Chapter Nine
Rachael awoke to the soft strums of a guitar. It was raspy. Warm and soothing like a lullaby. At first she thought she’d misheard it. She rolled over, pulled the comforter over her ears and tried to go back to sleep. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn’t want the day to start just yet.
She wasn’t ready to see him.
The tempo slowed until she strained to hear one slow pluck after another. It was beautiful, lulling her into a state of peace. Her eyelids fluttered close and her heart danced.
Had she left the radio on downstairs? It was quite possible she’d turned it on last night and forgotten about it. She wished there were other things she could forget…starting from the second she’d thrown herself at Cole, ending with the moment when she realized what they’d been about to do.
Shoving her feet into her flip-flops, Rachael draped her robe around her shoulders and cinched the tie at the waist. She crept out the door and followed the angelic sound, down the stairs, and into the living room.
Cole sat near the fire, his legs resting on the coffee table, a guitar in his lap. He didn’t see her at first, but when his eyes met hers, his hand flattened against the guitar’s strings and he jerked his feet to the floor.
He’d been playing that song the whole time?
Wow.
She’d heard he was a talented performer, but she’d also heard that his songs lacked emotion and a personal touch. If he gave his fans a hint of that, she’d bet they’d change their minds.
“Good morning,” she said, trying not to sound moved by what she’d just heard.
His eyes were guarded, shadowed to a thick molasses shade of brown. “Morning.”
“That’s a beautiful song.” She tightened her robe. His gaze followed her hands. “What was it?”
“It’s not a song.” He set the guitar in its case and locked it up. “It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
He exhaled heavily and nailed her with an irritated glare. “What’s for breakfast?”
He must not have liked people eavesdropping on unfinished projects.
“Corned beef, hash, and eggs. I should get started.”
For a moment, she’d forgotten her place. She shouldn’t have come downstairs in her robe and slippers—she never did that. She must’ve been getting used to the calm and stillness of the inn without the abundance of guests walking down the halls. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to get comfortable this way. The halls wouldn’t stay empty; three couples were checking in Sunday afternoon and another handful on Tuesday.
She ran upstairs, gathered her hair into a ponytail and dressed in jeans and a black sweater. She pulled on a pair of fuzzy socks. Brushed her teeth and splashed cool water on her face. As she raced downstairs and into the kitchen, she caught sight of the roses Joey had given her. They were on the hardwood near the front door, lying flush against the baseboard. She scooped them up, fluffed the buds and turned.
Cole stared, a pad of paper on his lap, a pen in his hand. Only the pen wasn’t moving. His expression was blank, his jaw clenched tight. Why was he glaring at her that way? As if she’d done something wrong.
“Breakfast will be ready in thirty,” she said, and scurried into the kitchen.
She cut the stems short and put the flowers in a Mason jar on the center of the table. Taking two Advil from a cabinet beside the sink, she swallowed them back, and palmed four more. She set those on the kitchen table with a bottle of water. Her head was pounding—Cole’s probably was, too.
As she set the corned beef on the frying pan and chopped bell peppers and onion, Cole entered the kitchen and slid into the seat facing her.
“These for me?” he asked, pointing to the Advil.
“Yeah, thought your head might hurt.”
He didn’t respond. Had she not spoken loudly enough? Spatula in hand, she turned and met his gaze. It was questioning. Tender. Gripping her from across the kitchen.
“Thank you.” He dropped them back and then stared at the flowers, a pained expression on his face.
He must’ve had a headache as nasty as hers.
Rachael took the reprieve from his prying eyes and dove into breakfast. She made a pot of coffee, flipped the potatoes and splayed three eggs on the grill. As the coffee finished brewing, she filled his cup and set it on the table, and then heaped food onto his plate.
Cooking for one was odd. When the inn was full, she’d make a dozen eggs, three pounds of potatoes and countless slabs of corned beef. It felt much more personal this way. As if they were a couple. Husband and wife, maybe.
She could almost picture it now: she’d get up early, start a pot of coffee and cook his favorite breakfast, just the way he liked it. He’d come in from the living room, where he’d been playing his next big hit, and wrap his arms around her as she hovered over the stove. She’d lean her head back on his shoulder. He’d tell her how wonderful breakfast smelled. How beautiful she was. They’d eat together, just the two of them, and talk about plans for the future: his next song, upcoming album, and the inn expansion.
