by Miles, Ava
“Time for us bubbas to show you ladies how it’s done,” he called out as he started toward the bull.
He got a firm grip and dug his heels in, so he was ready when the bull started bucking. Or so he thought. His body slammed into the mat after what must have been his worst time ever. He used the opportunity to get his breath back.
He reached for his damp hat and smacked it on his wet head. Christ, he needed another drink. Anything to forget that soft mouth and the tiny body that fit perfectly against his.
***
Tory was humming to herself when Rye showed up for a late breakfast. They’d both stayed at the hotel last night, but he liked her food so much that she always cooked for him on the bus unless it was her day off.
After tossing and turning all night, she was ready to execute her plan. There was bound to be some awkwardness after their kiss. He’d responded. So had she. Better to put it out on the table and say it meant nothing.
Even though it wasn’t true, at least not for her.
The urgent need for this discussion had been underscored when Tory saw pictures of her kissing Rye with that horrible bull in the background on the Internet earlier in the morning. The media was speculating that Rye was getting cozy with the struggling cook he’d hired. The reports mentioned how she’d accompanied him on an off–roading outing. Comments about her not being his type were prolific, but several accounts attributed his interest in her to him wanting to settle down with a good woman. Even Myra had called this morning to ask about the romance, promising she’d never tell a soul. Tory had adamantly denied it, of course.
The PR machine was speeding along like a Eurorail train, trampling her privacy, and she knew there was little she could do about it. Or complain to Rye about. Especially when she suspected Georgia and Clayton were pushing it more than he was.
And it wasn’t like she was completely innocent. She’d fed the media beast by kissing him in the first place.
“Good morning,” she said in a measured tone. “Breakfast is about ready. I made biscuits and gravy since we had leftover ones from last night.”
Rye sat at the table and grabbed the remote control, flicking on the morning news. “Great,” he responded, not saying anything else.
After she served him, he cut into the piping hot biscuit swimming in sausage gravy and took a bite. His eyelids fluttered shut like they always did, and a low groan filled the kitchen. It was hard not notice those lips after their kiss, so she turned to wash the pans.
“So that whole kissing thing last night was pretty embarrassing.” She scrubbed the gravy off the pan under a stream of hot water. “I don’t want there to be any weirdness between us. I mean, I work for you. Besides, it wasn’t a big deal. We got carried away since the crowd was watching.”
She picked up a hand towel and dried off the pan. “I mean, if that’s what it’s like for you on stage, it must be incredible. All those people looking on, screaming and shouting. Pretty heady stuff. It’s called the public effect. It’s a known phenomenon.”
“Could you turn around a minute?” he asked in that rumbling, deep baritone that raised goose bumps on her skin.
Tory complied and forced a smile. His gray T–shirt clung to his body and the slight tear in the right sleeve only made him look hotter. When had clothes ready for the garbage ever turned her on before?
“Are you saying my kiss was a phenomenon?”
“No, I mean the phenomenon was kissing you in public. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been half as interesting in private.” Yeah, right.
Rye stood up and walked toward her with a gleam in his hazel eyes. “Are you saying the kiss would have been less…eventful if we’d been alone?”
Oh, the mere thought of it made her want to rip the rest of his T–shirt into threads and run her hands up his bare chest. Instead, she held the dishrag in front of her like a shield.
“No offense, but we’re not each other’s type. I mean, you like big–breasted women in tight clothes with big hair. And I don’t go for cowboys.”
Even though she knew that his cowboy side was just one of many hats he wore.
He leaned against the counter and pulled his Stetson down. “Honey, I’ve been told by tons of women I’m the best kisser they’ve ever experienced.”
“So you’ve said.”
Rye frowned. “And here I was planning to tell you not to get all clingy this morning. You really know how to knock a man’s ego.”
Clingy? Her? No way. Talk about insulting. “I didn’t intend to hurt your ego,” she said, brandishing the dishrag in one hand. “I only wanted to assure you the kiss was no big deal.”
