CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BRIANNA MATHEWS HATED North Carolina.
Seriously.
She hated it.
She’d left the cosmopolitan appeal of Charlotte a couple of hours ago, and now it was just field after field of...what? Corn? Tobacco? Cotton? What did they grow in North Carolina, anyway? Cotton, right?
Some of the fields looked like golden-green grass and were undulating prettily in the wind. Was that wheat?
...amber waves of grain...
Wasn’t wheat a grain?
She cursed softly behind the wheel of her rented red Mercedes. She was completely out of her element driving through farm country, and she laughed at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“You’re a long way from Hollywood, girlfriend.”
This seemed like such a good idea last night. But last night she was still in the civilized world. She’d been happily ensconced at her cousin Amanda’s palatial stone castle, Halcyon, in the Catskill Mountains of New York, sipping pink champagne at Amanda’s baby shower. Then she got the news that upended her tidy little world. The consensus was she needed a place to stay that was out of the public eye. Amanda’s best friend, Caroline, offered her mother’s rural farm as the perfect place to avoid both paparazzi and crazed stalkers.
“‘Go to North Carolina,’ Caroline said. ‘You’ll be safe there.’” Bree glared at her reflection as she continued her one-sided conversation. “‘Mom has a cute little cottage you can use.’ Didn’t that all sound so delightful last night at Halcyon? And look at me now. Driving down country roads in the middle of nowhere. Me! Miss California!” She shook her head. “I haven’t been here three hours and I’m already talking to myself. How am I supposed to last a month?”
According to Caroline’s scribbled directions, the small town of Russell should be coming up anytime now. Thank the good Lord for that. This was not how her life was supposed to turn out. She was not supposed to be driving past feed mills and dusty double-wides that had signs in their front yards advertising things like Steve’s Stump Grinding and Bob’s Deer Processing. She didn’t even want to know what “deer processing” was.
No. North Carolina was not her life. Her life was back in Los Angeles. She owned that freakin’ town. Clerks in the shops on Rodeo Drive knew her by name. The waiters at the finest restaurants knew which tables she preferred, and had a Sapphire martini waiting for her before her ass hit the chair seat.
Then it all went to hell. And now she was driving to East Bejesus, USA. To hide. The whole situation ticked her off royally.
Village of Russell, North Carolina
Founded 1820
Population 249
She nearly wept with relief when she saw the faded wooden sign. Russell looked like so many of the other towns she’d driven through since leaving the Charlotte airport, except it was even smaller than most. Downtown, for lack of a better word, consisted of five or six buildings, washed out and faded in the scorching-hot summer sun. It looked like the set of a movie out of the 1950s, with aged and dusty brick storefronts. The Methodist church at the edge of town was the largest building, with the exception of the towering metal silos gathered directly across the street. It was midafternoon on a Monday, and the streets were quiet. A few pickup trucks were parked along the side of the road. Four in front of the farm supply store. Two in front of the bank. And one particularly dirty one sat in front of the only restaurant in town. A sign identified the business as The Hide-Away, and there was a neon beer sign in the window. She grinned at the irony—it was just what she was looking for.
She hadn’t eaten anything since that reheated egg and biscuit concoction she bought at the airport, and she could most definitely use a drink. Caroline told her to stop in town and ask for directions to “Miss Nell’s house,” and the restaurant was as good a place as any to do that. Apparently Caroline’s mom was so well-known in town that last names weren’t necessary. Bree uncharitably wondered what it took to become famous in a place this small. She pulled the Mercedes into a spot next to the enormous black pickup truck caked with dried mud. Her car was as out of place in this dirty little town as she was.
The Hide-Away was dark and cool inside, with the blinds narrowed to block the heat of the sun. As her eyes adjusted, she saw an old-fashioned wooden bar that ran down the right side of the room, complete with a massive etched mirror on the wall behind it. The wooden bar stools had seats of well-worn dark leather. The place was straight out of a John Wayne Western. Dining booths lined the left wall, with more tables in the back of the room. A wide accordion door was pulled across an opening that seemed to lead to whatever business was next door. She didn’t see any other patrons, and she wondered for a moment if the place was closed. Then she saw the good-looking man standing behind the bar.
He gave her a warm smile, and she relaxed. Somewhere around his late thirties, he wasn’t overly tall, but he was muscular. Not Hollywood Beach muscular, where the muscles came more from steroids than actual exercise. No, this man had the lean, sinewy muscles that came from real physical labor. Dark brown hair fell across his forehead, stopping just above golden-brown eyes.
She slid onto the first bar stool she came to, settling down with a dramatic sigh. The still-smiling man wiped his hands on a thin towel and nodded toward her.
“How y’all doin’ today, ma’am?”
Ma’am?
She was only twenty-nine years old. Well...okay, she’d be thirty-one in six months, but very few people on this earth knew that. Still, nowhere near being a “ma’am” to anyone. She bit back her protest when she met his kind eyes, and reminded herself that she was in the South, after all.
“Would you like a menu, ma’am, or just something cold to drink on this hot afternoon?”
She finally remembered her manners and returned his smile. “Both, please. I’d like to see a menu. And I’d absolutely love to have a chilled white wine. Do you have a Sancerre?”
She flinched when she heard a sharp snort of derision to her right. A man sat in the shadows just a few feet away, at the short end of the bar. He was close to the wall, and there was a shot glass of amber liquid in front of him. She couldn’t see his face because of the camouflage ball cap pulled low on his forehead. His jeans were worn thin and covered with dirt and something that looked and smelled worse. She wrinkled her nose. His Western boots were crusted and cracked. He wore a sweat-stained dark green T-shirt that stretched snugly across his broad chest. Dark tribal tattoos wound their way down his left biceps, looking three-dimensional. His hands were rough, with dirt plainly visible under his short fingernails. A day’s growth of stubble covered