The Plan: A Sweet and Sexy Rock Star Romantic Comedy (The Creek Water Series Book 3)

by Whitney Dineen

  “Good,” he says. “I’m gonna hold you to it.”

  I promise to see them at the club tonight for our Tuesday night family dinner. I say goodbye to them after Bobby Jean brings over my order. Then I walk back to the shop feeling a heaviness I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  Chapter 6

  Mrs. P looks proud of herself when she greets me with, “I sold a bundle of beads but being as I don’t know how to operate your machine, I told the gal she had to come back in an hour to pay for her purchases.”

  “Who was it?” I ask. Good grief, she might has well have given them away.

  “Don’t know. One of those new folks that keeps popping up in town.”

  Since my daddy and Uncle Jesse started renovating downtown, there has been an influx of twenty- and thirty-somethings starting to move into Creek Water. It’s cheaper here than living in St. Louis and Kansas City. It’s been great for business, unless of course one’s business is undercut by an overly helpful old lady.

  Mrs. Peabody asks, “Why don’t you show me how the machine works so that next time I can close the deal?”

  “I’d love to, Mrs. P, but I’m not exactly in a position to hire you. I do okay here, but I don’t make enough for additional help.”

  “Oh, honey,” my old teacher makes a sound like a pressure hose releasing air, “I don’t need any money. I’ve got my teaching pension and Elijah’s social security. I own my house free and clear. I just want to help. Plus, I like spending time with you. You’re refreshing. So, what do you say? You gonna teach me how to work here?”

  I spend too much time on my own and that’s not always a good thing, especially now that there’s so much going on in the family with Emmie’s upcoming wedding and all the excitement that entails. I’m going to need to spend time with somebody who’s not caught up in all my family drama, for sanity purposes alone.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” I tell her after offering a quick prayer to the universe that her last customer actually comes back and pays for the beads they left with.

  I spend the morning showing my old math teacher how everything operates. Afterwards, she eats half my lunch and all three of my little cookies, just like she did yesterday, before declaring she’s heading home for her afternoon nap. She promises to be back tomorrow at nine. I’m going to have to start preparing her very own lunch for her. It’s the least I can do since I’m not paying her.

  At two o’clock, I settle down and get to work on an amber and turquoise pendant I’ve been designing. It’s two hearts entwined by a larger amber stone. The result is oddly masculine, and I wonder what kind of chain or cord I can hang it from so that it will appeal to female shoppers. Men in Creek Water don’t traditionally wear jewelry other than their wedding rings.

  By the time three thirty rolls around, I haven’t had a customer in over an hour, so I decide to run upstairs and make a cup of tea. Just as I’m about to turn on the television while I wait for the water to boil, the bell over the shop door rings. Note to business owners, the ticket to more foot traffic is leaving the store in pursuit of tea. I might need to write a book. I could call it “If You Make Tea, They Will Come.”

  I turn off the pot and run downstairs to see who my customer is. When I hit the bottom step, I have a clear view of a person standing next to my brightly painted apothecary drawer full of carnelian beads. I’m either in the throes of a major hallucination or dreams really do come true. Huck Wiley, or someone who looks enough like him to be his identical twin, is standing under one of the three beaded chandeliers hanging from the ceiling above my workstation. He’s looking at the necklace I was just working on.

  He’s wearing jeans so faded and torn they look like they’re ready for the rag bin, yet I’m willing to bet he spent more on them than most people spend on ten pairs. The rock god is sporting a vintage U2 t-shirt and a black leather jacket. I can’t see what his shoes look like because there’s a display case blocking my view, but I’d put money on biker boots.

  The floorboards creak as I step forward. My disbelieving eyes focus like a thirsty wanderer lost in the desert having just spotted a distant source of water. Whoever he is, he turns and looks right at me. His smile is so bright I may have gasped out loud in response. Seven more steps land me directly in front of him.

  “Can I help you?” My tone is prim, reminiscent of a school librarian daring a student to try to check out a book before paying his overdue fine.

