and swiped lip-gloss over her lips.

  As she slipped downstairs, Rachael couldn’t get over how quiet it was. Although she a
lways woke up before the guests, she could usually hear them stirring by the time she headed downstairs.

  Not a single peep sounded from Cole’s room.

  She got to work as usual, pulling out the electric frying pan and starting it up. She prepped the food: bacon and sausage, eggs and English muffins. Pouring a cup of coffee, Rachael sat down in front of the kitchen window. She sipped slowly and watched the sun rise, feeling delicious warmth radiate through her.

  Guests usually came downstairs once they smelled bacon. Didn’t matter what time it was.

  Cole’s sniffer must’ve been broken.

  As she looked out the window over the sink and poured herself a second cup of coffee, two blacked-out Tahoes jerked to a stop at the curb. People filed out of every door. Opened up the back of the SUV’s. Stomped up the porch. Pounded on the front door.

  It was a damn three-ring circus.

  “Good morning,” she said to the burly man standing on the stoop. His hair was jet black, his eyes icy blue. “I assume you’re looking for Cole Turner.”

  “Where should we put his things?”

  “What…things?”

  A string of people swept past her, charging into the house. Within seconds, speakers, instruments, and long, black duffle bags cluttered the living room floor.

  A thirty-something woman in a tight red dress entered after everyone else, carrying nothing but an iPad.

  “I’m Rita Flint, Cole’s manager,” she said, extending her hand. “I believe I spoke with you on the phone when I made the reservation.”

  “Yes, nice to meet you.” Rachael took her hand, shook. “I’m Rachael McCoy.”

  “Rachael.” The woman eyed her from her slippers to her sweater, and then smiled. “I think Cole’s going to do fabulously here.”

  What did her appearance have to do with how Cole would enjoy the inn? She must’ve missed something.

  “How’d he sleep?” Rita asked.

  “Wouldn’t know.” Rachael shrugged. “He’s not up yet.”

  “Not up?” She snapped to the burly guy who’d knocked on the door. “Bronx! Get him moving! We’ve got to be at StoneMill in ten!”

  After Rachael directed Bronx to Cole’s room, she turned her attention back to Rita who strolled through the living room, checking out the old-timey pictures hanging on the walls.

  “What is all this stuff?” Rachael asked, weaving around boxes.

  Rita laughed. “Cole’s necessities. His guitars and—”

  “Guitars, plural? How many can he play at once?”

  “One, but there are different guitars needed for different sounds and songs. That one over there is his personal favorite, and the blue case holds the bedazzled one that matches his final outfit. We always say he should leave them in the van with the other instruments, but he insists on keeping them with him.”

  Talk about high-maintenance.

  Absentmindedly, Rachael wondered if Cole was the one who required the outfits and guitars, or whether that was his manager’s doing.

  “The other boxes are his clothes, boots, and personal items. He carts those three boxes everywhere. A word to the wise,” she said, leaning close. “I wouldn’t touch those. He won’t let anyone see what’s inside, and he gets temperamental if he thinks you’re going to check ‘em out. It shouldn’t be a problem dropping his things here, seeing as I reserved the entire inn for Cole. Am I mistaken?”

  “No.” Rachael knelt in front of the fire and threw a couple logs in. “You’re not mistaken. He can keep as many boxes here as he needs.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Rita said from behind her. “I think this place will give him the space he needs to clear his head for this tour. He’ll need quiet and focus. Especially after what happened in Houston.”

  “What happened in—”

  In the upstairs bathroom, a faucet squeaked and Cole screamed.

  Rachael stifled a laugh. Three men ran up the stairs—bodyguards, she assumed from their leather jackets and headpieces. Rita yanked her cell out of her pocket as if she was going to call the police. Heavy footsteps rained over their heads.

  “Everything okay up there?” Rita hollered, leaning over the banister.

  “We’re clear!” Bronx answered.

  Rita put her phone away as Cole’s guards stomped down the stairs. It probably wasn’t the best time to jump back into a conversation about what happened in Houston, or why his manager wanted to keep him somewhere quiet.

  “So where are the rest of you staying?” Rachael asked, twisting up newspaper and throwing it into the hearth.

  Rita sighed. “Blue Lake Motel. Would it kill you guys to put up a Hilton?”

  It would actually, yes. The town prided itself on small, mom-and-pop shops and the ability to keep big businesses out of the area.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” Rachael asked, waiting for the fire to light.

  Rita shook her head, and for the next thirty minutes, she asked a ton of questions about Blue Lake, the hotel, winery, and the Big Box stores they refused to let in. When Rachael mentioned they didn’t have a mall, Rita paled. Rachael covered a laugh by taking a long drink of her coffee.

