by Jill Shalvis
“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza,” she said, working hard at ignoring all the stares she was getting now that her back was turned to the room. Her spine tingled from all the blatant interest.
What was that about? Did she look like she was from Mars? She felt like it here, surrounded by nothing but dust and heat. She was used to Los Angeles, the land of palm trees, coconuts and friendly faces.
The waitress, an older woman with a huge gray bun piled precariously on top of her head, put her hands on her substantial hips—emphasized by that not quite subtle uniform—and gave Holly a serious once-over.
“Who’s asking? Because if you’re the I.R.S.—”
“No, I’m Holly Stone.”
“And that name should mean something to me?”
“I’m here because Mr. and Mrs. Stone, my parents, sent for me to run this place for them as a favor to their maid, and her parents, the Mendozas, until it’s sold.”
“You’re Mr. and Mrs. Stone’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
The waitress burst out laughing and Holly cast a glance heavenward. She was used to this, at least. All her life people had been amused by the total and complete lack of things in common between her and her parents.
Just another fluke of fate. Her parents were doctors and had spent their entire lives helping others. Their latest charitable act had been to urge their housekeeper’s parents to retire early, before this hole in the wall sold, so the couple could get their first break in nearly thirty years of working.
Holly’s two older sisters had followed in her parents’ footsteps and were currently bringing immunizations to some tribe in Africa, otherwise they would have come here instead. They always helped out. Oh, and then there was her brother. He hadn’t wasted his life doing anything selfish, either. No, as a brain surgeon, he was the pride and joy of her family, one who certainly couldn’t be expected to take the time to serve omelettes in this godforsaken southwestern town.
And what had Holly become?
The screwup.
At that moment, and just to brighten her already oh-so-bright day, the sheriff strolled in the front door. He was the picture of the American cowboy; jeans faded and soft from constant use, scuffed boots, hat shoved back on his head to show a face tanned and rugged from long days in the sun. She doubted he’d shaved that morning, doubted even more that his wayward, thick, light-brown hair had seen a comb.
He had a calmness about him, and seemed very different from the men she was used to, men who spoke just to be heard, men who were into how they looked, how they sounded.
And yet despite his easy air, there was a wildness, a toughness to him, a sense that he was always poised for action.
Oh, and he was gorgeous. Seriously gorgeous, with all that out-of-control sun-kissed brown hair, even browner sinful eyes and a smile meant to make a woman’s knees weak—if a woman was so inclined. Which Holly wasn’t.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like men, but more that she didn’t trust them, not with anything important anyway. The sheriff’s easy, long-legged stride might exude charm and a laid-back sex appeal, not to mention he had to be the sexiest, most physical male she’d ever seen, but she was completely immune to it.
For the most part.
When he saw her, he didn’t so much as falter, which might have been a direct hit to her ego. After all, men had been noticing her since puberty, but not this man. Still, something told her he’d come inside because of her. When she narrowed her eyes at him, wondering, he simply grinned and winked.
Winked!
She attributed her increased pulse rate to annoyance and firmly reminded herself cowboys, no matter how big and magnificent, did nothing for her. Nothing.
“Are they here? The Mendozas?” she asked the waitress dressed in obnoxious pink, ignoring Cowboy Sheriff with the same ease she ignored her growing audience.
The woman waved at the sheriff as if they were long lost buddies.
He cheerfully waved back.
Finally, the woman returned her attention to Holly, whose patience had worn thin. “My daughter said her lovely, lovely bosses were sending me help so that my husband and I could move to Montana where my sister lives. Is that you, then? You’re the help?”
At that, everyone in the café stopped pretending to eat and listened with unabashed interest. Even the cat lifted his head and looked at her.
The sheriff, now leaning negligently against the counter, sipping at a mug the waitress had handed him, waited as well.
Holly’s composure faltered briefly. The help? Is that what her parents had blithely told everyone? She’d given up her life and job in California to come to the depths of the desert of all places, without a Chinese takeout or dry-cleaning place for hundreds of miles, hoping for once and all to finally gain her family’s respect, and they’d called her the help?
“They left a message for you, by the way,” the woman told her.
Okay, good. A message was good. Holly hadn’t seen her parents all year, partly because they were so busy saving lives, but mostly because she’d been avoiding them. It wasn’t something she was entirely comfortable thinking about, but she knew they never took her seriously and even though she pretended it didn’t matter, it did.
She was hoping things would change now. She was hoping other things would change, too. That maybe she would someday find her niche, her home, her place in life. And though she’d deny this, she secretly wished for things like love and a soul mate. Someone who would understand her through and through.
But there’d never been anyone like that in her life, and there probably never would be.
She needed to remember that.
She waited for her message, but Mrs. Mendoza seemed to relish hanging on to it. Luckily Holly was the most stubborn, determined woman on the face of the planet, well used to getting her way. Pinky here didn’t have a shot.