  “Hey there,” he croons in that voice, the one I know so well from having spent hours listening to his music. My mouth hangs open like I’m a drooling idiot, but I can’t seem to close it. “I heard you gave beading classes and I was wondering if you have a special session for kids.”

  I temporarily forget that he and I speak the same language. Did he just ask me about beading classes? I must be experiencing a particularly vivid fantasy. Rock star Huck Wiley can’t possibly be a closet beader, can he? Wait, he said “for kids” … Maybe I fell asleep when I went upstairs to make tea and this dream is making up for last night’s ball and chain fiasco. If so, it’s a good one.

  The vision in front of me releases an easy laugh, a real laugh. Huck Wiley is probably used to odd reactions from strange women, and let me say, I’m doing my darndest to behave strangely. “Would you tell me when those classes are?” he persists.

  Forcing myself to behave as normally as possible, I robotically tell him, “I have one on Wednesday and Thursday right after school, so four o’clock. They last for an hour and the price of the class includes the materials for one bracelet. It usually takes four classes to complete a project.” I don’t mean to brag, but my acting skills have gone untapped until now and I managed to get that whole sentence out without tripping over my tongue.

  He nods. “Would you be available for a private lesson during the morning sometime?”

  I shrug awkwardly like I’m having some kind of seizure. “For now, or during the summer?” What kid isn’t at school during school hours now?

  “My daughter will be doing online school and I’d like for her to have a break during the day. You know, other kids get recess and lunch, I’d like for Maggie to get out and about.”

  My jaw drops wide open. My earlier attempts at appearing normal have failed me. I’m back to feeling like I’m in a science fiction television show and I’ve just leaped out of my body. It’s like I’m watching me have this conversation with the biggest rock star of our time from the ceiling. The part of me that’s escaped its confines wants to shout down to the rest of me, “Close your mouth, girl!” But I can’t, so I don’t.

  Instead, I say, “I’m sorry, but are you Huck Wiley?”

  “I am.”

  “Why are you here?” I demand. “Don’t you live in Los Angeles or something?”

  “Or something,” he answers evasively. Before he can say anything else, I reach across the counter and touch the man’s face. His slightly stubbly beard scratches at my fingertips and then I swear I don’t know what comes over me, but I pinch him.

  He jumps back and releases a short bark of surprise, assuring me he’s not some figment I’ve conjured. “I’m so sorry,” I say, quickly regaining my senses. “I thought maybe I was dreaming you up or something.”

  “I think you’re supposed to pinch yourself when you think you’re dreaming,” he says, looking at me like I might be an escaped mental patient.

  “It’s just this is the first time a person as famous as you has stepped foot in my shop, or in Creek Water for that matter.” Then I repeat, “What are you doing here?”

  “My daughter and I are staying in town for a couple of months.” He glances around as though looking for reporters before cautiously saying, “Whenever a tour ends, we pick a new place and vacation there so we can reconnect.”

  “What does that mean?” His life certainly isn’t any of my business, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  He says, “Maggie stays with family while I’m on tour. She doesn’t want to share me when
I have time off, so instead of going home, we choose a location and cram in as much time together as we can before life gets busy again.”

  “But Creek Water, Missouri? Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. It’s my hometown. But what in the world do we have that could interest the likes of you?”

  He arches an eyebrow like a dark brown question mark forming over his penetrating green gaze. “I’m currently interested in beading lessons for my little girl. Is that something you think you might be able to help me with or should I look elsewhere?”

  “I, I, I …” I appear to have developed a stutter. “I’d be happy to teach, um, Maggie. When would you like for her to start?”

  “She’s arriving later in the week. Why don’t we stop by once she’s here and has a chance to get settled?”

  “Okay, sure. Why don’t you do that?” I sound like a full-blooded moron.

  “You already know who I am,” he croons. “And I hate to be at a disadvantage.”

  I don’t take the hint; I just keep staring at him.

