Chapter 7
Sawyer reached into the overhead storage bin and pulled out his carry-on. It had only been a four-hour flight from Albuquerque to Sacramento, but his legs were happy to be standing again. The seats in economy were too damn cramped for someone six-two.
He handed down a second bag to a middle-aged woman who’d sat in the seat next to him. She had not been subtle in her attempts to set him up with her daughter. Sawyer had pretended to be interested but his mind was on other things.
It had been his second trip to New Mexico in search of answers about Angie. He’d gone Friday on a whim, convinced that if he dug deeper, talked to more people, he’d get somewhere this time.
Yet, he had more questions now than when he’d started.
His source, the cagey woman he’d originally spoken with, was even more tight-lipped than she’d been the first time.
Though she had let it slip that Angie had left the commune—commune being a fancy way of saying cult—to do humanitarian work overseas.
When he tried to pinpoint her on where overseas, she said she didn’t know.
He wasn’t buying it. But that’s all he had. So it pretty much left him with the entire world to search.
The heat hit him as soon as he stepped outside to catch a shuttle to the overnight lot. It had been cooler in Santa Fe, or maybe just drier. He’d only been gone two days, but was anxious to get home. Sleep in his own bed.
He turned on his phone and scrolled through his emails and messages. Nothing that couldn’t wait until he got to the ranch. Traffic was manageable this late in the evening and he hoped to make good time.
Wishful thinking. What should’ve been an hour drive turned into two. A big rig jackknifed on the freeway, leaving a backup miles long. By the time he pulled through the ranch gate, he was in a foul mood.
And it only got worse when he found a little BMW parked in front of his garage doors.
“At least have the freaking decency not to block me from getting in,” he muttered under his breath and left his Range Rover in the driveway.
Sawyer slung the strap of his go bag over his shoulder and went inside. Something smelled good, like fresh-baked bread.
“You’re here.” He unceremoniously dumped his bag on the floor.
“Hungry?” She looked up from something she was reading on his kitchen counter. It appeared to be his mail.
He swiped the pile of bills and assorted other paperwork off the counter, shoved them in a drawer, and grunted under his breath.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Sit down and I’ll make you something.”
It was the least she could do after constantly invading his space. Ever since they’d had their moment on the creek bank, he’d been avoiding her, even leaving his house when he knew she was coming over to use his kitchen.
But in all honesty, seeing her again…shit. He liked it. He liked having her in his kitchen again.
“Let me change first,” he said. Between the stuffy plane and the heat, he’d have to scrape his shirt off like wallpaper. On his way to the bedroom, he adjusted the air-conditioner to sixty-five.
He emptied his pockets and dropped his loose change, phone, and wallet on his dresser. In the bathroom, he stripped, washed up, and put on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. On his way back to the kitchen, he glanced at the clock on his nightstand.
“You’re here late.” He took a seat at the island. “Are you baking bread?”
She blew out a breath. “Yeah and it sucks. It’s tough and flavorless. Nothing is coming out right. Maybe it’s the altitude.”
“We’re only at a little more than twenty-four-hundred feet, hardly Mount Whitney.
” He got himself a beer out of the refrigerator, popped the cap, and took a long drag.
“You want one?” He figured if she did, she would’ve helped herself, since she’d helped herself to everything else in his house.
That is, everything but him. Not that he was interested.
“I’m good.”
He tipped the neck of the bottle back to take another swig and held her gaze, letting his eyes slide down her torso. “Are you?”
What the hell was he doing? After the creek-bank moment he thought he’d gotten clarity.
Gina DeRose was off-limits.
First, because she was his mother’s client. Second, because she was involved with another man. A married man. And third, because he didn’t particularly like her kind.
“Not really.” She sank into one of the barstools. “In fact, I’m pretty shitty. Last I looked, I lost two thousand Twitter followers. My Facebook wall is covered in hate posts. And don’t even get me started about the memes.”
He could only imagine. “Not good for your bottom line, huh?”
“Nope.” She looked so defeated that he almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
She went to the refrigerator, took out a casserole dish, and set it on the counter while she preheated the oven. When he pulled back the foil she said, “It’s baked ziti. I made it yesterday, but it’s usually better the second day. Where have you been, anyway?”
“Work trip,” he lied because he didn’t want to discuss Angela right now.
“What kind of work trip?” she pressed.
