Chapter 1
Chapter One
CASSIDY
“Is it so wrong to want to be swept off my feet?” I lean my elbow on the window and place my head on my fist, staring out the windshield.
The headlights of my cousin-slash-best friend’s car illuminate the sign for Kingsbrier. Not much farther along the dark county road, the gates for the bed-and-breakfast come into view.
“I’m the wrong person to ask,“ Rhiannon deadpans from the driver’s seat.
Rhiannon gave up on love in high school when her boyfriend passed away. I feel for her, but rejecting the idea that lightning can’t strike twice is a foreign concept when, unlike Rhiannon, love hasn’t struck me once.
“Want me to come in?” She turns the wheel, guiding me home. “We could make popcorn.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m not hungry anymore.” I appreciate the ride, but I’d rather lick my wounds in private. That’s why I left before I had to eat alone.
“What are you doing the rest of the night?”
“Starting Aunt Brier’s book club selection.”
“Way to kick yourself when you’re down,” she scoffs. “You read romance books for the wrong reasons.”
“Please, you like the journey. The self-discovery. The realistic way they tackle social issues,” I argue, unbuckling my seat belt.
“I like the sex, Cass,” Rhiannon interrupts. “Everyone likes the sex. Don’t kid yourself. Even the pearl clutchers prefer the steamy bits. If they didn’t, the ratings for gratuitous TV wouldn’t be as high as they are. Reality shows? People tune in to see who bonked. Nobody cares what happens after the rose ceremony unless there’s dirt to dish at the reunion show. It’s all about who wore a rubber and then rubbernecking.”
“Thank you for reminding me why I prefer books over television.”
Minus streaming a good rom-com. Those are cute.
Although I’m bitter at having wasted my evening, I take Rhiannon’s cynicism in stride. She’s protective of her heart to the point she even shut me out after Jordy’s funeral. Photographing weddings and other large events, she has more experience meeting men than I ever will. Yet she won’t get involved in a relationship.
Compared to me, Rhiannon can handle a guy who talks non-stop about himself the way my date, Rudy, had from the second he honked the horn on his flashy new BMW to alert me he was in the driveway. She’d toss a glass in his face if he took a call from his ex-wife during the salads. She wouldn’t sit politely, refusing to make a scene when Rudy shifted in his seat and flipped his phone screen over to hide the suggestive text messages. Or when he tossed his half of the bill on the table prior to the main course being served because he had an “emergency”.
Which was probably a boner.
Does the fact that I’ve just thought I should’ve doused Rudy’s shirt with red wine mean I’m callow?
God, I hope that isn’t the case. Not every man I’ve been out with behaves like this. Though most of them need a life coach on speed dial rather than their exes or mothers.
“Thanks for the ride.” I say, getting out of Rhiannon’s car. “I appreciate you saving me from my latest dating fiasco by driving halfway across the county to pick me up.”
“Anytime,” she replies, waving goodbye out the window.
I sigh, watching the taillights vanish into the distance before hitting the granite steps.
With Christmas and New Year’s approaching, the inn is closed to guests. I have two blissful weeks to myself to look forward to. While I wasn’t inviting my date in, I’ll admit I was expecting a kiss at the door and the possibility of another night out.
Unfortunately, Rudy’s name fits.
I use the keypad to let myself in the front door. My shoulders sag as I push it closed using my back and I reset the alarm by the entryway. A table lamp is on the grand foyer, shining enough light to trudge up the stairs.
My older sister, Gracyn, who by a twist of fate is also Rhiannon’s older sister, sought permission to turn my grandparent’s Tudor mansion into a bed-and-breakfast. No one expected its popularity to soar and I wouldn’t have a job if the family hadn’t adapted to accommodate its growth.
A few months after accepting a default position as the cook, I moved into a shoe box room located off of the summer kitchen. Before me, it belonged to Bellamy, Grandaddy’s companion at the time, and before that, it was Benita’s, the original housekeeper my great-grandfather employed.
Not long after Grandaddy passed, Gracyn told me to box my belongings and bring them upstairs to the master bedroom. Like the problem that happened at the winery’s banquet hall, which everyone glosses over, there wasn’t much discussion. Nor did I argue. It was easier, once again, to take the crumbs they tossed me. After tonight, it appears I’ve made that a bad habit.
