Meant to Be is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2017 by Maggie McGinnis
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9781101967799
Cover photograph: Alan Poulson Photography/Shutterstock (couple), Givaga/Adobe Stock (background)
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Maggie McGinnis
About the Author
Chapter 1
Shelby eyed the funeral buffet, wondering what the tabloids would say if she took the tablecloth and gave it a big yank right now…wondering what all of that fine bone china would sound like as it shattered on the marble floor.
She thought it might make a very satisfying noise, actually.
“My father despised caviar,” she said.
“The guests expect it.” Nicola patted her carefully on the arm, like she was crystal with a fatal crack.
Shelby turned around, taking in the sea of black suits, black dresses, sparkling jewelry, and red—oh, so red—lipsticks. It all hurt her eyes, and not just because she’d been crying for days.
Conversation was muted, and servers darted skillfully between little groups of people, doling out champagne and crudités while they gathered empty glasses. Half the crowd had left from the church. Another quarter had fled straight from the cemetery. This remaining group of two hundred people apparently considered themselves family.
“Daddy would hate this,” she whispered, her chin quivering like she was five years old. “Please tell them to leave.”
“I wish I could. I really do. But we need to let people pay their respects.”
“Why? They didn’t lose him. I did.” Shelby knew the words sounded childish and illogical, but that didn’t help her rein them in.
“They’re just trying to show their support for you.”
“Bullshit. They’re just trying to be seen. How many press passes did you issue to this family-only reception, Nic? Because I see at least ten photographers trying to pretend they’re not taking pictures.”
“Shelby.” Nicola’s sculpted eyebrows shot upward, sending a dart of guilt straight to Shelby’s stomach.
But as she saw a flash, the guilt got quickly buried by anger.
She turned to face Nic. “Did you invite them? Or did LolliPop?”
Just saying the name of her record company made her tongue feel swollen and prickly, and she lifted her water glass to her lips, just to be sure she could still swallow.
“Shelby.” Nic defied gravity with her damn eyebrows as she took Shelby’s elbow and headed for a quiet corner. Of all the spots in their Nashville mansion, Daddy had hated this cavernous room—with its sky-high ceilings and gleaming floor—most. He’d preferred his music room, with the big, cushy couches, coffee stains on the tables, and windows that looked out toward nothing but grass and trees. “You need to hold it together. Just another hour, and we’ll be finished.”
“I don’t know these people, Nicola.” Shelby eyed the crowd as they stood in their funeral best. Had most of them even known his music? Had they known him? They were in his house. They were looking at personal family portraits on the walls. They were eating, talking, smiling…laughing.
Laughing.
The center of her world was gone, and they were laughing.
Prickles crept up her spine, and she braced herself for the cold wash of panic that inevitably followed. For a full week now, when she hadn’t been sobbing, she’d been shivering. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman swimming through a fog of managers and publicists and fans, but she’d never felt more like an abandoned child.
Her father’s real inner circle had stood close by at the funeral home last night. They’d called and texted and visited his house when she’d arrived from Vegas. They’d closed ranks and held tissues and rubbed her back as she’d cried and thrown her shoes at the television, which just wouldn’t stop showing photos of the wreckage of his plane…wouldn’t stop circling the Country Music Legend Dead banner along the bottom.
They’d left after the graveside service because they knew how to show respect. And it wasn’t by standing around in a house he’d never wanted, in a room decorated by an expensive designer, while eating fish eggs and drinking bubbly wine he never would have touched.
She just wanted to go. She didn’t even know where she would go, but her whole body tingled with the need to flee this damn room.
But Nicola was in charge here. Nicola was in charge every-freaking-where. Always had been, since Shelby’s sixteenth birthday. The day Shelby’d signed with LolliPop, Nic had been at the table, all tight smile and icy hands. And when the record company head had led Shelby around the small welcome reception afterward, Nic had actually looked pained when he’d introduced her as Shelby’s new assistant-slash-publicist.
In the beginning, Shelby had fought her on things like wardrobe choices and publicity photo choices and interview choices and song choices. But it hadn’t taken long to figure out that choice was an empty word. Nicola was just another puppet of LolliPop, dressed up in a fake-friendly package, and it was easier for both of them if Shelby just stopped fighting. And twelve pop-and-glitter years later, their roles were firmly established. If Nicola said, “Jump,” the only acceptable response was, “How high?”
Shelby closed her eyes as the din of conversation grew louder. The caterers had moved furniture every which way to make room for the food tables, and the clack of heels on marble was giving her a migraine.
