Читать книгу Cowboy Strong - Stacy Finz - Страница 11

Chapter 2

Gina walked around the cabin, trying to decide whether to find the nearest hotel or haul ass back to Los Angeles. Ultimately, the prospect of the paparazzi chasing her down Interstate 5 convinced her to stay put.

But this place.

She held her nose and spent the next ten minutes wheeling her suitcases into what served as the master bedroom. With an old dish towel from the kitchen, she dusted down the closet and bureau before unpacking. Terry cloth wasn’t enough to clean the bathroom. A gallon of gasoline and a match might be the only way to save it.

Nevertheless, she found a can of scouring powder and some steel wool under the kitchen sink and went to work on the tub, then the toilet and sink. It didn’t sparkle when she finished, but at least she was no longer afraid of contracting a disease.

The white tile floor was next on her agenda and she went in search of a mop. At home, in Malibu, she had people to scrub her floors and do just about anything else she didn’t have time for, including cooking.

Which was ironic.

But she was too busy running a multimillion-dollar company and taping thirteen episodes a season of her show, Now That’s Italian!, for FoodFlicks. Even her cookbooks were written by someone else now. Sometimes she wondered if she even remembered how to make scrambled eggs.

Stop whining.

She reminded herself that she’d achieved the dream. Not the cooking so much, which had been her escape, her joy, the one thing that made her feel loved. No, her kitchen skills had never started out as part of the master plan. But being rich and famous…yeah, that had always been the goal.

And now she stood a good chance of losing it all.

There wasn’t a mop anywhere. Not in the pantry or the laundry room, or in the hallway linen closet. But she did find soap, a bucket, and a scrub brush. On her hands and knees, she cleaned the floor, which wasn’t as dirty as it looked. Just old and chipped and faded.

And the physical labor did her good, even in the ninety-degree weather. It helped work off her nervous energy.

Her T-shirt stuck to her like a second skin. Outside, she could hear the creek flowing and for a rash second considered going in. Sawyer had said something about fishing off the porch and Gina didn’t swim where she ate.

Sawyer…ugh…what a jerk. She was trying to escape the press, not shack up next door to it.

After he’d dumped her off here, Gina had called Wendy to give her a piece of her mind. Wendy had used that calming voice of hers to talk her off a ledge. She trusted Wendy’s judgment; she really did. Dalton and Associates was the best in the business when it came to quelling a crisis and Gina’s situation had morphed into full-blown catastrophe. But she was out of her depth in Dry Creek Ranch. Raised in Beverly Hills, dirt roads and cattle crossings gave her hives.

At least Sawyer’s apartment had been modern and rather gorgeous, though it pained her to admit it. This place, though, didn’t even have a decent stove. It was freaking electric and not even induction. And a Mr. Coffee? Who even used those anymore? She planned to remedy that as soon as possible and hoped to God UPS, FedEx, or the US Postal Service delivered here in the middle of nowhere.

She tugged off her sticky T-shirt and slipped off her shorts for a quick shower, letting a stream of cool water sluice over her. After twenty minutes, she got out of the tub, feeling human again.

She rummaged through her newly-hung clothes, trying to find something that wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Gina finally settled on a lightweight peasant dress she’d bought at Fred Segal ages ago because she’d liked the way the blue fabric had matched her eyes. The dress still had the tags on it. Slipping on a pair of sandals, she grabbed her purse and hiked to Sawyer’s garage to fetch her car.

His Range Rover was still parked in the driveway. She stared up at the barn loft, but couldn’t make out any signs of life through the big picture windows, not that she cared. How hard could it be to find the coffee shop he’d told her about? That’s what GPS was for.

She pushed her oversized sunglasses up on her nose, adjusted her floppy hat, and opened the garage door. There was probably a switch that did it automatically, but she had no idea where it was.

She backed her BMW out. Instead of taking the dirt road again, she used the same blacktop driveway she’d taken the night before and followed it to the gate. There, she set her GPS for the center of Dry Creek.

Ten minutes later, she was hopelessly lost on a back road. The highway was nowhere in sight and nothing looked familiar. Just a lot of barns, cows, goats, and an occasional house. She couldn’t deny that the scenery was picturesque. It kind of reminded her of the Tuscan countryside where her father had grown up.

But hunger and frustration killed any chance of enjoying the view.

