Crazy in Love (5 page)

“No,” he said. A spark of sadness nailed him in the gut. “You’re not.”

She averted her gaze to the door. “Help yourself to any food or drinks in the fridge and leave your dishes or glasses in the sink. I’ll wash them when I get back. I started a fire, so that should keep the place warm for a few hours. There are satellite stations, including Showtime and HBO, if the television is on channel three and—”

“I don’t watch TV,” he interrupted. “And I know how to light a fire if I get cold.”

She stared. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel incompetent, it’s more me than you.”

He felt his brows pinch in confusion.

“I’ve never left at night when there’s someone staying at the inn. I’ve always been here or sent out for something if I need it.”

It was clear that Rachael had gotten accustomed to taking care of people, of being the homemaker, the chef, the hostess, etcetera, etcetera. It was a funny, but people buzzed around Cole all day, telling him to do this and that, say this and not that…but they didn’t actually seem to worry about his well-being. He’d never felt more nurtured than he had the last two days. And she hadn’t even done anything for him. She’d cleaned up, cooked a few meals, and lit a couple fires.

It wasn’t what she was doing, he realized. It was the details. Her concerns over his comfort while she went out, and the quality of the fire and his dinner. She seemed to genuinely care about him…not
him
, specifically of course, but over her guest.

Did she treat every traveller this way? Must’ve been exhausting.

“I understand,” he said. “Hope your date goes well.”

“Thanks.” She fluffed her hair over her shoulder, and gave off a sexy, confident vibe. It was an odd thought, but weren’t women supposed to be nervous when going on a first date? “Hope it goes so well that I don’t see you until dawn.”

And with a sexy grin, she walked out the door, leaving the inn quiet and dark.

Keep busy. Dive into work.

He called Rita to check on the status of the show. She reassured him that everything was going as planned. Light and sound checks ran perfectly. Setup was finished. They’d spend tomorrow doing last minute run-throughs. He’d need to be there in the early morning to check everything over—his demand, not hers—and then report no later than 6 o’clock to get ready for the show itself.

He hung up, and twiddled his thumbs a whole two seconds before washing the dishes he’d made in the sink. He padded upstairs and took what he thought was the longest shower of his life, and then dressed in jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt.

It’d only been thirty minutes since Rachael left.

This was what Rita had wanted. She’d said he needed peace and quiet. She’d said the quaint town of Blue Lake would do him good after the train wreck performance in Houston.

As he walked out the French doors onto the back lawn, he breathed in the cold night air. His lungs didn’t constrict, the way they did in Los Angeles when he took deep breaths. He looked up at the bright smattering of stars and exhaled.

A sense of calm washed over him, but he wasn’t going back into the inn alone.

Maybe he’d meet the crew at their hotel and they could grab a few drinks.

As he strode down Main Street toward the center of town, he fished out his cell and called Rita again. This time, there was no answer. He searched the internet for their hotel, but didn’t have a signal.

Exactly how deep into the Sierra Nevada Mountains were they?

He kept walking, but something struck him as odd. He strode right down the middle of the street without people ambushing him for autographs. A few women caught his eye, smiled and whispered to one another as if they recognized him, but they didn’t run to his side, screaming their heads off.

It was almost as if they all knew who he was, yet respected his space.

Blue Lake was definitely a different beast than Los Angeles, in a surprisingly refreshing way.

Before he knew it, he stood beneath a wooden awning with a swinging sign that read “Angie’s.”

He glanced in the front window. The place didn’t look like a hole in the wall at all. Candlelight on every table created a warm feel that was inviting and homey, while silver decorations hanging from the walls added hints of modern décor.

It was exactly the place he’d take a woman like Rachael.

Determined not to be seen and look like a stalker, Cole kept his eyes on the wooden-planked sidewalk and stormed by the windows. And bumped right into someone who pushed out the front door. He got one glimpse of the woman with the flowing blonde hair and dark gray sweater, before he accidently knocked her to the ground.

Rachael.

* * *

Someone blindsided her, slamming against her shoulder like a bulldozer.

