by Miles, Ava
“You liked the meal?” she said when she reached his booth.
His mouth kicked up. “More than any I’ve had in a long time. I wanted to thank you.”
Maybe it was because she’d spent the break in her shift packing up her grandpa’s liquor cabinet, but Rye Crenshaw’s voice made her think of the small batch bourbon her Grandpa drank before he got sick. All dark and smoky and…
What was it about good looking men and deep, throaty voices?
Okay, now she really needed to get to bed.
“If my granny were here, she’d ask you for the secret to your carrot cake,” he said.
A man who punched people at charity events was asking her about secret ingredients? Wasn’t that a first? “I usually peel the carrots, but I can’t remember if I did today. Maybe it added texture.” Yes, she’d been that tired.
“Oh…”
He blinked rapidly, making her notice his heavily lashed eyes. To say they were hazel wasn’t enough. The browns, golds, and greens reminded her of a forest at dusk.
“Myra said you wanted something,” she said.
“Like I said, the meal was incredible. Best I’ve had in some time. Thank you.”
Well, she could be civil too, when the situation called for it. “You’re welcome.”
“She tells me you’ve had some tough times recently. You’re in school?”
Tory turned her head to glare at Myra, who ducked into the kitchen. The diner was quiet save for the whooshing of the swinging door and the hum of the fluorescent lights.
“She shouldn’t have said anything.”
“She was trying to explain your…”
“Bitchiness?” she supplied, a bit of laughter creeping into her voice.
Rye cleared his throat and broke eye contact for a moment. “I’d never use that word to describe a lady.”
Wasn’t he full of it? “Right.”
“What I wanted to say is that I’m sorry for keeping you open. You have to go to school tomorrow?”
She shifted her feet to ease her back ache. “No, I’m off for the summer. I work here full–time now.”
“You’re at the University of Kansas, right?”
“Yep.”
Rye reached for his dessert fork and tapped it on the table. “When does school start back up?”
“After Labor Day. Why?”
He turned a bit to get a better look at her. “Look, I need a new cook. Mine just quit. My last concert is July 30. My manager has started making inquiries for a replacement, but why make it hard when it could be simple? Would you consider being my cook on the tour? I’d give you a good salary and cover all your expenses.”
Her legs wobbled like Jell–O. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Of course not.”
She slid into the booth across from him and scrubbed her face with both hands, trying to wake up. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Well, you’re out of school. We could help each other.”
Wow. Okay, this was a surprise. Tory rested her head on one hand. “God knows I need the money. I can’t sell my family’s house. It’s a serious fixer upper. I inherited the mortgage and my grandfather’s hospital bills when he died. And then the grant didn’t come through for my research, and the tuition and loan payments keep coming due.” She compressed her lips. “I must be tired. I don’t usually babble.”
Rye shifted in his seat like he was super uncomfortable. Who could blame him?
She rubbed her temples—his drumming was beating in time with the beginnings of a headache. “Tell me more about this job.” Was she actually considering his offer? Was he really violent? He didn’t seem to be.
“Our cross–country tour started ten days ago in Nashville and lasts until the end of the summer.”
“What would I have to do?”
Rye shrugged and put down the fork. Finally!
“If you joined the tour, you’d be on my bus. You’d cook me three meals a day and have a day off every week.” The salary he named made her jaw drop.
The thousand dollars he’d paid for dinner was peanuts in comparison. “You’re kidding.”
“I never joke about money. You’ll earn every penny as my cook. I love to eat.” He chuckled. “My last cook’s pie couldn’t compete with yours.”
“You said your cook quit. Seems a little strange since you just started the tour—”
“Ten days ago,” he finished, rubbing a hand over his goatee, grimacing. “Smart, aren’t you? Well, I don’t like to talk out of school, but she slept with someone in my band. It was a big mistake—for both of them. She heaved a chocolate cream pie at him on the way out. I’d need to know you wouldn’t follow in her footsteps, so to speak.”
