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