Sure enough, after a full moment of strained eye contact, the woman relented. She took off her apron and hung it on a hook on the wall with great ceremony. “They said, and I quote, ‘Tell her if she shows, thank you for handling everything, it should only be a month or so.’ You can stay upstairs until the place sells.”
So many questions flew through Holly’s head she got dizzy. “What do you mean thank you for handling everything?”
“Everything as in…everything.”
Holly tried to not panic. “There’s no one else…but me?”
“Nope.”
“For a month?” This was bad, very bad.
“Or so.”
And then the woman walked away! She went to the entrance of what Holly assumed was the kitchen and yelled, “Eddie! We’re done here. Let’s hit it! Montana here we come!”
A man came out of the kitchen and removed his white chef’s hat. He was grinning from ear to ear. Together they headed toward the door, stopping to give every customer a big hug and kiss.
“Wait!” Holly called, and when they looked at her, she couldn’t think which of her thousand questions to start with. She pointed to the big, fat orange cat laying in the aisle asleep. “Your cat! What about your cat?”
“Harry belongs to the café,” the man said, but both of them stopped to pet the cat, lavishing the sleepy, purring creature with affection, which he soaked up.
“He can’t stay.” Holly looked around her in horror. “He’ll get hair everywhere.”
“Don’t be silly,” the man said in baby talk, addressing the cat. “Everyone loves Harry, isn’t that right, big guy, everyone wuvs you.”
Great. Everyone “wuvved” Harry.
Everyone except for Holly, who’d never owned an animal in her life. “But I don’t know anything about cats,” she protested. Not that it mattered. When it came right down to it, she knew nothing about running a café by herself, either.
But the thought of caring for an animal somehow seemed a lot more terrifying than caring for a place.
“We can’t take him,” Eddie said firmly but sadly
. “He’s yours now.”
“No—! Wait!”
The door shut behind them. Holly could only stare at it, the sinking feeling in her stomach growing to huge proportions.
She looked down at the cat, and would have sworn Harry smiled at her.
Chaos, panic and disorder, she could imagine him thinking. My work here is done.
And with that, he rolled over, stretched and yawned so wide she thought his head would turn inside out, then closed his eyes.
His purr seemed to echo throughout the entire dining area, mocking her with his happiness.
“Excuse me, miss?” One of the customers lifted his mug toward Holly. “I need a refill.”
“And I need my roast beef,” called another.
Holly stared at them.
“I think they’re talking to you,” the sheriff said helpfully. “And I could use some cream, if you don’t mind.”
Holly looked at the bright-pink apron hanging off the hook, imagined it against the creamy red silk of her skirt and blouse, and stood there, flabbergasted at the turn of events her life had taken.
“Better hurry.” The sheriff lifted an eyebrow at the growing murmurs from the customers. “This isn’t a patient sort of crowd.”
Good Lord. What had she done?
2
THOUGH HE WAS snowed under with paperwork, Riley took a seat on one of the stools at the counter because this was going to be too good to be missed.
City Woman had wasted no more than ten seconds staring after the Mendozas. Then she lifted her chin, chilled her dismay into a cool calm and looked around her regally, as if she had everything under control.
It was fascinating to watch. She was fascinating to watch.
Riley had no idea what made Holly Stone tick, but he figured she was a spoiled-rotten socialite with nothing else to do with her time. Bored, she’d decided to see how the other half lived by agreeing to work as a waitress.
But that didn’t really add up because a spoiled-rotten socialite out slumming wouldn’t pick a place so far out of the way as Little Paradise. She’d want to be closer to home in case she broke a fingernail.
He knew she wasn’t a dirt-poor relation of the city doctors with no choice but to work for a living. All that attitude and snootiness didn’t come from being poor.
Maybe it was none of the above; maybe she was running away from something or someone.
That didn’t fly, either. She seemed too ornery and too tough to let anyone boss or bully her around.
Slowly, she reached for the hot pink apron Marge had worn for decades. Holding it in her fingers as if it were a soiled diaper, she looked down at her own designer outfit, clearly attempting to decide which was worse—the hot pink or a stained blouse.
“What’s your plan here?” Riley asked her.
“Haven’t a clue,” she answered, staring down at herself. “And isn’t this just too lovely for words.”
“I’d go with the apron if I were you,” he said helpfully. “Cooking is a messy business.”
Her gaze whipped to his as if the thought of cooking had yet to occur to her.
He laughed. “You do know how to cook?”
“Well…”
“Excuse me, miss?” It was Dan, the mechanic, holding up an empty coffee mug. He looked hopeful. “Are we going to get more coffee over here sometime today?”
Before she could answer, Lou, the postal clerk, waved his hand. “And I need my order,” he called out. “Preferably before my next shift is over.”
Riley had to give her credit. For someone he suspected had never waited a single table in her life, she didn’t so much as flinch. But it was the oddest thing. For one minute there he thought she seemed uncertain, vulnerable, but then she turned back to him and her gaze was as cool as ever.