  “Who are you?” he demands.

  I thrust my hand out so quickly, he instinctively steps backwards like I was going to try to rip out his heart or something. “Amelia Frothingham. I’m Amelia Frothingham.”

  A wicked grin takes over his face as he steps forward and takes my hand. Tingles immediately form at the source of contact and spread through my extremities like an electric shock. Oh. My. God. I’m touching Huck Wiley, Mr. Untethered himself.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Amelia. You can call me Huck,” he drawls somewhat carefully, causing my insides to liquify.

  And, boy howdy, I’m going to. I’m going to use his name as often as humanly possible, if for no other reason than to assure myself he’s real. Huck Wiley is in Creek Water, Missouri.

  I’ve got to tell somebody about this, but I don’t know who. I can’t tell Mama or the whole town will know he’s here. I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel protective of him. I think about calling Emmie, but this doesn’t seem like something you tell a person over the phone. It’s the kind of news you share in person.

  As the rock legend saunters out of my store like it’s the most natural place in the world for him to be, I decide to drive over to the old sewing machine factory where Emmie works. I lock the door quickly, turn over the “Closed” sign in the window, and beat it out the back door.

  As soon as I get into my car, I put on the Untethered CD and fast forward to “Wicked Hold.” The lyrics flood my senses like Huck Wiley is right next to me—which he just was! I close my eyes as the tribal beat of a drum starts like it’s in the far-off distance. A steel guitar picks up the rhythm and glides the melody forward like a baseball player sliding into home base. When the electric guitar arrives, it’s only a few short measures before Huck’s distinctively raspy voice takes over.

  Honest love, forever scorned.

  Fabled hope withered and gone.

  Hungry heart, wanting more.

  Where’s the savior at my door?

  Where’s the savior at my door? Is that who Huck is to me, the savior at my door?

  Ever since I woke up this morning, I’ve been feeling like I needed something. Was it saving? But from what? Even as I ask myself the question, I realize I know the answer. I need to be saved from change. I don’t like change; I don’t respond well to it. The whole reason I still live in my hometown is because I can’t comprehend opening my life up to a whole new group of people, a whole new lifestyle.

  I like knowing my family is close by, even if they can be as much of a chore as a comfort. I like driving down the same streets I’ve driven down my whole life; I like eating at the same restaurants and having Cheryl Lynn trim my ends every six weeks like clockwork.

  So, how can Huck save me from change, when his appearance in town represents the biggest change of all?

  Chapter 7

  “Hey, sis,” my brother Beau calls out. “What are you doin’ here? Isn’t your shop open until five thirty?”

  As I mentioned, my daddy and uncle Jesse recently renovated the old sewing machine factory down by the river. The second floor hosts office space where Beau has his real estate company. I run into him as soon as I walk into the building.

  “Hey, Beau,” I say, offering him a hug. “It is, but the most extraordinary thing just happened, and I wanted to come over and share the news with Emmie.”

  “Not with me?” he pretends insult. “What, did you find some pretty new beads you had to tell her about?” The look on my face is intended to convey annoyance, which I assume it’s doing.

  “Or …” he waits a beat before asking, “did a certain rock star come into your place inquiring about a beading class for his daughter?”

  “How did you know that?” I demand.

  “’Cause I sent him.”

  “Beauregard Frothingham, what are you talking about?”

  He says, “Last week one of our sister branches received word that Huck was looking to rent a place in the area. They called me to see if I had something. I told them about the lofts upstairs, but he wanted a house, so I recommended Lexi’s place. He approved it after seeing pictures yesterday. I took him over there this morning.”

  “You what? Why in the world would you suggest that man stay at your girlfriend’s house? Are you insane?”

  He laughs. “You think she’s going to leave me for him or something?”

  “I would,” I say in no uncertain terms. “I mean what do you have that he doesn’t have a million times more of?”

  “Her heart,” he says with a smug grin. “Plus, he’s not her type. I asked her before setting it up.”

