by Nicole Deese
Levi cleared his throat. “You want something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” As stiff as her voice, she perched on the dusty sofa and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the front of her skirt. “I really shouldn’t stay long.”
“Probably not.” Levi chuckled at the obvious statement and shot her a sidelong glance. Though her once-girlish figure had transformed into subtle womanly curves that kicked his pulse several notches higher, it was clear she was no closer to escaping her chosen captivity than she’d been the first night they’d met. Hunching over the desk, he opened his laptop and scrolled through the Second Harvest spreadsheets until he found the information he sought.
“I imagine you’ve checked with other stores around town?” And by other stores, he meant every store in town. If Rayne Shelby had shown up asking him for help, then Second Harvest had to be her very last resort, an ironic twist of events considering her family wanted nothing more than to stomp on Winslow Farm like a wayward seedling.
Eyeing her, he closed his laptop and anchored his weight against the edge of the desk, crossed his ankles.
“Yes, I’ve checked with other stores,” she replied.
“Even Gil over at Gilbert’s Party Palace?” His lips twitched, thinking of the elfish man with the personality of a doorknob and merchandise fit for the inside of a piñata.
“He offered me a box of kazoos or a case of I-heart-Idaho shot glasses.”
“Not quite up to the old Shelby standard, I suppose.”
She tangled her hands in her lap. “Look, I realize my request seems strange, but this purchase is a critical part of an event I’m responsible for this Saturday night. I need one hundred and thirty-six unique, Idaho-made gifts to give to our patrons.”
“For this Saturday, huh? That’s forty-eight hours from now. Seems kind of last-minute to be ordering something so critical for the governor’s party.” Word spread quickly when Governor Shelby was due for an appearance in the town named after his lineage. Especially when Shelby headquarters was located only a few hundred acres away. “Sounds like somebody screwed up.”
She rubbed her lips together and he anticipated some kind of save-face cover-up to launch off her tongue. After all, she was the niece of the slickest manipulator he’d ever encountered. And Levi had known his fair share of con artists.
“I did,” she said. “I forgot to place the special order weeks ago, and I didn’t realize the oversight until this morning.”
He uncrossed his ankles and studied her with renewed interest . . . and perhaps something else too. Her unexpected honesty seemed to peel back the corner of a memory he’d chosen to repress. An invitation to a moonlit party at the Falls during his first summer in town. A nameless girl with jet-black hair who’d strayed from her friends to follow a loner. A few stolen hours skipping rocks and swapping secrets and—
He blinked hard, clearing the unwanted thoughts before they could travel any further down a dead-end road. “What will happen if you can’t provide them—the gifts for your guests?”
She glanced down at her knotted fingers, her anxious stare revealing more about the consequence of her failure than she seemed willing to admit. But her silence only confirmed his suspicion: Rayne’s harried arrival on his farm had little to do with pleasing patrons and everything to do with pleasing her overbearing uncle.
Fear had an uncanny way of motivating people.
“Does Cal know you’re here?”
She stood without warning, her skirt swishing around her shapely legs. “If you’re not going to help me, then please just say so.”
When he said nothing, she started for the exit.
“I’ll help you.”
She pivoted to face him, and in reply he offered a lazy shrug. “Thing is, I don’t have enough of those specialty soaps for all your guests. But I do have something else. Something better.”
“Really?” Hope flashed in her amber eyes, and Levi’s face broke into a grin he usually reserved for winning a hand of blackjack.
“I’d never tease a paying customer.”
The sigh that escaped her was closer to a sob than a tension release. “You’ll really help me—anonymously?”
“Princess, for the right price I’d help anyone.” Even a Shelby.
“I’m desperate.”
“You don’t say.”
For the first time since she arrived at the farm, Levi watched skepticism mask her dainty features. “If this is a trick, then—”
He stepped toward her, moving in so close he could smell the sweet scent of jasmine and honeysuckle on her skin. “Despite what your uncle may have told you, Winslow Farm didn’t earn its good reputation by cheating anyone. We sell quality products. And we get paid for quality products. End of story.”
She inched back but kept her lips tightly pursed. He wasn’t dumb enough to accept her silence as belief, but this moment wasn’t about erasing the past, it was about banking on the future.
“I’d need the order ready by Friday night—tomorrow night,” she stressed.
Before her father’s entourage arrived in town, no doubt. “So I take it your daddy has officially announced he’ll be running for reelection?”
She gave a curt nod, her gaze suddenly absent from his face. “Yes, he announced last week. Saturday’s dinner is a VIP fund-raiser for his biggest donors.”
Figured. Governor Randall Shelby wasn’t the type to step out of the limelight unless forced.
“Honey,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Her hair bounced behind her shoulder.
“Honey. The product that’s better than scented soaps and specialty lotions. Second Harvest just contracted some of the best beekeepers in the region. The honey is both local and unique.”
Her delighted expression did more for him than he’d ever admit. “May I try a sample?”
He’d already woven his way into Ford’s kitchen. The old man didn’t keep many groceries around the house, but he always had farm honey on hand. The recent repackaging into short mason jars was quite an upgrade from the old snap-cap plastic bottle, an upgrade that would pay for itself soon enough.
She clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh wow. That will work perfectly. I can add a ribbon and a lodge logo to each jar—as long as you’re okay with that, of course.”
“Fine by me.” He dipped the taste-tester stick into the jar, the honey stretching and twirling as he pulled it out and handed it to her. She didn’t hesitate to indulge him, and he didn’t steer his gaze from her perfectly shaped mouth.
Maybe he was only 60 percent gentleman.
She rubbed her lips together after the last droplet of honey touched her tongue. “That’s really excellent.”
“I know.” Levi set the jar aside and slid his phone from his back pocket. With his calculator at the ready, he formulated a plan and punched in a sequence of numbers.
He flipped the screen around, and her eyes ticked wide.
“That’s nearly triple my budget.”
“Plucking huckleberry honey from the hands of my most loyal customers comes at a premium.”
The sag of her shoulders and wringing of her hands tore at him a little, but not nearly enough to thwart his strategy. She wasn’t the first pretty face he’d done business with. She was only the first Shelby.
“I’ll write a business check for the budgeted amount and cover the rest with a personal check.”
He considered the enigma before him. Either she was the most devoted employee he’d ever met, or the consequence she feared really was as costly as she’d made it seem.
“Or perhaps I could cut you a deal.” He recrunched the numbers and showed her the screen once more. “This better?”
Her relief was audible. “Yes, yes. I can do that. And I’ll owe you a fav—”
“A ticket to the dinner.”
Her brows shot skyward. “What?”
“Get me a ticket to the dinner, and you get the discounted price and my personal guarantee of the rushed
delivery time. It’s the best deal you’ll find for a high-quality gift on such short notice.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I never joke about business.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I clean up well. Promise.”
“That’s not . . . that’s not the problem. I mean, I’m sure you do clean up well, but there’s absolutely no way I can get you a ticket.”
“How many local vendors do you know who could provide you with one hundred and thirty-six Idaho-made gifts in twenty-four hours?”
She lifted her chin and he had to work at suppressing a smile. He knew exactly how many she would find. Heck, if he hadn’t collected all those orders at the farmers’ market last weekend, he wouldn’t have the quantity to offer her either. But luck and opportunity were in sync today, and he wasn’t about to pass up a chance at some of the deepest pockets in the state. Second Harvest needed investors, and that fancy dinner party would have them in spades. He’d gamble more than his pride for the chance to pitch his business plan to Tom Hutchinson, owner of a dozen Wellness Smoothie Shacks.
“My uncle will never let you through the door.”
“Our deal won’t be dependent on your uncle inviting me inside. I just need a ticket to the dinner. That’s all.”
As the worry lines in her forehead deepened, Levi held his carefully honed expression. Patience was a salesman’s best weapon. And Levi knew just how to sharpen the blade. He’d worked with the can’t-stand-a-moment-of-silence types many times.
He’d give her eight seconds.
She made it to four.
“Okay.” A weighted sigh and then, “Tell me who to make the check out to and I’ll get you the ticket, but no one can know about this. Do I have your word on that?”
A strange request coming from her. He had it on good authority that every member of her nepotistic family believed the farm to be ruled by thieves. And yet here she was, asking for his word.
“You have it.” Levi held her gaze for a second more. “Money is money. I don’t care where it comes from.” Unlike her uncle. “You can make it out to SH Inc. It’s a private account used only for Second Harvest deposits. It’s not linked to Winslow Farm yet.”
Math had always been one of his better subjects—especially when that math had a dollar sign in front of it.
She dug into her oversized bag and pulled out two checkbooks—one business and one personal. After a few quick strokes of her pen, their deal was done.
She handed the payment over to him. “The ticket will be in your mailbox by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
She pushed out the screen door and Levi followed her down the porch steps.
“Just one piece of advice,” she said over her shoulder as she slipped onto the golf cart’s bench seat. “Stay clear of my uncle.”
Levi wasn’t sure if the four-figure payment in his hand or the estranged neighbor in his driveway was more appealing. “One piece of advice for you, Rayne Shelby?”
She twisted the key in the ignition and then found his eyes.
“Never tell a businessman you’re desperate.”
Fine, maybe he was only 40 percent gentleman after all.
CHAPTER THREE
Rayne swept her hair off her shoulders and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck while counting the chairs and place settings in the Great Room for a second time. With its vaulted A-frame ceiling, cedar trusses, and refinished last-century hardwoods, the room begged for social gatherings. A request Rayne loved to fulfill. Elegantly adorned tables and chairs dotted the hall’s massive footprint. The presentation and decor sparkled with black-tie readiness.
One hundred and thirty-six VIP guests had RSVP’d—and though the setup had been finished for nearly twelve hours, she couldn’t risk even the smallest oversight. Especially not with Cal’s last-minute checks and white-glove demands.
Thankfully, though, the drama over the patron gifts was no more. The huckleberry honey had been delivered under the guise of night, just as Levi had promised. She’d spent the majority of the evening readying the jars and sprucing up the gift bags before finally surrendering to sleep.