Rye grabbed the dishrag from her, and when his fingers brushed hers, she felt sparks where their skin touched. He leaned around her and threw the rag on the counter, the movement brushing their bodies together. Oh, that primal desire was back, dag nab it, and it just wasn’t fair.
He smiled when he leaned back. “Of course it wasn’t a big deal. As you said, kissing women is practically part of my job description. But you do make a man want to prove you wrong about this public phenomenon theory.”
Oh, her lips tingled at the thought of his mouth on hers again. She watched as he strolled back to the booth to finish his breakfast, her eyes glued to his incredible butt.
“But you’re right,” he drawled, forking another piece of biscuit. “We’d best let it go.”
Thank goodness he stopped speaking when he slid the food into his mouth, giving another moan instead.
It pinged throughout her body.
He scooped another forkful into his mouth.
She clasped her hands together like a school marm, trying to ignore the electricity coursing through her body. “Good, I’m glad we’ve got that settled. Well, I’ve got to go. There’s a special program about the challenges of organic farming on NPR this morning.” Lame. So lame.
Rye waved her away. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss that.”
As she left, she found herself wondering if there would be another mechanical bull bar along the concert circuit.
Like eating a piece of bittersweet chocolate, she found herself craving more of him.
My Grandma Simmons made incredible pies. There are two mediums you have to master to do the same. A flaky crust is essential. Here’s a tip if you’re making it from scratch: use Butter Crisco™. It really does make an incomparably flaky, golden crust. But you can’t stop there. You have to make a filling that doesn’t crack or weep. Lemon meringue is my favorite of all the pies she used to make. The secret to her meringue was the extra egg whites she used to create those four inches of magic that swirled on top as puffy as clouds. Add fresh lemon zest, and you have a real winner—a comforting yet tangy treat for a hot, humid day. I’ve never met a person whose mood didn’t improve after having a slice of this pie. Its magic is potent.
Lemon Meringue Pie
Pie Crust
1 crust for the bottom (you can buy a prepared crust or make one from scratch). Here’s our family recipe.
1 c. flour
½ tsp. salt
1/3 c. regular or Butter Crisco™
¼ c. cold ice water (we put ¼ in a 1 c. measuring cup and add ice to it)
Mix until incorporated (not too much, but just until it comes together). Then roll the dough into a circle on a floured surface. Lay into the pie plate and flute the edges by pinching the dough on the top and sides between your two index fingers.
Lemon filling:
1½ cup sugar
3 Tbs. cornstarch
3 Tbs. flour
Dash of salt
1½ cup boiling water
3 egg yolks beaten
2 Tbs. butter
½ tsp. grated lemon peel (fresh is best)
1/3 cup lemon juice
1 tbsp. lime juice
Mix sugar, cornstarch, flour, and salt. Add boiling water.
Cook over stove until the mixture boils and thickens, about 2 minutes. Temper the egg yolks with the
hot mixture and add to the saucepan. Cook for 2 additional minutes and remove from the stove. Add butter, lemon peel, and lemon juice. Pour into crust.
Meringue
5 egg whites
½ tsp. vanilla
¼ tsp. cream of tartar
½ cup sugar
Beat egg whites with an automatic beater until they form peaks. Slowly add sugar until dissolved.
Add meringue to the pie and seal it to the corners.
Cook at 350 degrees for 12–15 minutes until meringue is lightly brown.
Tory Simmons’ Simmering Family Cookbook
Chapter 7
Tammy Hollins Morrison clutched her buttercream Coach handbag, surveying the line of tour buses wedged behind the auditorium in Richmond, Virginia. Her hands shook violently as she dialed Rye’s cell phone again. Amelia Ann had given her the number. When it immediately went to voice mail, she pressed it to her stomach. She would have to find him on her own.