There hadn’t been much food in Sawyer’s house. Just a jar of beluga caviar, a heel of Manchego cheese, and some stale crackers. She’d helped herself to all of it, as well as to Sawyer’s excellent wine collection. The man had good taste, she’d give him that.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at her GPS, which had the good grace not to yell back. She’d managed to navigate Los Angeles’s labyrinth of freeways just fine. But a tiny backwater…She threw up her hands, then hung a U-turn.

“Recalculating,” the damned GPS whined.

She drove for what seemed like miles. But this time, judging by the Dry Creek sign—Welcome to the best cowtown in America—the fickle piece of equipment had come through. She cruised Mother Lode Road, peering through her window at the sights. Or rather the lack of them. Sawyer’s coffee shop, which didn’t appear to have a name. The obligatory supermarket, a seamstress shop with the cutesy name of Sew What, and a mishmash of other stores.

She hung a right on Main Street and was equally disappointed. A construction company, some kind of county office complex, a Greyhound bus station, and as Main came to the end of the road, a high school and a park.

Nothing to see here, folks.

She pulled into a gas station, flipped around, and drove back to the coffee shop. Parking was definitely not a problem in this town. Gina pulled her hat down lower over her forehead and made her way to the restaurant. From the sidewalk it looked like a greasy spoon. There was a menu taped to the front door and she stood there a while perusing the offerings. Basic truck stop fare with a Southern flavor, which done right could take you to heaven.

Gina had no illusions that this little diner would take her anywhere other than to heartburn hell. But starvation trumped standards.

She let herself in and a bell hanging from the door jangled. The restaurant was unexpectedly crowded, but it was dinnertime after all. The hostess, a sturdy middle-aged woman wearing an apron, pointed to a sign-up sheet and shouted something into the kitchen. Gina scrawled Linda Jackson on the page. It was her business manager’s name and generic enough not to arouse suspicion.

She sat on the bench, an old wagon seat, and waited for her name to be called. The place was just as unimpressive on the inside as it had been on the outside. A cash register that looked as old as Gina, scarred wooden tables and chairs, and lots of photographs of cattle. The pastry case was cleaned out, typically a good sign this time of day. There was a cake display fridge that was filled with pies and other desserts that looked decent. Gina wondered if they were made in-house.

The hostess walked over, giving Gina a thorough once-over. She must’ve looked ridiculous wearing her sunglasses inside the restaurant, not to mention the floppy hat. But it was better than being recognized.

“There’s a space at the counter if you’re interested.”

“I’ll wait for a table.”

“Suit yourself,” she said like she thought Gina was being high-maintenance and walked away to greet a couple who’d just come in.

By the time a table came available, Gina had come close to leaving and hitting up the grocery store for something she could eat in her car. This town needed another restaurant. There probably wasn’t anything else for hundreds of miles, though she remembered driving through a good-sized town only thirty minutes from the ranch.

Maybe it was Taco Tuesday on Saturday here at the greasy spoon. At this point she didn’t care as long as she got fed. Miss Congeniality led her to a table.

“What wines do you have by the glass?” As soon as the words left her mouth she realized the ridiculousness of it. “Never mind, I’ll just have a San Pellegrino. You do have that, right?”

“All day long,” the hostess said in a saccharine voice that was blatantly sarcastic. “I’ll give you time to look over the menu.” The hostess, who apparently seconded as a server, moved on to another table, then back to the kitchen.

She returned a short time later with Gina’s San Pellegrino and a tall, frosty glass of something else. “My husband told me to tell you this is on the house.”

Her husband? Gina craned her neck around the large woman to see if there was a man behind her.

“In the kitchen,” the woman said and rolled her eyes. “It’s our homemade sarsaparilla.”

Aha, she was the owner. Gina was about to thank her for the drink when someone at the table next door beckoned the woman over. Laney, they called her.

Gina was used to getting comped at restaurants. Everyone wanted something from a FoodFlicks star. A feature spot on the show, product placement, or just to rub elbows with a celebrity. But here, in her disguise, no one knew her from Adam.

Gina took a sip, not expecting much. And then pow! It was amazingly good. Better than any wannabe sarsaparillas she’d ever tasted, which had mostly been root beer with a hint of licorice. This, though, had notes of vanilla and caramel and a touch of wintergreen. No artificial flavors were used, according to her taste buds, which were usually right on the mark. Just real sarsaparilla root. There was a nice even balance between bitter and sweet.