“Oof!”

The heel of her boot caught on a wood plank. She tripped.

Strong hands roped beneath her arms and caught her before she hit the ground. She steadied herself, got her feet beneath her and took a good hard look at who’d knocked into her…and then caught her. She lost her breath, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the fall or the sight of Cole, his honey-brown eyes softened with worry.

“Are you all right?” he asked, picking up her purse from the gutter.

She shook her head so it’d stop fuzzing and took her purse. “Yes, I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

“Going for a walk.” He glanced over her shoulder as if he was expecting someone to follow her out. “Where’s your date?”

“He, ah…”
Geez, this was going to sound lame
. “…cancelled.”

“Seriously?” He gawked. “Did he at least say why he stood you up?”

“He didn’t ditch me, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She started walking away from the inn and toward the center of town. It was a nice night and she’d gotten all dressed up for nothing. No point in rushing back. “He’s a firefighter and they got a call about a fire up the highway. They’re understaffed, so he volunteered to go.”

She completely understood, but it was a letdown nonetheless. She’d been excited to start something that could really go somewhere. Joey was everything she’d ever wanted—handsome and stable, a guy who was down-to-earth and sensitive.

Cole on the other hand, was the opposite. He wasn’t handsome—not even close. He was gorgeous and ions out of her league. He wasn’t stable because he was leaving on Sunday. Down to earth? Not with the gazillion guitars boxed in her living room. He had a sense of humor, but in a dry, cocky sense. And she felt exposed when he was near. Vulnerable and not like herself. She wasn’t in control and didn’t like it one bit.

“He rescheduled for Sunday night,” she threw in for his benefit.

“He stood you up to put out a fire? That’s noble of him.” Cole said, matching her pace as she sauntered down the street. “Either that or it’s the perfect way to get out of a date and still be praised for it.”

She backhanded him playfully in the shoulder.

“The guy’s either a hero or a genius.” He shrugged. “I should remember that the next time I want to skip out on a dame.”

She scoffed, but a teasing smile pulled at her lips. “I bet you would.”

He stopped in front of Shots Saloon, one of the oldest bars in the county. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She
was
all dressed up with nowhere to go. And Shots Saloon had the best Buffalo wings in the state. Since Joey stood her up, she hadn’t had dinner yet. But she didn’t want Cole to think this was a date. Because it wasn’t.

“One drink,” she said, spinning around. “But I’m buying my own.”

Chapter Seven

One Guinness and three shots of Jameson Whiskey later, Rachael’s world spun. After the first drink, she’d said she needed to stop. She’d told Cole that was her limit. Yet he’d already lined up three shots for each of them.

How he knew Jameson was her favorite, she didn’t know, but she took the shots in thanks and after clinking the glass against his, shot them all back.

Cole stared as if he couldn’t believe it, and then raced to finish off his own whiskey line-up.

As the bar began to empty out, Cole stood and tapped her on the shoulder. Sparks flew down her arms, humming through her fingers. Each time he’d touched her tonight—inadvertently or otherwise—she’d had the same reaction to him. She couldn’t shake it.

“Pool table’s finally free,” he said. “Do you play?”

“Psht.” Rachael buzzed her lips together to make the wet sound. Her lips were already tingly; another few minutes and they’d be completely numb. “I won a pool championship back in college.”

“Really?” He smiled and dropped his ID on the bar. “Where’d you go to school?”

The bartender traded Cole’s ID for the cue ball.

“UC Santa Cruz,” she said, her words slipping and sliding together. “Did you go to school? College, I mean.”

“No, that path wasn’t in the cards for me.”

Cue ball in hand, he turned and strode toward the back of the bar, where a pool table was situated beneath two Coca-Cola umbrella lights. It was private in back, with dim lights and not a single patron within earshot. While Rachael dug four quarters out of her purse and fumbled to stick them in the pool table slots, Cole measured sticks on the rack against the wall.

“How’d you get started in music?” she asked, leaning against the table.

“Why do I get the feeling our game of pool is going to turn into Twenty Questions?”