“So all I have to do is cook for you three times a day and not sleep with anyone in your band?”
A dark laugh escaped. “Well, when you put it that way, it does sound like an unusual stipulation.”
She turned sideways and drew her knees to her chest, crossing her ankles on the seat of the booth. “Well, that won’t be too hard.”
Rye hummed in his throat and reached for the fork. He started tapping again. The man couldn’t sit still. Would it be rude to grab the fork and hide it?
“You haven’t seen them yet—only me.”
“Do they look like you?” Oops, did she just say that?
His head drew back sharply. The tapping stopped, thank God.
“I mean, do they look like cowboys?” she qualified.
He cleared his throat and glanced over her shoulder. Tory followed his gaze. Myra was watching them through the window in the kitchen door.
“Well, I guess so.”
Tory waved a hand dismissively. “No problem then. Marlboro men don’t appeal to me.” They were attractive in an Alpha way, but she liked her men smart and sensitive, not afraid of their feelings.
He twirled the fork around. From the way his mouth was pinched, she could tell he hadn’t liked her response. When he rapped the fork against the table again, she finally darted out a hand.
“Could you…”
He settled back against the booth and crossed his arms, but a few seconds later his foot started tapping. Did he have attention deficit disorder in addition to anger issues?
“So, are you game? It’ll be tons of traveling. You’ll see more of the great U.S. of A. than you’ve ever wanted. We have twenty–four more concerts in twenty–three states. It’s a merry–go–round, but it can be fun. But you’ll need to decide now. I’d like you to start tonight. We’re heading out shortly to the next stop.”
Now? That was like…
The kitchen door burst open and Myra bustled out, her panty hose making that awful rubbing sound, reminding Tory why she never wore them.
“Tory, you have to do it, honey. It’s the answer to your prayers.”
Tory wasn’t so sure the big man upstairs bothered answering her prayers anymore. “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping,” she said, but there was no censure in her voice. She rubbed the tense muscles in her neck. “Anyway, I’m not so sure I should be considering this after recent events.”
Myra’s face turned red. “Well, I’m sure he had a good reason for pushing that man. Didn’t you, Mr. Crenshaw?”
His nod was as stiff as her back.
Tory raised an eyebrow at him. “Nice to have such loyal fans, isn’t it?” God, what kind of wild behavior would she witness? Her grandma had always warned her about things that sounded too good to be true…but the money. She’d be crazy to pass it up. It would go a long way toward solving her financial woes.
His stare didn’t waver. “Myra, could you give us a second here?”
“Of course,” she said, heading back into the kitchen without another word.
“You have something you want to ask me?” he growled once they were alone together.
Her fingers curled around the fork she’d taken from him. “Well…if I’m going to take the job, I need to be comfortable, I guess. I’d like to
know that you had a good reason, like Myra thinks, that you aren’t violent.”
He didn’t say anything for a long while, and the long seconds were marked by the tapping of his knee. Tory tried not to fidget under his angry stare.
“I’m not violent, and I had a good reason,” he muttered.
When he didn’t continue, she leaned forward. “And…”
He yanked on his ball cap again. “Christ, I miss my Stetson. Look, I don’t have to tell you shit.”
“You do if you want me to take the job.”
He leaned his elbows on the table. “It was a family matter, all right?” he hissed. “It made me crazy upset, and I shoved that man out of my way when he got in my face. He fell and started yelling and…oh hell.”
Tory pressed her lips together to keep from asking more questions. Myra talked about him all the time, giving her the latest updates from the tabloids. There had been no mention of his family in the news, and she knew he wasn’t married. He was considered one of those famous sexy bachelors, and yet tonight he looked like a normal guy, much less arrogant and cocky than all those pictures in the tabloids. She studied him closer. She wasn’t sure when it had happened in their conversation, but underneath the anger, there was hurt. His face had fallen. His color had gone from tan to pale. He looked away from her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her voice.