“I’m going upstairs to lie down,” she said, but before she could turn toward the wide, curving stairway, Nicola grabbed her arm.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Nicola took a deep breath. “Because you need to be seen.”
“Why? Why do I need to be seen?”
“You just…do, okay? Trust me on this.”
Shelby set her jaw at Nicola’s tone, even while internally, she knew her assistant was right. She’d been giving Shelby orders for twelve years now. She was good at it.
And what was Shelby good at? Taking those orders. Playing the game. Dressing up in glitter when she’d rather be in denim. Rocking to a pop beat when a country twang filled her bones instead. Singing to a stadium of strangers when all she’d wanted was her guitar, some friends, and a roadside coffeehouse.<
br />
And Daddy.
She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to unclench her hands as she blew it out slowly. Yes, she’d played other people’s games for twelve years. She could do it now. Just a little while longer, and then she could let her knees give way, once the photographers had left.
“That’s my girl.” Nicola fake-tender-smiled as she pretended to wipe away a tear from Shelby’s cheek.
Obviously someone from the press was watching. Nicola always knew where they were.
Shelby took a deep breath and turned back toward the crowd. “Thirty minutes. And then they have to go. I swear, Nic. I’ll start throwing things.”
“Now, honey.” Nicola tucked a strand of hair behind Shelby’s ear. “You’re not that girl. Come on. Let’s go talk to Graham Foster. We need you to thank him for coming.”
Nicola took her hand, and like a marionette, Shelby followed.
It was what she did best.
—
Two hours later, Shelby tiptoed downstairs, drawn by the clanking of dishes and cutlery. The guests had left, Nicola right on their heels, and finally, after hours of chaos, the only other humans left in this monstrosity of a house were the caterers.
She stepped into the great room, where two women in white uniforms were boxing champagne flutes and carrying them out the back door. The buffet table still had a stack of unused china on it, and when a server headed for the table, she put up a hand.
“Please. Could you leave those?”
“Ma’am?” He tipped his head, confused.
“The dishes. And the tablecloth. Could you please…leave them?” She heard the tinge of panic in her voice, but couldn’t make it go away. “I’ll pay. Whatever they cost, just bill me.”
“Are you sure? We’re supposed to take down the tables.”
“I’ll have them returned to you. I just need this to be over with. Please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He looked at her for a long moment, and she was struck by how the silver strands in his hair reminded her of Daddy’s. “I’m sorry for your loss. I was a big fan of your father.”
And then everyone was gone, rounded up by a silent signal, and Shelby was left to stare at what remained. One table, five china plates, four crystal flutes.
She walked toward the table, drawn like a heroine in a horror film, and she lifted a corner of the cloth. She let it slide between her thumb and forefinger, felt the high thread count, appreciated the tiny, intricate design woven into the fibers. She picked up one of the plates, marveling at how the sunset’s light almost shone through its delicate porcelain shell, a muted rainbow where there was no rain but her tears. She set it down carefully on its pile—wondering, wishing, wanting.
And then she took the tablecloth in both hands and gave a mighty yank.
She’d been right.
It did make a very satisfying sound.
—
“You want me to babysit a celebrity?” A week later, Cooper Davis looked up from the trail ride schedule he was working on in the Whisper Creek tack room. The Montana sunrise was seeping through the barn windows, and usually, this was his favorite time of day.
“Not babysit, Cooper. More like—you know—be a buddy sort of thing.” Kyla Driscoll, one of the owners of the ranch, tried to hide her legendary clipboard behind her back as she leaned on the doorframe. Shit. He must be one of the checkboxes on today’s list, but she was trying to play it all casual.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t follow.”
“We have a—yes—celebrity arriving tomorrow. Her assistant called yesterday, looking for the perfect spot, and good news! We’re the perfect spot!”
Cooper tipped his head, confused. Granted, he’d only been here for a few months, but Whisper Creek was a dude ranch designed for families and singles—normal people, not famous ones.
“Are we getting into the celeb business now?” His cop brain kicked in, wondering if Kyla had processed all of the security angles involved with having a public figure wandering around this ranch. Did she have any idea what a nightmare this could be?
“No. I mean, not really. But we’ve got the two new cabins, so it kind of worked out perfectly. She’s a star who needs a quiet getaway, and we have—you know—the perfect getaway spot.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head?”
“Have you ever had a celebrity here, Kyla?”
“No, but that’s okay. We can do it.”
“Is she bringing a security team?”