He had to laugh at himself. Though it was second nature to him to rush in to help or save people—anyone, even women who annoyed him—this woman didn’t need his help. She’d probably never been uncertain or vulnerable in her life. “Looks like you’re going to have to start serving sooner than later, princess.”
“Princess?” Her eyes went glacial. “Did you just call me…princess?”
“It seemed to fit.”
She shook her head and stared around her in bafflement. “It’s official. I’ve stepped into the twilight zone.”
“Miss?”
This time it was Mindy, the librarian. Her glasses slipping nearly off her nose, she raised her finger and smiled hesitantly. “Can I get—”
“Hold your horses!” Holly told her. Slamming her arms into the apron, she then glared at Riley. “And what are you smiling at?” she demanded.
“Your lovely bedside manner.”
She growled at that and proceeded to ignore him. It wasn’t often he was ignored by the opposite sex, but in this case he didn’t mind. Holly Stone was most definitely not his type, though he did understand her. All too well.
Riley had grown up with a sheriff as a father. Ted McMann had been warm, loving and, given that his wife had left him for the faster city life, stubborn and tough to a fault. As a result of that unrelenting authority, Riley had spent a good part of his youth tearing up the town and racing with a fast crowd. Hurting his father. Still, it hadn’t taken Riley long to figure which side of the law he wanted to be on—the side without the bars. His father was still grateful.
Now Riley enjoyed the slow, sweet country life very much. He loved his ranch, he loved his job, and he loved the wild, open desert that had been his home since birth. But he didn’t fool himself. He wasn’t likely to find a woman suited to this life, not for keeps anyway. In his experience, both with his mother and the few women he’d gotten serious enough about to even contemplate settling down with, women craved far more than what small-town living could provide.
Not Riley, not anymore. Yes, he’d left Little Paradise for college, but after four years, he’d missed it with all his heart and soul. He loved the huge, open spaces, the quiet, the sense of freedom he’d never found in a place teeming with too many people and things. Yeah, he’d been ready to come home.
Princess here, on the other hand, didn’t look ready for a break from where she’d come from. She was glowering at her customers as if this was all their fault.
“I almost hate to butt in here,” he said with amusement. “Because honestly, it’s so much fun to watch you work this out by yourself. But I feel the need to point out that this is what some would consider a people job.”
“Do I look like a people person?” She yanked the apron strings around her waist and tied it. With an air of dignity better suited to royalty than a tiny café out in the middle of nowhere, she studied the mess behind the counter.
Marge had been an excellent cook, an even better people person, but cleaning up after herself hadn’t been her strong suit.
The place was a disaster area.
Behind them, the clientele grew restless. From the kitchen came utter silence, the meaning of which obviously didn’t escape Holly, because she chewed on her bottom lip and stared through the service window, clearly wondering how she was going to manage both serving and cooking.
“So, what’s the plan?” Riley asked her.
She ignored that, too, so he stood, then moved behind the counter. The area was small. Holly was close enough that he could see her eyes weren’t completely light blue, as he’d first thought, but had little specs of darker blue swimming in them. And though he was tall, she came up past his chin, so that he could look into her eyes without stooping.
Surprised when he did just that, she backed up a step, then lifted her chin again. “What are you doing?”
He smiled, enjoying her queen-to-peasant tone. “Just looking at you.”
“Well…stop it. And why are you back here anyway?”
Hell if he knew. She was as annoying as any woman he’d ever met and yet for some reason, she stirred his blood. “Don’t you want help?”
She looked horrified. “From you?”
“What does a cowboy, much less a sheriff, know about running a café?” she asked.
“What do you know about running a café?”
He had her there, he could tell. She just glared at him, apparently her standard response when she didn’t know what else to do. Riley imagined she alienated quite a few people that way, but for some reason, it only amused him all the more. “What’s the plan?” he asked again, tying on Eddie’s old apron, which was thankfully dyed beige, not hot pink.
“Why should I tell you?”
He smiled at that. “Because in case you haven’t noticed, you’re about to handle this place all by your little lonesome. In fact, if I were you, I’d be super-extra sweet to me.”
Her gaze was glacial. “I don’t do sweet.”
He laughed and went for the coffeepot to pour himself a cup, watching as she vanished into the kitchen. “Don’t I know it.”
HOLLY STOOD in front of the huge grill, staring down at the congealing fat surrounding the burgers, which good old Eddie had been cooking for who knew which one of the customers out front.
She supposed she could go out there and ask, but then she’d have to admit she was clueless, and she’d have to admit it in front of Riley McMann, the first man she’d ever met with the unique ability to completely ruffle her feathers.
No man did that to her. She did that to them. But not in this case, damn him anyway.
Things were definitely out of control.
Frustration swamped her. She felt as if she were floundering in a situation, scrambling to get what she wanted.
And what she wanted was so simple. It always had been.
Acceptance.
Compassion.
The L word. Love.
She deserved those things, didn’t she? Sure, she’d always been a bit of a troublemaker, but that was only because she knew what she wanted, and knew if she didn’t go after it full-steam ahead, no one was going to hand it to her.
