Crazy in Love (Contemporary Romance) (Blue Lake Series)

by Kristin Miller

  CRAZY IN LOVE

  A Blue Lake Novel

  by Kristin Miller

  Other Titles by Kristin Miller

  Blue Lake Series

  When I Fall in Love

  One Sweet Day

  Crazy in Love

  Let Me Love You

  The Seattle Wolf Pack Series

  Gone with the Wolf

  Four Weddings and a Werewolf

  So I Married a Werewolf

  The Vampires of Crimson Bay Trilogy

  InterVamption

  Vamped Up

  Last Vamp Standing

  Isle of Feralon Series

  Claimed by Desire

  Forbidden by Fate

  Demand of the Dragon

  The Mermaid’s Mate

  Stand-alone Novels and Novellas

  Dark Tide Rising

  One Night to Remember

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Kristin Miller. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Cover design by Kim Killion of Hot Damn Design

  Chapter One

  Rachael McCoy had never rented the entire Blue Lake Historical Inn to a single person before. But a rock star like Cole Turner had never come to town, either.

  He was playing at StoneMill Winery Friday and Saturday night, from what she’d heard. She’d also heard he was voted “Rock Vocalist of the Year”, but hadn’t written a single song since he signed his first music contract. He was more of an entertainer than a musician, really—a music industry puppet with a pretty face and a hot body—and willing to sing anything for the right amount of money.

  At least that’s what the Google article said.

  If it was true, she couldn’t fault the guy. After all, the only reason she agreed to leave all the rooms in the inn vacant for the next four days was because he’d offered to pay a hefty sum of cash in exchange for privacy. She was in the middle of a massive inn expansion—the out-building to the east would soon have a few rooms with a separate living room and small kitchen. By letting Mr. Turner rent out the inn, she was making four times as much as she would’ve if the rooms were full of regular paying tenants.

  She stopped vacuuming the throw rug in the main living space and checked the clock.

  Five on the nose.

  Mr. Turner wasn’t scheduled to show up until eight, which gave Rachael plenty of time to stock up the fridge and make sure the rooms were still in order. She drove to SawMill Market just before dark, and picked up some basics that’d make a few solid meals.

  Cole Turner was on everyone’s lips.

  He’s staying at the inn for the next four days, and then driving to Lake Tahoe for a mid-week show at Harrah’s. Will he have extra tickets to the show? Will he be bringing his manager…I hear she’s a woman, a real looker.

  Refusing to get caught up in the gossip, Rachael rushed through the register, loaded up the back of her Rav4, and drove to the inn. She pulled into a tiny driveway on the side and parked near the back door. After she unloaded the groceries, she kicked the door shut, and paused…listening.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Suddenly, the upstairs shower faucet squeaked and water flushed through the pipes.

  The inn was not unfamiliar with light paranormal activity from time to time. No one had ever seen a ghost, but they rattled pipes, tweaked picture frames, and shook beds. This was different. There was a lingering scent on the air—saffron, cedar wood, and something heady—and a leather jacket thrown over the back of the couch.

  Someone was in the house.

  She’d locked up before she went to the store, and Mr. Turner’s manager said he’d call when they were getting close to Blue Lake. No calls. Doors still locked, the way she’d left them.

  Chills gathered at the nape of her neck. Yanking open the cabinet drawer, Rachael grabbed the biggest knife she could find, and gripped it tight.

  “Hello?” she called. “Hellloooo!”

  Footsteps overhead.

  Couldn’t be a thief. Thieves didn’t pass up televisions and radios to shower. Was it a bum? Some drunk on his way home from the brewery who broke into the wrong house?

  It had to be Mr. Turner. He must’ve arrived early. Looking out the front windows, she scanned the drive and sidewalk. No cars. No entourage. No groupies. Didn’t they still follow rock stars around?

  Even though the logical part of her thought Mr. Turner was upstairs, she’d seen enough horror movies to know that under no circumstances should she go check. Being hacked to pieces didn’t sound appealing.

  As she dug around in her purse for her phone, footsteps pounded overhead.

  “Holy fuck!” a man screamed from upstairs. “Cold! It’s fucking ice—cold!”

  Out of instinct, she ran to the first landing and yelled, “You have to let it warm up first!”

  More cursing blared from the direction of the bathroom.

  “Hello?” she called. “Excuse me!”

  “Coldcoldcoldcold.” Someone hopped around over the tile. “What the hell kind of place is this? Rita didn’t say shit about cold showers.”

  Definitely not a thief.

  She trudged up the stairs and stopped when she reached the top.