By now, Levi had likely found the red ticket in the farm’s mailbox. She just prayed he wasn’t foolish enough to use it.
“Rayne—has your father checked in yet? He was supposed to be here an hour ago to go over tonight’s agenda with me.” Her uncle’s intimidating stature blocked the entryway to the Great Room.
“No, sorry. I haven’t seen him come in.” She skirted around several tables to where he brooded. “You know what it’s like when he comes back to town for a visit. He’ll be here soon, I’m sure.” She wore the practiced smile of a daughter who’d reassured herself of the same thing many a time.
Her father was a busy man. An influential man. A heavily sought-after man. Following in her granddaddy’s footsteps, Randall Shelby had been elected as mayor of Shelby Falls before her tenth birthday, and then as state senator during her junior year of high school, and now he was running for his second term as Idaho’s governor. But unlike her grandfather, who’d retired from politics during the pinnacle of his popularity, Cal had every hope her father’s career would peak in the Oval Office.
“Well, if he thinks he can simply shake a few hands while tossing around that winsome grin of his without—”
“Rayne, please tell your uncle to keep his blood pressure in check—at least for the next eighteen months.” Her father’s hand clamped onto her uncle’s shoulder, but his attention held on his only daughter. “Hello, darling.”
He kissed each of her cheeks and then promptly turned to face his brother’s abused scowl. “You know, I get enough flak in the capital. I would hope my future campaign manager might cut me a tardy break every once and again.”
The creases around Cal’s mouth disappeared. It seemed a flash of pearly whites and a head tilt had bought her father a temporary pardon. “Not if you want another victory, Governor Shelby.”
Her father pressed a palm to his heart and chuckled. “From your lips to God’s ears, brother.”
Rayne looked between the two before focusing on the lobby behind them. “Didn’t Veronica come with you?” Her father rarely traveled without her stepmother. In the ten years since the flashy couple had exchanged vows in the Bahamas, Veronica’s role as a politician’s wife had become an elevated priority. But Rayne didn’t fault her for it. Veronica wasn’t uncaring or mean-spirited, she just wasn’t very . . . maternal. Not in the way Delia and Aunt Nina were, anyway. Even so, Rayne’s stepmother fit her father well, a classy woman who was as devoted to him as she was to his lifestyle.
“Afraid she got caught up shopping with Marilynn Brightwater downtown. Turns out they have the same ridiculous obsession for refurbished junk,” her father said.
“And hopefully we can use that obsession to persuade Marilynn’s mule of a husband,” Cal added dryly.
“Rich mule of a husband,” her father corrected before turning back to Rayne. “I’m sure she’ll be here in time to get all dolled up for tonight’s dinner.” He glanced up then, his eyes scanning the fully decorated room and then focusing on the stage near the large picture windows. “You do all this, Rayne?”
Before she could answer, Cal stepped in. “She flew on her own with this event, Randall. I think you’ll agree her attention to detail has greatly matured.”
As her father’s eyes brightened on her, a memory of her granddaddy’s kind gaze gripped her heart. She’d been much too young to remember moving into the lodge after her mother’s sudden death on the ski slopes of Silver Mountain, but she would never forget her Grandpa Shelby’s smiling eyes or his listening ear. She could easily recall the day she’d run into his office, cheeks flushed with excitement, and placed her best-ever lodge sketch into his inviting hands. His words had planted a seed in her heart that day—one she’d tended to every year after: Dreams bloom when the time is right, Little Blue Jay.
Her father’s voice cut through her reminiscing. “It�
�s a lovely setup, Rayne.”
His compliment may have sounded more dismissive than delighted, but she wouldn’t bypass the opportunity to remind them both of her proposal. “Thank you. I wondered, since you’re here, if the three of us might discuss my business proposal for the lodge.”
“Your proposal?” her father questioned.
Yes, her proposal. The one she’d mentioned a dozen-plus times over the last year. The one she’d spent nearly six months documenting. Had Cal not discussed her ideas with her father? Surely they’d talked about the details of her promotion; the campaign started in just four and a half months. What would he be waiting for?
“Yes. I have some ideas for how we can better utilize the empty common areas in the lodge and connect with our local community while creating—”
Her father slipped his phone from his breast pocket, his fingers firing off a text. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to fit that in on this visit, Rayne. It’s a tight one. But I’ll try.” He shot his brother a wry look. “Okay, you have forty-two minutes to brief me on tonight’s agenda before I meet Paul Sanderson for a round of golf.”
“How very generous of you,” Cal deadpanned, pivoting toward his study.
The men’s determined steps pounded the hardwood in unison. She listened as they beat a path through the lobby and down the narrow hallway that bordered the side parlor. Rayne only allowed herself a minute—just sixty short seconds—to reminisce about a time before.
Before every conversation, smile, and head nod was measured in polls, popularity, and political gain.
Overlooking the Great Room from her secret perch on the second floor, Rayne shifted her weight from one toe-pinching stiletto to the other. The arches in her tired feet cramped from the longer-than-normal wear, and her calves would never forgive her for the extra inch in heel height, but she would trade comfort for the perfection of this evening a thousand times over.