Kyla shook her head. “No. Just her.”
“No security?” Cooper pulled off his Stetson, which suddenly felt claustrophobic. Some Hollywood assistant was booking her movie-star princess into a Montana ranch, without even a bodyguard? Who did that anymore?
But wait. Did Kyla think he—?
“What kind of celebrity?”
“I’m not exactly sure.” Kyla shrugged like she was embarrassed. “Details were a little…sketchy. But it’ll be fine! I’m sure it’ll be great!”
Cooper frowned at her childlike optimism. His own optimism bone had been shaved thin by years of human razors, but that was his problem. He knew it was unfair to make it hers.
“So is buddy a code for bodyguard?”
“No. Her assistant didn’t ask for anything like that.”
“But you’re smart? So you realized that maybe her assistant was being a little shortsighted, sending her to a ranch full of strangers who might or might not be completely insane and/or murderous?”
“Cooper? Did you tipple the moonshine for breakfast?”
“No, but I might have to find some for lunch.” He shook his head. “She seriously wants to send her star here without any security? Did you have to promise to keep her undercover? How would we possibly do that here?”
“I wasn’t asked for any promises of the sort.” Kyla’s chin came up, and he knew he was treading on thin ice. “We have a perfect, empty cabin where she can stay hidden away for as long as she wants, and I found the perfect—albeit extremely grumpy—person to keep her company if she wants some.”
“Charming.” He closed his eyes. “Just curious—how’d I pull the short straw on this one?”
She smiled. “No straws. You’re the perfect guy for the job. So? I gave you the job. And really? You’re going to thank me. I took you off the guest schedule for the entire month. You get to move into Buttercup, put your feet up, and hang out with a celebrity. You scored prime real estate, along with a cushy assignment.”
“A month?”
“I didn’t mention that part?”
“No. You really didn’t.”
She shrugged. “My bad. But—honeymoon cabin!”
“No offense, Kyla, but I think our definitions of prime real estate might be a little different.”
“You’re missing the part about hanging with a celebrity.”
“Trying.” He rolled his eyes. “Why is she coming? Do we know that?”
Kyla’s smile fell a little. “Sounds like something happened, and she needs to go invisible for a little while.”
Cooper crossed his arms. “Something happened is a pretty big red flag, don’t you think?”
“Not necessarily. But it might be why I put the only officer I know on the short list for this position.”
“I’m not an officer anymore, Kyla.”
“I know.” Kyla nodded. “But you were. And those skills didn’t go away when you turned in your badge. Hopefully she just needs a month of peace and quiet to help her get her head together, but if there’s something else going on, I know you’re the right guy to have close by her, okay?”
Cooper’s gut buzzed at her misplaced trust. He really, really didn’t want this assignment. There was a reason he’d turned in that badge. Quite a few of them, to be honest.
“So are we good?” She pulled the clipboard out from behind her, using her teeth to pull the cap off her pen.
He closed his eyes in pain. “Not sure I want to know the answer t
o this, but does your husband know you’ve taken me off guest duty? For an entire month?”
“Yep. But if it makes you feel any better, he argued for quite a long time. Decker isn’t so fond of me reallocating employees.” Kyla made a check mark. Then she flipped a couple of pages, made another check mark, and looked back up at him, not even bothering to hide a brief, satisfied smile. “So let’s get you moved into Buttercup this afternoon. That way, you’ll be settled in before she gets here tomorrow. We can work on your cover story and stuff tonight.”
“Why do I need a cover story?”
Kyla giggled at whatever pained expression he was apparently making. “Because I don’t want her to know you’re her hired buddy-slash-pseudo-bodyguard. For the next month, you’re just an average guy staying here at Whisper Creek.”
“In a honeymoon cabin? All by myself?”
“This is why we need a cover story.”
Cooper closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t think I like any part of this plan.”
“But you’ll do it?”
“Are you actually giving me a choice?”
“Not really. But I hate telling people what to do.” She smiled, raising her eyebrows in warning. “Don’t even grace that with a response, please.”
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t speak.
“Thatta boy.”
He looked at her. “I’m taking my chair. If you’re moving me to some girlie hearts-and-flowers cabin, you can at least let me take my chair.”
“That chair on the bunkhouse porch?” She cringed. “With the ratty arms and stuffing coming out the back?”
“Yep.”
“No.”
“Then no deal. I’m not moving into that honeymoon cabin without my chair.” He crossed his arms, knowing he looked like a four-year-old. But seriously, she had to give him something here.
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