He snorted. “Forget it. I’m a bad boy, honey, but I’m no criminal. Does that reassure you?”
“Okay, I’ll do it.” God help her, and then she remembered she wasn’t convinced that God cared about people like her, the ones who’d lost everything. Her stomach jumped like a pond of frogs, excitement and terror warring inside her.
Rye stroked his goatee. “Good. The buses leave in about an hour,” he said, telling her where to meet him. “I can stretch it to two, but we have another concert tomorrow night in Minneapolis. Now, go tell your friend, so you can get going.”
Right. Tory darted into the kitchen. Myra was dancing an Irish jig when she walked through the door. “Oh my God! You’ll be famous, Tory. Maybe this will help you get your cookbook published. Wouldn’t your grandma love that?”
Could her grandma love that from heaven? She wasn’t so sure, but she liked the idea. “I don’t want fame, Myra. I only want the money.”
Myra placed her hands on Tory’s shoulders. “Everything’s going to be fine now. You’ll see. I’ll take care of the house while you’re gone. And when you figure out how your mail should be directed, let me know, and I’ll forward it to you.” She pulled Tory in for a hug. “You call and tell me how everything is going. Your grandma would get a kick out of this if she were still with us. Gosh, I still can’t believe she’s been gone three years.”
Tears filled Tory’s eyes, making the kitchen look like she was viewing it through a half–empty fish bowl. But she didn’t let them run over. She’d almost mastered burying her emotions, but there were still hits and misses.
“Thanks, Myra. I wouldn’t have gotten through any of this…” While taking care of her grandparents these past four years, she’d made few friends. All of her friends growing up had moved away for college. Myra’s presence in her life had lessened the blow of not being able to socialize with people her own age.
Myra leaned back and framed Tory’s face. “Your grandma helped me get my job at this diner when I was your age. I owe her. And it’s not hard to look out for you, Tory.”
“I need to go pack and make some arrangements,” she said in a hoarse voice.
Myra kissed her cheek and then stepped back. “I’ll talk to Mel tomorrow and let him know you won’t be with us this summer. He’ll be so happy for you, Tory. I heard him say how he wished he could pay you more. He loved your grandma like we all did.”
“I feel like I’m leaving him in the lurch.”
“Don’t worry. I can’t cook as good as you, but I can help out until he hires someone. Now, let’s get you back to Rye Crenshaw. If I were twenty years younger, I’d fight you for this opportunity, dear.”
Rye was standing by the door when they emerged.
Tory drew in a breath. “It’s all so fast.” And she’d have to call Connie Perkins, her realtor, in the morning to tell her what was happening.
“Life works that way sometimes,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “Myra, it was a real pleasure.” And he tipped his finger to his ball cap.
Myra pulled him into a hug.
Still in a daze—this was just about the last thing Tory had expected to happen when she woke up this morning—she followed Rye out to the parking lot. He stopped by an ugly car and dug out his keys.
“That’s your ride?” Of all the things she’d imagined a famous singer might drive, a dented muscle car wasn’t one of them.
“I borrowed it. I’m traveling on a tour bus, remember? Do you have a pen and piece of paper?”
She dug into her purse and handed over a grocery slip and ballpoint. He scribbled on the crumpled paper in bold strokes before handing them back.
“That’s my cell if you have any trouble finding me. I’ll tell Clayton, my deputy, to keep an eye out for you. He handles all the hiring, so he’ll go over all the details with you. Be there in two hours,” he instructed, ducking into the car. His head hit the ceiling. Cursing, he slammed the door. The car turned over once before the engine started.
Tory had to bite her lip when it backfired as he reversed and left the parking lot. When she turned back toward the diner, Myra was standing in the doorway. She felt a shimmer of warmth crest over her. Myra’s mothering had started when Tory was a kid, after her mom and dad died in a car crash. The diner, where her grandma had been the cook, had been her second home.