Fans, mostly women, clustered together behind the cordon in the hot July sun, all of them hoping for a glimpse of their hero. The Fourth of July had come and gone a week ago, yet his fans were still decked out in T–shirts with American flags on them, tied at the waist to show their bellies. A shocking spectacle. She wrinkled her nose at a woman in a short, stretchy jean dress and cowboy boots—sans panty hose, of course, and likely sans panties as well. In her conservative celery green linen dress, Tammy was receiving more than a few stares of her own. The scene was exactly what she would have expected of her black sheep brother.
Fiery resentment rose up in her belly, but she took a deep, calming breath. Daddy wanted to reconcile with his son after his brush with death, and he firmly believed you couldn’t deliver that sort of message over the phone. It had taken Daddy three weeks to wear Mama down, and since she hadn’t wanted to hurt her husband’s recovery by forbidding it, she’d finally agreed. But she’d put her foot down on one thing. She would not be the messenger. Daddy had thought it would be a more significant gesture if Tammy came calling rather than Amelia Ann, so here she was.
The whole idea was insane after everything Rye had done to their family. And then there was his recent brush with the law…
Tammy had seen Rye only once since he broke his engagement with Emeline Williams, her dear friend and the perfect Southern debutant from a respected Natchez, Mississippi, family, and left Vanderbilt law school just weeks before graduating. All to launch a record label as a bad–boy, low country hick, shaming the family.
He’d come to Granddaddy Crenshaw’s funeral three years ago, but he hadn’t stood with the family. And he’d mocked them by wearing a black cowboy hat with his suit.
She caressed the bruise on her arm, concealed by her long sleeves. Soon it would be too hot to wear concealing clothing, so she’d have to be more careful not to provoke Sterling. Her husband hadn’t liked the idea of her making this trip alone and leaving their two children behind, but he never went against her family’s wishes. The value he placed on their connections was too high.
As she strolled through the crowd, looking for someone official to help her, she thought of what she knew of Rye now. In his interviews, he always said he was happy to be living his own life, not letting anyone else define him. Secretly she envied that. Her husband and Mama had her wrapped around their fingers. More like clutched in their claws. Conforming was her only recourse.
She smoothed back her hair and made sure her dress seams were in perfect alignment. With a posture courtesy of Mrs. Augusta Keller’s Comportment School for Girls, she went to find her brother and execute her duty like a good Hollins girl.
***
Tory was pulling a mile–high lemon meringue pie out of the oven when Georgia walked in with a well coiffed blond woman in a light green linen dress.
Georgia’s worry lines showed through her heavy make–up. “Tory, this is Rye’s sister, Tammy. Rye’s still in rehearsal, so I’d appreciate it if you’d give her a glass of sweet tea while I get him.”
He had another sister? And from the looks of her, this wasn’t going to be a happy family reunion. Apparently, the family matter had plopped right into the middle of the tour.
“I’d be happy to,” Tory forced a smile at Tammy. “Please sit down.”
Georgia escaped before she had the refrigerator open. Tory walked over with the tea, and when she handed it to Tammy, she noticed the woman’s flawless French manicure and the large diamond winking in a shiny white gold setting on her wedding ring finger.
This was Rye’s sister? She looked nothing like him and had all the warmth of block of ice. Her sleek blond hair was swept carefully over her shoulders, and pearls glowed at her neck and ears. Her understated make–up showcased a classically beautiful heart–shaped face.
“I’m Tory Simmons. Rye’s cook.”
The woman eyed her outstretched hand like it was a rat before loosely grasping it. “I’m Tammy Morrison.” Her tone was dismissive.
Had she seen the pictures of them or was just being rude?
“It’s nice to meet you.” Tory shifted on her feet. “I know it’s a little early in the day, but would you like some pie? It’s fresh out of the oven.”
Tammy’s mouth tightened a fraction. “No, I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Rye’s sister looked like she could use a piece of pie. Perhaps it would chip away at that rigid posture of hers. It made Tory’s muscles hurt to look at her.