That all sounded great. Except for the tiny fact that there was no future with Cole. There could never be anything long-term between them. He was going to leave the way everyone else did.
Don’t get attached. Don’t get used to his presence here.
“I’ve never seen someone cook the way you do,” he said. “You don’t use recipes?”
She dropped his plate in front of him. “Not anymore.”
He pushed the Mason jar to the far edge of the table. To keep the flowers away from his food, she guessed.
“Do you have a set menu you make every day of the week?” he asked.
She got the feeling he was making small talk so they wouldn’t have to talk about what happened last night. It was a mighty fine idea.
“I try not to make the same meal in a given week,” she said, “as most people stay about that long.”
He dove into the corned beef without making a sound. Cheeks full, he mumbled, “Do you fill up here?”
She brought over the pot of coffee for a refill, but he set his hand over his mug. Fumbling to swallow the food in his mouth, he circled his hand over his head and pointed upstairs.
“You’re asking if the rooms fill up?”
He nodded.
“They’re full year round, for the most part.” She brought the frying pan to the sink and scrubbed. “That’s the great thing about Blue Lake. There’s beauty in every season. In winter, it storms pretty hard. The windows fill up with pillows of snow and Dom plows his way up and down the street. Moose Valley Ski Lodge is up the road so we have an influx of skiers and snowboarders who want to hit the slopes and stay somewhere cozy for the night. In spring and summer, the place is full of visitors from the bay area. They frequent the wineries up here and want a close place to stay so they don’t have to drive back home. There are lakes and rivers up the road that rival the most beautiful in the country. People flock to them when the weather heats up.”
She slid the pans under the cabinet and washed off the counters. Anything to keep her eyes off Cole.
“Sounds busy. Ever thought about expanding?” he said. “The building out back, the one on the east side of your lawn, would be perfect.”
She spun, leaning back against the counter. Had someone told him?
“I’m working on it, actually,” she said, and her gaze landed on his empty plate. “Do you want more?”
“God, no.” He put his hands on his stomach and arched back, the chair creaking beneath him. “If I eat any more I won’t be able to play tonight.”
She checked the clock on the wall. Eight a.m. Did he not plan on eating until the show? Didn’t they have dinner plans with Lucy? Not that she’d been looking forward to them or anything.
“Do you own it?” he asked.
“What?”
“The building out back.” He drank his coffee slowly, eyeing her over the top of the mug. “Is it yours?”
“Yeah, I’ve owned it for years.” As she finished cleaning the kitchen, she glanced out the front window. A black Tahoe pulled up to the curb. “But I’ve been stuck in Remodel Hell.”
“What’s the problem?”
The doorbell went off.
“It’s nearly finished, but I haven’t had the funds to furnish it the way I want,” she said, walking into the dining room. “Until you showed up and rented every room for quadruple what I’d normally charge.”
“Glad I could help.” He followed her through the dining room, winding around tables. “Have you ever thought about renting out that building and keeping the inn for yourself?”
Forcing out a laugh, she strode through the living room and paused before opening the door. “There are nine rooms in this building. What would I do with that much space?
“I don’t know.” He shrugged those big, strong shoulders. “You and your husband could stay in one, you could have an office, a guest room, and plenty of room for children.”
“Children?” she squeaked.
“Don’t you want kids?”
The doorbell dinged again.
“Absolutely.” She grabbed the handle. “Eventually. Right now that’s nothing but a dream on the horizon.”
“You could have that dream sooner than you think.” He grabbed the handle, his hand over hers. His touch was warm, soft and consuming. For a second, she thought he might’ve leaned down and kissed her. “You could have any guy in this town.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” She ripped her hand from beneath his. “I need to give Joey a call.”
She left the room as Rita Flint and Cole Turner’s entire crew burst through the door. On her way up the stairs, she turned and glanced back. Cole stood beside Rita, hands on his hips, a pissed-off scowl on his face. He looked like he wasn’t listening to whatever she rambled about. He looked angry. Torn about something.
She whistled the tune she’d heard him play earlier, all the way to her room.