“I’ll miss you.” She dug into her pocket and counted out five bills. “Take half. I don’t want to hear a word of protest.”
Myra took the money and brushed a hand over her face to wipe away a tear. “Thank you. Do you want me to help you pack and give you a ride to the fairgrounds?”
“No, go on home. I have cab money, remember?”
Myra laughed and pulled her in for a hug. Tory relaxed into her embrace before breaking away and heading for her car.
The H in the diner’s sign sputtered to life as she started the engine, making her halt. The word Heaven lit up for the first time in months before going dark again. Even with all her doubts, the sight sent a shock through her system. It seemed like an omen of something…she just wasn’t sure what. Rubbing her arms, she climbed in her car and waved goodbye.
Grandma Simmons had one traditional cornbread recipe she would make either sweet or savory, depending on Grandpa’s mood. When he had a bad day, she’d make maple cornbread to sweeten his disposition. When he was feisty—or she wanted him to be—she’d make Mexican, adding grated cheddar cheese and jalapeños from our garden. The secret is the buttermilk, the frothy elixir that makes it super moist and rise like crazy. You can make more variations than maple or Mexican cornbread. Be bold. Experiment. Find out what makes your man sweeter or spicier. Believe me, deep down, you know.
Basic Cornbread Recipe
1 cup cornmeal
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. baking powder
1/3 cup flour
2 Tbs. melted butter
2 eggs
1 cup buttermilk (fresh or from powder)
Combine the dry ingredients. Add the butter, beaten eggs, and buttermilk. {For maple: add 1/3 cup maple syrup. For spicy: add 2 Tbs. chopped jalapeños and 1 cup cheddar cheese.} Stir. Pour into a greased pan and bake for 20 minutes at 450 degrees. A cast iron skillet works best.
Tory Simmons’ Simmering Family Cookbook
Chapter 2
Four tour buses hummed in the parking lot behind Liberty Hall. They almost looked like alien ships that had landed on an ocean of asphalt. She paid the cabbie and thanked him after he hefted her three suitcases out of the trunk. God, she hoped she hadn’t forgotten anything impor
tant. Two hours wasn’t a lot of time when it came to planning the next few months of her life.
The taxi chugged off. She grabbed the closest suitcase and quickly pulled it behind her, hoping she wouldn’t have any problem finding this Clayton. Even in the nearly abandoned lot, she wasn’t about to leave her other suitcases alone for too long. A security perimeter had kept the cab from getting as close as she wanted. Her legs had been achy and rubbery at the restaurant. Now they were numb like the rest of her body. She just wanted to lie on a flat surface. Even the asphalt looked tempting.
A string of die–hard fans milled about, shouting for Rye.
Her suitcase caught on something and turned over. “Shit,” she muttered as she pulled it upright.
“Hello there,” someone drawled. “You must be Tory,”
She straightened. Her purse slid down her shoulder. A tall man in boots, jeans, and a white dress shirt strode toward her and tipped back his matching white cowboy hat, giving her a big smile.
“Rye told me to keep an eye out for a dark–haired pixie with suitcases. I’m Clayton Chandler, his deputy manager.”
She pulled up her purse and shoved her hair behind her ear. “Hi. I’m Tory.” Great. Hadn’t he already said her name?
“Let me help you with your bags and then we’ll get you hired all formal–like.” He reached for her suitcase. “I’ll bet you’re fried.”
Like a donut. “Yes, it’s pretty late. I have two more suitcases.” She pointed across the way.
“I’ll have someone get them. Why don’t you follow me?”
His boots clicked on the pavement as he rolled her suitcase to the perimeter, where a bulky man waved them through. When Clayton stopped at one of the buses, he set her suitcase against the side to keep it from toppling. She’d jammed it so full she’d had to sit on it to make the zippers meet.
“This is the bus I’m on, and it’s where we keep the employment papers.” He gestured for her to ascend the steps. “Your bag will be fine. Don’t worry.”