“It’s no trouble. Really, I insist. There’s nothing better than lemon meringue on a hot day.”
“My mama says the same thing,” Tammy murmured. Her voice was like fresh cream shot with a touch of Southern Comfort.
After serving her a thick slice, Tory went to work on Rye’s dinner, rubbing the chicken with fresh lemon and rosemary before shoving it in the oven. From the corner of her eye, she watched Tammy eat the pie in small bites. Unlike Rye, she didn’t show any enjoyment in eating. And she wiped the corners of her mouth as regularly as clock–work.
“This is wonderful pie,” she said after a moment. “Rye is lucky…to have you.”
The words were at odds with the tone. Yeah, she must have seen those pictures at Cowboys Red River. Great. Now she was being judged by this all–too–proper woman.
“Thank you.” Tory took a step toward her. “So, did you have a good trip? Where did you come from?”
“I took a plane from Jackson—Mississippi.”
“Oh, I’ve never been there. Is that where Rye’s from?” Okay, so sue her, she had to ask.
The woman’s spine went ramrod straight. “Rye doesn’t like to acknowledge where he’s from.”
Even though she’d been prepped by Rye about his family problems, her eyes widened at the woman’s harsh tone. Clearly Tammy didn’t like to talk about “the family matter” anymore than Rye did. “Do you have children?” she said, changing the subject.
Tammy clutched her hands. “Yes, I have two.”
“Do you have pictures?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.” And Rye’s sister gave her first genuine smile.
In the picture she pulled from her billfold, two children were smiling in their Sunday best. Both had blond hair like their mother and looked picture–perfect. They could have modeled for a box of Southern grits.
“What are their names and ages?”
“Rory is six. Annabelle is four.”
“Do you mind if I sit down?” She slid into the booth before Tammy could reply. “They’re beautiful kids. Is this your husband?” Tory ran a finger over another picture. “He’s very handsome.”
Tammy didn’t smile this time. “Thank you.”
Boots pounded down the hall, and then Rye appeared in the doorway of the bus. Georgia was right behind him, but she retreated quickly after giving his bicep a squeeze.
The look on his face was as dark as the clouds in the sky before a thunderstorm.
“What the hell are you doing here, Tammy Lynn? Is Daddy all right?”
“He’
s better,” she responded, the muscles in her face not moving a millimeter.
His frown loosened a fraction, his relief palpable. “Thank God.”
“Please remove your hat, Rye. You’re inside.”
“You sound like Mama when you say that.” He swept the hat off and bowed, his mouth curling. “Is that better?”
“Rye, where are your manners?” Tammy said, hoisting herself out of the booth.
He strode forward. “You’re on my turf, Tammy, so don’t start spouting off about manners. I’ll throw you out on your finely pressed linen ass.”
Tammy’s hand flew to her throat.
The tension between them crackled, and Tory’s stomach rippled with unease. “Rye—” she said.
“Stay out of it, Tory,” he spat. “So, if Daddy is fine, why are you here?”
“If you’d act civilized, I’d tell you,” she responded.
Tory jumped up from the booth and put a hand on Rye’s forearm. “Come on, Rye, why don’t you sit down? I’ll get you some sweet tea and a piece of pie, and your sister can tell you why she came all this way to visit you.”
His hazel eyes regarded her for a long moment. “All right. No reason we can’t be civilized.” He gave the word a hateful emphasis, but he sat down all the same, and so did Tammy.
Tory hurried to serve him. He grunted in acknowledgment and downed the tea in three gulps, wiping his mouth with his hand, barely restrained rage in his every gesture. He didn’t touch the pie. Backing out of the kitchen seemed like a great plan, since she was sure he wouldn’t want her to know his business.
“Good to meet you, Tammy. I’ll let you two catch up.”
“No, please stay,” Tammy said, her eyes locking with Tory’s, her fear visible. “Please.”