  “How in the world did you do that?”

  “The other night over dinner I said, ‘That Huck Wiley sure is something, huh?’”

  “What did she say?” I demand.

  “She asked if I had a crush on him. I assured her that he wasn’t my type, and then she assured me that he wasn’t her type, either.”

  “How did she do that?”

  Beau waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “You sure you want to know?”

  “Yuck, no!” I tell him. “I’ll take your word for it. How did my name come up?”

  “Huck asked about things his daughter could do while they were in town and I suggested your bead shop.” He knocks me in the shoulder playfully and adds, “’Cause I know he’s your type.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Girl, you’ve been playing that man’s music for the better part of ten years like it’s your own personal soundtrack.”

  I was not aware my esteem for Huck was common knowledge. “He’s a great artist,” I say, trying to convince my brother that my interest is based purely on musical ability.

  Beau isn’t buying it. “Uh-huh. I’m sure you’re not in the least bit drawn to him physically.” Then he rolls his eyes to emphasize the extent of his disbelief.

  “He is something, isn’t he?” There’s no point in lying to Beau. He knows me too well.

  “Well, like I said, he’s not my type, but from a completely heterosexual standpoint, I’d have to admit he’s pretty easy on the eyes.”

  “Does the whole family know about him staying here?”

  “Nope. I’m not going to say anything, and neither is Lexi. We figure they’ll find out eventually, but there’s no point in spreading the word too soon.”

  “But I can tell Emmie, right?” I mean, that’s why I’m here after all.

  “Shoot, yeah. Go tell her. Just make sure you mention that we’re keeping the news on the down-low from our folks. It wouldn’t look very professional of me to help Huck find a house and then have my mama show up on his doorstep with an apple Brown Betty and a thousand personal questions.”

  “As if she’d stop at a thousand. I’ll see you at dinner,” I tell my brother and make my way over to Emmie’s store.

  Emmie is helping Cootie Wilcox when I walk in. Cootie is a nasty piece of work. She’s my mama’s age and, like Mama a
nd Daddy, she has lived in town her whole life. She’s pretty much the source all the malicious gossip and unhappy tidings down at the country club where she’s the president of Ladies Affairs.

  Beau used to date her daughter, but that blew up after Shelby had a miscarriage and moved to New York City. If Cootie hated my family before, which she did, the feeling is a hundred times worse now. She blames us for Shelby’s defection. For this reason alone, I’m surprised she’s patronizing Emmie’s shop.

  Emmie says, “Mrs. Wilcox, I’d love to help you, but like I said, we don’t carry that brand of glassware here.”

  “Why not?” Cootie demands.

  “Because there’s not enough demand for it,” my cousin tells her.

  “What am I, chopped liver?” Cootie insists on knowing.

  “No, ma’am, of course you aren’t.” Emmie’s working overtime trying to be polite. “I suggest you order the items you’re looking for online.”

  “But I’m having a dinner party tonight,” she replies. “And one of my glasses broke. I need to replace it today.”

  “Have you called the shops in Millersville?” Emmie asks.

  “I have not. I thought I would try here first,” the most stuck up member of our town replies.

  “Well, as you can see, I don’t carry them, but I wish you the best of luck and hope we see you again soon.” How Emmie can say that with a straight face is anybody’s guess.

  Cootie sticks her nose so high up in the air it looks like she’s trying to sniff the ceiling. “See if I ever come in here again,” she sneers nastily.

  “Have yourself a good day, Mrs. Wilcox,” my cousin says before spotting me.

  Cootie storms by me without so much as a by-your-leave. In fact, she nearly knocks me over in her haste to vacate the premises.

  “Amelia,” Emmie greets. “What in the world are you doing here during store hours?”

  I look around to make sure no one is in listening distance before answering, “I’ve got some news.”

  Chapter 8

  “This is more exciting than the time the circus train went off the tracks when we were kids!” Emmie exclaims.