In my room, I wash my face and change into a cropped shirt that says “ho-ho-ho”. The matching pants have candy canes printed on them. I love the holidays and I can use a spark of joy in my life right about now.
I turn off my alarm and set my phone down. Snapping off the overhead light, I lift my paperback from the nightstand along with the clip-on book light. After reading the same paragraph multiple times, I give up and rest it on my chest. I made breakfast for the guests who departed this morning, but I’m also emotionally exhausted from embarrassment at the restaurant tonight. The day is catching up with me and I’m tired.
Sometimes lying alone in Gran and Grandad’s room in the middle of the night reminds me of sleepovers here. When I had a hard time falling asleep, I’d tiptoe in. Gran would lift her side of the covers and snuggle me to her.
The next morning at sunrise, my sister and my cousins would pig pile onto the bed to wake Granddaddy. He’d take us on a walk through the woods while the bats were still awake and we’d arrive home to delicious scents from the kitchen.
I know I’m not the only one who thinks that no matter how full the house gets, it is lonely without Ross and Rose here anymore.
Despite being in the hospitality business, one rule remains steadfast: This was once a home and no one in our family should feel put out during the holidays. The silence in the mansion tonight is a reminder of how much they loved each other.
Has reading all these books turned me into a hopeless romantic? Is Rhiannon correct and that kind of enduring love is out of reach?
Later, a trilling interrupts my lazy musings. It takes a moment to realize I’ve fallen asleep. My phone is buzzing.
When I roll to answer, pages from the book I was reading shuffle. It falls to the floor with a thump. Untangling my arms from the warm sheets, I pat my hand across the soft mattress until it hits hard wood. My knuckles graze on the corner of the nightstand. I wince at the scratch against my skin. I have to open my eyes or risk hanging up on whomever it is by accident.
The picture on the screen is of a wiry blond-headed boy. My cousin, Gatlin, when he was seven. He has on a too-small Longhorns jersey and boxer briefs printed with pineapples wearing sunglasses. He’s also dancing with unplugged wired headphones on. The professional kind with huge cushioned earpieces that dwarf his noggin.
I’m the girl who assigns pictures to each of my family members on my phone. Some of my cousins’ photos are weirder than others, and I love snapshots foreshadowing parts of their personality that have shined through to adulthood the best.
“Hello,” I mumble.
“Hey, Cass, I’m sorry to wake you,” Gatlin apologizes.
I roll onto my back, taking in the angles of the tray ceiling and the monotone shades of blue that blend with the garden lights and creep through the darkness into my room.
“It’s not a big deal,” I reply to Gatlin, surprised he’s awake.
Gatlin hosts a syndicated morning radio show with Bellamy, whom he married. They’re early risers like me. For him to call at nighttime means it is important.
“So, I know the B&B is closed—and I already ran it by Gracyn for her permission—so you’re not breaking family rules…”
“Yeah, no, what, whatever. What do you need?” I say, wanting him to get to the point.
Being too awake during this conversation will make it harder to fall back to sleep and I’ll lie here rehashing my horrible taste in men.
Plus, even though Gracyn lives a few miles away, my older sister is the actual innkeeper. Therefore, as the resident cook, I don’t have any reason to argue if Gatlin has spoken to my boss—a title I use loosely because, if you knew Gracyn before she was a wife and mother, being the boss of anyone would go straight to her head.
Though he has Gracyn’s blessing to do whatever he wants, Gatlin’s words rush out with a twinge of regret. “I’ve got someone from the show who I need to put up overnight. You won’t even notice he’s there. He’s finicky about his privacy.”
“That’s fine,” I remark.
Gatlin wouldn’t ask Gracyn to bend the rules if it weren’t important. I’m glad he’s had the courtesy to inform me there will be a man walking around the house.
“If your friend needs food, then you bring it to him.”
This is my vacation. I’m not giving it up and I’m not feeding anyone. Period. I made Gracyn put that in my employment contract when I took the position here.
Not only that, I don’t set foot in the kitchen when everyone else is prepping holiday meals. I won’t even go in search of a roll of toilet paper. One false move and the lines between my personal life and my job blur.
I huff. Like I have a life compared to the characters in the books I hunker down and read.
I’m the least traveled of my generation, and I feel like one of the few who hasn’t found their other half. Not that I’m not whole. I love what I do. I enjoy meeting interesting people, who tell me about their travels and talk to me about my favorite thing: food.