“It’s a long story.” He took another pull on his beer and reclaimed his stool at the kitchen island. “And I’m done with work for the day.” He gave her a pointed look.
She dropped it, launching into a litany of complaints about being exiled to Timbuktu. “There’s no place to buy decent cheese around here. And good almond paste? Forget about it.”
“I don’t know about almond paste, but there’s a goat and sheep farm on Cattle Drive Way where they make their own cheese.
Technically, they’re not allowed to sell it to the public.
I think it has something to do with it not being pasteurized.
But I’m guessing a crafty woman like yourself could get your hands on some. You won’t be disappointed.”
She perked up and just as quickly lost her enthusiasm. “I can’t be seen in public, remember?”
“You went to the kitchen store.”
“In a hat and glasses with the rest of the badly dressed tourists. But at someone’s farm? I’d look like a freak.”
He’d seen her in her getup. Not a freak.
More like a Hollywood type, trying to hide her identity, only to call more attention to it.
He knew the drill; he’d grown up in Beverly Hills, after all.
Probably not far from where she’d grown up.
They definitely hadn’t gone to the same schools—his was private—because he would’ve remembered meeting Gino DeRose’s daughter.
“What? You want me to go there and buy the damn cheese for you?”
She flashed her TV smile. “Yes, please.”
“And what will you do for me?” He hitched his brows.
The oven bell dinged and she slid the baked ziti in. “Feed you.”
“You do that in exchange for my kitchen. Time is money, honey. You want me to buy you cheese, you’ve gotta do something for me in return.”
“Like what?” She lifted her chin in challenge as if to say, bring it on.
About a thousand things, all of them sexual, came to mind. “I don’t know yet. Give me time to think about it.”
“Take all the time you need,” she threw back.
He got another beer out of the fridge and his stomach growled. “Can I have a slice of that bread?” He nudged his head at a loaf wrapped in a towel, resting on the countertop.
She cut a few pieces, arranged them on a bread plate, and slid it over to him. “Eat at your own risk.”
He grabbed the butter out of the fridge, slathered a pat on one of the slices, and took a bite. She hovered over him, watching.
“Nice and soft, just like Wonder Bread,” he said as he chewed off another bite.
She snatched the plate away and elbowed him in the arm. He chuckled because he liked getting a rise out of her.
“It’s too tough, isn’t it?”
Was she kidding? The bread was freaking fantastic. Crusty on the outside, soft in the middle, and still warm from the oven. “Nope. Now give it back to me.” He reached out and tugged the plate back.
“What about the flavor?”
“It tastes like bread.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“Okay, fine. I taste malt and maybe a little honey. Not too yeasty. I actually think it’s bold in the flavor department.
Yet, it doesn’t overwhelm the palate.” Oh, for Christ’s sake, he sounded like one of those douchey foodies who were always talking about mouthfeel and throwing around words like artisanal and curated.
“Wow, you got the malt. Is it too much?”
Jeez, how was it that one of America’s most famous chefs was so damned insecure? “Nah, I thought it was pretty balanced.”
“I used less yeast and I retarded the fermentation by refrigerating the dough to help the flavor stand out more. But I still think it sucks. You don’t, huh?”
“Nope. Then again, I wouldn’t turn down a Little Debbie variety pack. So what the hell do I know?”
He saw her face fall and kicked himself for being an asshole.
“It’s as good as anything I’ve ever had at La Brea, Rockenwagner, Tartine, Acme,” he quickly amended, ticking off every great California bread bakery he could think of. “You planning to bake bread full-time?” When she shook her head, he said, “So what’s the big deal?”
She deliberated, then said, “I’ve got a thing about being perfect.” She took a long pause as if she’d just come to that revelation, then added, “It’s sort of exhausting, if you want to know the truth.”
“Yeah, I would imagine so. I’m guessing this has to do with your mommy issues.” He wasn’t much for armchair analysis, but it didn’t take Carl Jung to figure out that Gina’s mom had turned her daughter into a head case.
“Probably” was all she said about it. “What about you? What’s your kryptonite? Or are you perfect?”
“Pretty much.” He winked and then for no reason at all said, “My sister went missing five years ago. The thought of her out there, alone and in trouble, keeps me up at night. The alternative, that she’s dead, is even worse.”
Gina jerked back in surprise. “My God, Wendy never said anything. How…what happened?”