She took a few more sips to make sure the heat and thirst hadn’t tricked her into believing the homemade concoction was better than it truly was. But after draining half her glass she came to the same conclusion: the sarsaparilla was a home run.

And smart.

It was the perfect drink for a Southern-style diner with a decidedly cowboy vibe. She hadn’t been in the food biz for more than a decade to not recognize the marketing genius of it, especially if the restaurant catered to tourists. And judging from the crowd, it did.

Complimentary sarsaparillas for everyone who walks in the door to set the mood and a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop becomes a destination restaurant.

Laney returned. “What’ll you have?”

“What’s the house specialty?”

“Everything here is special, but we’re most famous for our chicken and waffles.”

“I’ll have that and a side of collard greens. The sarsaparilla was amazing, by the way.”

Laney didn’t bother to write down the order in her notebook; she was too busy giving Gina side-eye. “If you think those sunglasses and hat are working, you’re crazy in the head. I knew you were Gina DeRose the minute you walked in, though you’re skinnier in real life. I guess what they say about the camera adding ten pounds is true.” Her eyes skimmed Gina’s chest and she tsk-tsked. “You check yourself into that rehab facility down the road or are you staying with the Dalton boys?”

Boys? If Laney was referring to Sawyer, he was no boy. Not even close.

She took in a deep breath and slowly glanced around the restaurant, worried that everyone in the place had also made her. “Shush,” she told Laney and motioned for her to sit down. “Rehab? What in heavens for?”

Laney arched one dark brow. “Sex addiction.”

“Give me a break. Does everyone know who I am?”

“Jimmy Ray didn’t believe me when I told him, but I can’t speak for everyone else. Did Dan and Wendy send you here to hide?”

Dan must’ve been Dry Creek’s success story. According to Wendy, he grew up in this godforsaken town. It stood to reason that everyone here knew him.

She gave a slight nod. “Are you planning to rat me out?” Tabloid reporters would pay Laney good money for Gina’s location.

“Not if you give me your recipe for that strawberry shortcake you’re famous for.”

The cake mix was one of Gina’s top-selling items. It was 100 percent organic and just required eggs, milk instead of water (a trick to add density, fat, and flavor) and, of course, strawberries. Last year, they’d cut a deal with Whole Foods to double the grocer’s order. The secret was putting mascarpone in the cream frosting (sold separately) and flavoring the berries with a bottle of Gina DeRose basil syrup. Everyone from Martha Stewart to two first ladies had begged her for the recipe to make the cake from scratch.

“You’re blackmailing me?” Gina continued to peer around the dining room to see if anyone else had identified her yet. What was she thinking coming out in public? That was her problem: She let her impulsiveness be her guide.

From now on she vowed to stay on the ranch and order everything she needed from the internet.

“You bet I am,” Laney said.

“I’ll trade you for the sarsaparilla recipe.” At least Gina could do something with that.

“Not on your life, sugar.” Laney got to her feet. “I’ll put in your order.”

Gina deliberated on whether to cancel dinner and hightail it back to the log shack from hell. In the end, she decided she was too hungry to drive. Besides, the smell of fried chicken had hypnotized her.

While waiting, she took in the crowd. Definitely not a Saturday-night scene in Los Angeles. No designer clothes, just a lot of cowboy hats and boots. If she had to guess, the tourists up for a weekend in Gold Country were the diners in shorts and T-shirts.

Occasionally, a man in a chef’s jacket popped his head through the window separating the kitchen from the dining room to call something to Laney. He must’ve been Jimmy Ray.

Let’s see what you got, Jimmy.

If the food was as good as the sarsaparilla, the trip to town wouldn’t be a total loss. But Gina had her doubts.

Laney finally brought her meal, which was large enough to feed Los Angeles. At first, she thought she was getting special treatment because…uh, Gina DeRose. But it was the same portion size everyone else in the joint got.

“Enjoy,” Laney said. “You can leave the cake recipe with the check.”

“You’d really sell me out?” Gina had been observing Laney for most of the evening. She wasn’t the hard-ass she pretended to be. In fact, Gina could tell which diners were local and which were visiting based on who Laney hugged.

“Faster than a hot knife through butter.”

“Whatever.” Gina stifled an eye roll. She’d give her the damn recipe and leave out the two extra egg yolks she threw in to make the cake moister, like she’d done with everyone else.