He handed her a stick and set his own on the table.

Okay, so Cole was used to keeping things private. Made sense. If Rachael had her personal business spread over the cover of every gossip magazine, she might’ve been inclined to keep everyone out, too. But he’d taken her out of her comfort zone the last two days; it was his turn.

“Want to play Sink It or Spill It?”

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “What the hell is that?”

A game she used to play with friends in college after a few drinks. Truth or Dare with a pool table twist.

He slid the rack over the balls, releasing them from their triangle prison, and then bent over the opposite side of the table and lined up his first shot.

“You sink a ball or have to tell me something nobody knows about you,” she said.

“Peachy.” He eyed the cue ball, hesitating. “Same goes for you, right?”

“Yup.”

Nodding, Cole let the stick fly over his fingers. It hit the cue ball with a deafening crack. Two striped balls dropped into the pockets.

He shrugged. “You’re not the only one who can play.”

Damn. If she wanted to win—and get anything out of him in the process—she’d have to distract him.

As Cole moved around, lining up his next shot, Rachael stood at the end of the long table. She held the stick upright and rested her hands near the top. Ever so slowly, she slid her hands down, one after another, stroking the wooden shaft.

At first, he didn’t notice. He studied the chaos on the table, analyzing possible angles. But then, as he bent and aimed, she slid her hands lower and rolled her fingers over the wood. She looked away and sighed, pretending not to know what she was doing. But he saw.

He focused on a striped ball in the corner, shot, and missed.

“Now…how’d you get started in music?” she asked again.

Swiping his hand across his jaw, Cole backed away from the table. “I wasn’t what you’d call a good student,” he said. “I ditched school, smoked, and partied too hard. One day my junior year, my music teacher gave me a guitar. My first one. He taught me how to play. After that, I was hooked.”

“That’s not what I was expecting,” she said. “I would’ve thought you were born with a guitar on your hip.”

She lined up her shot and sank the yellow ball into the side pocket. She aimed at another and dropped that one too, banking it off the side. She missed her third shot, and huffed, backing away from the table.

“On a scale of one-to-ten,” he said, smirking, “how disappointed were you that Joey couldn’t make it tonight?”

If she were being honest with herself, she’d say she wasn’t disappointed at all. Not once she stepped out of Angie’s and bumped into Cole.

“Five,” she said finally. “It was a last minute date, so I didn’t have time to get all worked up about it. That nervous, anticipation feeling was missing.”

“Hmph.” He lined up another shot. “Interesting.”

“What’s so interesting about that?”

He paused, sliding the stick through his fingers. “Is that your question if I miss?”

“No!” She’d have to be careful. “Don’t try any of your trickery with me, Cole Turner. I’m on to you.”

“Wish you’d be
on
me, instead.” As his gaze caught hers, he winked. “We’ll have to work on that.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. She rubbed the blush away, but the delicious warmth remained in lower places.

Cole sank another three balls before missing the fourth. He was good at pool. Probably one of the better players she’d been matched against.

“What happened at your tour stop in Houston?” she asked.

She remembered Rita mentioning something about it, and that Cole needed peace and quiet to focus. Although it wasn’t something nobody knew about him, she’d been dying to ask.

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard the rumors. Guess not many current events get through the mountain pass.” Exhaling heavily, he chalked up his stick. “I’d gone out with Tori West a few times, over the course of a few weeks. Have you heard of her?”

Tori West, A.K.A. blonde bombshell and Victoria’s Secret model.

Rachael hadn’t realized it until this moment, but she’d sort of hoped Cole felt the same spark she did. That he felt the same simmer in his blood, the same attraction. If he’d dated Tori West, glitz and glamor to the extreme, she probably had as much sex appeal as Mrs. Butterworth.

“The name’s familiar,” Rachael said nonchalantly. “She’s a model, right?”

“Right. She showed up to the show in Houston. I wasn’t expecting her and…” His gaze drifted off. “…let’s just say I was distracted and the show went to shit.”

Rachael shook her head. “Nuh-uh, that’s not an answer! That doesn’t count.”