“I don’t understand.” Miranda Cortland ran a weary hand through blond curl that went in every direction, her pale blue eyes shadowed with dark circles that didn’t do a thing to diminish her appeal. “I love the place. I’ve got a deposit. You want to make a quick sale, here you go. I’d like to rent out the spot until the official closing, so I can throw in whatever you think is fair for a month’s rent. Or two.”
She dug deeper in her backpack and emerged with a wallet.
Damien scratched his forehead, which was smeared with dirt and sweat from his time in the fields. He couldn’t make the pieces add up here. The woman was sunburned. Her car was old and in need of repair. Actually, all her stuff looked like it had seen better days; the hodgepodge collection of goods that he’d spotted inside the SUV appeared secondhand. She seemed down on her luck for a woman who’d just won a reality game show he’d never heard of—Gutsy Girl. That much definitely fit.
Miranda Cortland showed some serious bravado coming all the way up here to pitch him her idea, when she looked about as far from tearoom elegance as he could imagine. He was pretty sure she had permanent eyeliner tattooed around her lashes. Silver cuffs wrapped around her right earlobe the whole way down.
“The problem is this.” He cracked open a window to let more air into the place and leaned back against a rough support beam. “I’m building a brand with Fraser Farm. And it’s got to be upscale to support the growth I need in the Thoroughbred market.”
He needed word of mouth among a small, elite client base.
“This tearoom will be elegant and charming. A perfect match.” She crossed her arms at her midsection, right where he recalled seeing a silver belly-button ring in the shape of a snake.
Did she have any idea how much she stood out here? Not just in this part of the state, but on his farmland? In his mind? She was so bright and bold—from her yellow flip-flops with the big daisies between her toes to her lime-green lace camisole—it was like she operated on another frequency altogether.
“Unfortunately, the kind of crowd your high profile will draw may not reflect the brand I’m developing.”
“That’s incredibly elitist and also...incorrect.” Her voice remained steady, but he sensed more than heard the strong emotions there.
Chances were good that Miranda Cortland was here only to get close to his famous family. He’d had that happen before. So if she sounded convincingly disappointed, she probably was. But mostly because she wouldn’t be granted her “in” with a famous Hollywood producer-director. Hell, Damien’s father, Thomas Fraser, ran an independent studio, so he was definitely the kind of connection someone like Miranda might seek out.
“Fair or not, I have to think about the growth of my small business, and I prefer to have some kind of store or restaurant on site that will cater to the clientele I want to attract.” He’d posted as much in his Craigslist ad.
When you were starting a business, every dollar counted, so he really wanted to make this sale. Especially since he refused to take a cent from his obnoxiously wealthy family. He just wouldn’t make the sale to Miranda Cortland.
“Heard and understood, as I explained in my email to you—”
“Yet you did not disclose your celebrity status, and I have personal reasons for not aligning myself with the film industry.” He headed for the door, needing to get back to work. As much as he’d enjoyed the distraction of a female that wasn’t equine, he had ten other places he needed to be. His payroll was already ridiculously high with the specialized talent this kind of operation required, so until he could afford more help, he often had to be everywhere at once. “You’re welcome to leave your vehicle here for as long as necessary. Would you like a ride anywhere?”
“No.” She shook her head and backed up a step, as if she was going to follow him outside. “Can I just—please. Let me just show you one thing before you leave.”
She held up her faded floral backpack, making a barrier between him and the door. He wasn’t sure if she meant to slow him down or if the thing she wanted him to see was inside the bag. He noticed there were pins all over it—a cat with a hair bow in pink crystals, a few metal buttons advertising hole-in-the-wall nightclubs, a miniature L.A. Raiders jersey. The bag looked as if it had been around the world and back.
“I can’t stay much longer.” He held up his phone, showing a video feed of a birthing stable. “I’ve got a mare going into labor.”
“Fine.” Miranda was already setting her pack on the floor again and digging inside the bottomless interior. The sight of her sunburned arms and the bump of each vertebra showing through her tank top felt like chastisements.
What if she really was in need of a break? Something about her bravado—in spite of whatever personal issues she was dealing with—spoke to him on a gut level. He’d gambled everything to escape Hollywood once, too.
“I need some air.” Mostly because the woman smelled like peaches and he wanted to inhale her. He struggled not to feel sympathetic toward her. Or even more attracted. “So let’s talk outside.”
“Yes.” She followed him out onto the narrow porch, where two faded rockers still sat from the building’s long-ago use as a farm stand. “Just take a look at these before you give me your final answer.”
She held two pieces of paper in her hand. Actually, one sheet and one large photograph.
“I drew this last night when I couldn’t sleep.” She flipped the paper and handed it to him. “I think the look is very much in keeping with what you’d want to enhance your Thoroughbred business....”
She kept talking, but he was too distracted by the pencil sketch to pay attention. She’d drawn the farm stand building from the outside, but there was new life in it. Flowers bloomed in boxes attached to the front windows by iron brackets. Pillows and blankets were thrown over more rocking chairs on the porch, while round tables underneath big umbrellas made up a second tier of outdoor seating on a flagstone patio. The sketch was so detailed he could see some kind of flowering moss between the flagstones. A banner blew in an imaginary breeze, the flag depicting a steaming cup of tea and the name Under the Oaks.
“...I couldn’t draw the inside because you hadn’t posted any pictures.” Miranda was still speaking. “I’m not sure I’d really call it Under the Oaks, but it fits because of the trees and—”
“And it’s a racing term. Yeah. I know.” The whole thing was elegant and charming, just as she’d promised. He had to admit the picture she’d drawn was appealing and exactly the kind of operation he’d envisioned to complement his growing business. He actually had a few rooms to accommodate guests who visited their horses on site, but as of now, there were no facilities for feeding visitors.
The tearoom could fill the gap for some food service. Except that she could be full of B.S. about what she’d do with a tearoom. What were the chances a young actress who’d just experienced success on a reality show would really want to come live in the anonymity of Sonoma? No, damn it. She was only conning him, to get close to the Fraser fame.
“You could have input, of course, if my take on this is too cute. I could make it more horse-themed. Lots of hunter-green and burgundy, like a gentleman’s den.” She frowned at her sketch over his shoulder. “Usually tearooms appeal to women, so—”
“It’s great.” He realized how close she stood. Her scent hypnotized him even as her springy blond curls brushed his shoulder. “The concept is well-targeted.” He returned the paper to her and took a step back. “But just because you’ve got the right idea doesn’t promise a successful execution.”
She flipped a large photograph under his nose.
“This is the Melrose Tearoom, where I worked until a couple of weeks ago.”