  Cole traipsed down the stairs, his entourage behind him. He’d dressed in dark-washed jeans, combat boots, and a long-sleeve T-Shirt with the Rolling Stones mouth printed on it.

  “You’re late,” Rita said, jabbing a finger at her iPad. “I’ll call StoneMill and let them know we’re on our way.” She kinked her head, looking irritated. “Apparently, they’ve dropped off the face of the earth. They’re not listed in Yelp.”

  “Morning, Rachael,” Cole said, his voice deep and velvety.

  Her stomach fluttered and she tried to hide her smile with her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Turner. Did you sleep well?”

  “I slept alone,” he said flatly, and then sniffed toward the kitchen. “Dude, what’s that smell? Is that…sausage?”

  “Bacon and eggs, too.” She started toward the kitchen. “Want a plate to take with you?”

  Holding a hand to his stomach, he growled. He actually growled. “That sounds—“

  “No time!” Rita grabbed him by the arm and tried to drag him toward the front door. “Ms. McCoy, you wouldn’t happen to have a phone book, would you? The winery’s not listed.”

  “Lucy Stone’s cell is 209-555-6956,” she answered.

  Rita stopped, stared. “How do you know that off the top of your head?”

  “Lucy’s a great friend of mine.”

  Cole grinned. “Perfect. Rita, take the crew to the winery and I’ll meet you there.”

  “And how exactly are you getting there?” Rita spat.

  As he stood at Rachael’s side, she picked up hints of his aftershave, crisp and spicy. “She’ll make me a plate, and take me over in her car. I’ll eat while she drives.”

  Demanding, much?

  “You do have a car, don’t you?” he asked, looking down at her.

  “Oh, I can get you to the winery.” She nodded. “It’ll only take me an hour to water the horses and ready the carriage.”

  He smirked, but no one else in the room seemed amused.

  “Fine,” Rita said, “but we had things to discuss on the drive over.”

  “We’ll talk later.” His gaze caught Rachael’s. “You don’t mind dropping me off, do you?”

  Yes, I totally mind.

  “No, I had to head out of the house anyway,” she said. “But I’m just dropping you off. I can’t stay. I’ve got errands to run this morning and work to do around here this afternoon.”

  “Perfect,” he said, and the intensity of his gaze started to burn.

  Rachael disappeared into the kitchen and breathed deeply. The air was cooler in here, thank goodness. She made Cole a plate and cleaned up the breakfast mess. Out the window, his entourage hopped back into their cars. Rita caught Rachael staring, and glared, slamming the door shut behind her. Rachael had just finished putting away the last dish when she felt Cole’s presence behind he
r.

  “You should’ve gone with them,” she said.

  “Nah.” He stole a piece of bacon off the plate she was moving to the fridge, and chomped off a huge bite. “When in Rome, you should cruise around town with people from Rome, right?”

  “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, but something tells me you wouldn’t care anyway.” She dried off her hands, and then grabbed her coat and keys. “You ready?”

  He nodded. “Lead the way, gorgeous.”

  She stopped, her chest tingling with warmth. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “All right, Miss Rachael McCoy,” he said with a wink and a show-stopping smile. “Show me the way to your carriage.”

  This was going to be the week from hell. Not because she hated the way Cole Turner talked to her, or the way he looked at her.

  But because she liked those things too much.

  Chapter Four

  They drove forever. Okay, they drove thirty minutes southeast, but every bend looked the same—trees, rocks, rivers, wash, rinse and repeat—which made the minutes drag by. Cole thought they’d never reach the winery. The only reason he didn’t demand to be taken back to his room was because Rachael, the beauty he couldn’t figure out, sat beside him.

  She was stunning. Soft eyes, dark lashes that batted against pale pink cheeks, and a set of heart-shaped lips that he wanted to press his against. She was thin and toned, yet she didn’t look skeletal, like she’d stab him for a steak.

  The thing was, women like Rachael McCoy were usually all over him by now.

  He hadn’t slept a wink last night, and it was all her fault. It was only the two of them in that big inn, and she slept a few doors down…close enough that she should’ve been knocking on his door in the middle of the night for a quick romp. Every hour that ticked by, he checked the clock. Listened for footsteps to thump down the hall.

  And somehow, every single agonizing hour, he’d been let down. If it wasn’t for the thought of Rachael kicking him out and making a scene—and Rita freaking out for creating yet another problem during the tour—he would’ve knocked on her door.

  But he hadn’t.

  Tonight would be different. Tonight, she’d beg him to come to bed with her. He’d up his game and she’d be putty in his hands.