“Jimmy Ray wants to know what you think.” Laney’s gaze dropped to the heaping plate of chicken and waffles and greens. “Holler when you’re done.”

As soon as Laney left, Gina layered her fork with a crispy piece of chicken and slice of fluffy sweet-potato waffle and took a bite, letting the flavors—sweet from the cane syrup and a little spicy from the Tabasco—meld on her tongue.

Holy mother of God, was it good. So good she wanted to cry. She dipped into the collard greens and closed her eyes to savor the salty, pungent flavor. Everything down to the bits of smoky bacon was sublime.

How the hell did she not know about this place?

She continued stuffing her face while searching Google on her phone with one finger. Besides a smattering of Yelp reviews, there was nothing about a coffee shop in Dry Creek, California. No writeups or reviews in Zagat, Eater, TripAdvisor, Michelin Guide, or anything else.

Laney returned to find that Gina had cleaned her plate. “For a skinny girl, you sure can pack it away. I brought you a slice of my chess pie.”

“Laney, I don’t think I can eat another bite.”

“Just a little taste. You can bring the rest home with ya.” Laney put her hands on her hips and stayed rooted in her spot.

No didn’t appear to be an option.

Besides, Gina wanted to know if it was as good as everything else she’d eaten. She took a small bite, then another one, and before she knew it had devoured half the slice. Laney watched, a smug smile playing on her lips.

“Oh my God,” Gina said around another bite. “I’m going to explode, but can’t stop.” She pointed at the pie with her fork. “You guys should wholesale this.”

Laney grabbed Gina’s arm. “Tell that to Jimmy Ray.” She dragged Gina through the dining room.

Jimmy Ray was holding down the line by himself.

“Come meet Gina DeRose,” Laney said to him and Gina shushed her again. “No one can hear us out there.”

Jimmy Ray dropped a few battered chicken pieces into a skillet, took off his plastic gloves, and shook Gina’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. How was your supper?”

“So good that I think you guys should franchise.”

“Nah,” he said, but grinned with pride. “We like the coffee shop just the way it is, don’t we, Laney?”

Laney pulled a face. “I wouldn’t mind being rich for a change.”

Jimmy Ray kissed his wife on the head and said to Gina, “I hear you’re staying at Dry Creek Ranch.”

The word was certainly out. Gina gave it twenty-four hours before the paparazzi came knocking on her Unabomber cabin.

“Your wife promised not to tell anyone as long as I gave her my strawberry shortcake recipe.” Gina locked eyes with Laney and squinted in challenge.

Jimmy Ray laughed. “She’s joshing you. She won’t tell a soul, will you, Laney?”

“We made a deal” was her response. The woman drove a hard bargain.

Gina paid her bill and scribbled the recipe on a page in Laney’s order pad. On her way out of town, she stopped at the Dry Creek Market, deciding to risk detection for a few days’ worth of provisions.

The grocery store wasn’t the Santa Monica farmers’ market, but it didn’t completely suck. Gina left with a shopping cart full of grocery bags.

By the time she got home and put everything away, she was exhausted. She would’ve sat outside on what passed for a porch, but there were bugs everywhere and there wasn’t any outdoor furniture to speak of, just an old wine barrel turned upside down.

She poured herself a glass of wine, took it to the monstrosity of a couch, and scrolled through her emails on her phone. Her manager had sent a couple of invoices for her to sign off on; her agent and lawyer notified her that they were still fighting with FoodFlicks over the public morals clause in her contract; and Gayle King from CBS This Morning wanted an interview. Blah, blah, blah.

She switched to her fan email account, which had been taken over by Candace Clay devotees, threatening to boycott Gina’s show and her products. One person hoped she died and another offered to help her find Jesus.

Why are you reading these?

She put the phone down on the coffee table. It had a layer of dust as thick as Candace’s mascara. She went in search of a rag or the terry-cloth towel she’d used earlier, but got her laptop instead. Back on the couch, she flipped it open, turned it on, and did a search under her and Danny Clay’s names.

It was stupid, but she couldn’t help herself.

She clicked on the picture she’d been looking for and blew it up on the screen. There they were, barely clothed, on a sandy beach together. Danny with an ear-to-ear smile on his face. Gina’s breasts on display, looking even perkier than they did on her TV show.

She stared at the photo a long time, like she’d done a million times since the picture had hit the internet and had ruined her perfect life, then quickly slapped down the cover of her laptop.