  “I’m going to kill her!” he hollered.

  Murderer, then.

  “Who’s there?” Her hands slickened with sweat and when she turned the corner into the hallway, the knife slipped from her fingers. She bent to pick it up, and when she stood upright, a man stood in the middle of the hallway…buck freaking naked. She gasped, averting her gaze, but she’d already seen enough. Rock hard body. Golden skin dripping wet. Hung like a horse.

  Wouldn’t get that sight out of her head for a while.

  “Rachael, I presume?” he said.

  She nodded, shielding her eyes from his manhood. “And you are?”

  “Not here to hurt you. You can put away the knife.”

  Wasn’t that what every killer would say to disarm a woman? She held it up, just in case.

  “Listen,” he said, covering his junk with his hands. “I’ve got a lot of flesh showing and you’re wielding a knife around. Those two don’t mesh. Why don’t you put that away so we can introduce ourselves properly? I’m Cole Turner, your guest for the next few days. I believe you were expecting me.”

  The worry in her mind eased, but her body remained tight. On high alert. “Rachael McCoy.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  He held out his hand, exposing himself.

  She yelped, covering her eyes once more. “There’s a robe hanging on the back of the door.”

  “Robes are for women.”

  She pinched her eyes shut, but images of his soaking wet bod kept flashing through her head. “Okay, then. Nice to meet you, Mr. Turner. I wasn’t expecting you until later, but everything should already be good to go. I’m going to start dinner—it should be sexy in about an hour if you want to meet downstairs in the dining room.”

  “Sexy?”

  She blocked the lower half of his body with her hand and met his honey-brown eyes. They were narrowed. Hungry. Like a predator eyeing its prey.

  “Excuse me?” she said, repressing a shiver.

  “You said dinner should be sexy in an hour.”

  “No, I said it’d be ready.”

  He nodded, smirking. “My mistake.”

  “I can
show you around the place, if you’d like,” she said, her face flushing hot, “or you can check it out yourself. There are five bedrooms upstairs, and four downstairs, one bathroom on each level.”

  “I saw that,” he grumbled. “I also noticed the freezing cold water. Does it ever get warm, or do I have to bathe in a glacier every morning?”

  “You have to let it run for a few minutes first.” She started down the stairs, fighting the urge to steal one more glance at his body. “And you probably won’t have much hot water when it warms up, so I suggest you bathe quickly.”

  “Thanks for the tip. And, hey, sorry about scaring you. The side door to the den was open and I was filthy. I didn’t think you’d mind if I showered.”

  Filthy. Oh yeah, he was probably dirty to the core.

  Something deep in her belly squirmed excitedly at the thought.

  “No problem,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She’d completely forgotten to ask him about how he’d gotten in.

  When she reached the first floor, the air whooshed out of her lungs and her legs wobbled. She nearly collapsed against the wall, laughing from her body’s reaction to this man. He oozed raw sex appeal. Not only from his body—though good gracious, she’d never seen a man with so many muscles—but from his caramel-colored eyes, the subtle pout of his bottom lip, the way he stood in front of her buck naked with more confidence than she had fully dressed.

  Don’t get involved.

  He’s staying less than a week.

  She had steadfast rules about these things: no sleeping with guests. It never panned out well. Single men who stayed at the inn had propositioned her more times than she could count. They wanted flings over their vacations, something to go home and tell their buddies about. They promised to call, swore to come back and visit.

  They never did. Not one of them.

  Cole Turner may’ve flustered her, but she was over it…she had to be.

  Chapter Two

  The innkeeper was one hot piece.

  Who would’ve thought?

  Cole slicked back his hair, dabbed on some cologne, and checked himself in the mirror. He’d planned on going out tonight, seeing what Blue Lake had to offer in the women department, but now…he was going to stay right where he was.

  Convenient.

  Did Rita scope this place out before booking it? She probably thought she could keep him out of the bars and questionable pictures off the Internet by reserving somewhere with a hot host.

  As the tour moved along, she was getting better and better at her job. He’d have to give her a raise.

  Making his way downstairs, Cole scoped out the place where he’d be spending the next few days. The walls were painted cigar-brown with wood accents and long, draping curtains. In the living room, a large stone hearth was surrounded by leather chairs and couches, lending to the cozy cabin feel. Down the stairs and to the left, a hallway branched off—to the four bedrooms she mentioned, he supposed—and to the right, an entryway led to a large dining room. Five tables and chairs provided ample space for guests to dine; it was probably hopping in the summer.

  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, leani
ng 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.”