“We’ll let ourselves in,” Gatlin says. “Any room in particular?”
“If it’s privacy your guy wants, I’d suggest a vineyard view,” I sound like the least enthusiastic booking agent ever.
“I’ll set him up in the center suite. My mom always said you could hear everything between her room and Gran’s. I mean, your room.” Gatlin tacks on as an afterthought.
Ew.
Everyone who stays at the inn has more sex than I do. A few solitary hours into my well-deserved time off, I don’t appreciate the reminder.
I scrub my hand over my face and close my eyes. “Lucky for me, we’ve got better insulation now.”
“I owe you—”
I nod into the receiver, following it up with a “yup” because Gatlin can’t see me.
“Concert tickets. Front row. Including backstage passes. Anything. It’s your choice.”
“I choose to go back to sleep, Gatlin. Be quiet when y’all come in.”
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
There are twenty mornings each year when not getting dressed before going downstairs is an option for me. Give or take a day. Every other one, I’m showered, dressed, and have set the coffee pot percolating for our guests by five a.m. After filling the dining room carafes with coffee and hot water for tea for any rare early birds, I whip up a batch of my signature scratch-baked banana nut muffins.
Today is one of those blissful mornings when I’m not up to my elbows in batter while everyone else is still snoozing away, and it makes my lousy night forgettable.
Having slept as long as I want, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch. Then I bend and toss the book that fell on the floor back onto my rumpled sheets.
I’m no longer a bed maker. A perk of my job is on-demand housekeeping. The cleaning staff gets the holidays off as well—along with the overnight concierge. This means no hospital corners until after the New Year. Which is also just fine by me. No one really understands vacationers waltzing in and out of the place where you live. I can’t be messy or leave anything lying around. If I’m seen at home, the guests expect I’m on duty and want me to drop everything and cater to their needs.
I pad down the staircase and into the kitchen in my pajamas. Again, this likely means zip to anyone else, but when you can’t wear whatever you want in your own home, let alone consider walking to the coffee pot braless, it’s significant.
I’m so relaxed I catch a whiff of my forthcoming dark roast, not processing that I can already smell it. Rounding the corner, I realize my mistake too late.
“Holy crap!” I jump back, covering my ample chest with a splayed palm.
A man ducking into the fridge startles, smacking the top of his head on a shelf. “Goddamn it!” he yells.
He reaches back to rub the sore spot as he straightens. That’s when I realize he’s shirtless. My eyes wander from his left pec to his bicep and forearm. They slide down his neck and he covers his… is that a four-pack? A six-pack? All my brain registers is the V at his hips and I’m gawking at the fine hair that starts a very happy trail.
“Lemme guess, you’re Cassidy.” He extends the hand he used to massage his head for me to shake.
The rough gravel of his voice has my attention snapping to his face.
Those expressive brown eyes have given women come-hither looks since he was a teenager. I’m also certain his stylist highlighted and coiffed his always rumpled sandy brown hair with intent. One glance at this man and all you can think about is the bedroom.
“You’re… You’re, you’re Isaiah Roomer,” I say in wonderment.
One of my uncles has a wall full of music award statues and another played professional football. However, you can knock me over with a feather that the Isaiah Roomer, country superstar, is standing barefoot in my kitchen in nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans.
The reclusive singer is the last person I considered Gatlin would’ve called about. Isaiah’s wife died in July. He’s made no comment other than an initial request for privacy. When Isaiah refused to appear in public for months, the media grew bored with speculating. By the end of the summer, entertainment news moved on.
Seriously, the only better gift any red-blooded woman would want underneath the Christmas tree is Isaiah Roomer wearing nothing but a big red... Bow.
I was totally going to say bow!
And oh, by the way, here I am shaking the hand of a guy who, before he was married, was the most sought after bachelor in Nashville. Did I mention I’m using my other hand to clutch my boobs so Isaiah Roomer can’t see my nipples poking out from the center of the Os in my white crop top that says “ho-ho-ho”?
Fantastic.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Isaiah placates.
Our hands are moving up and down in a wild, exaggerated manner. I whip mine back toward my body, crossing my arms over my shirt, and tucking my fingertips under my pits. Good Lord, what if I remove my hands and cover my red face by accident? Will Isaiah think I like the smell of my pits?
I inhale, positive the man has had ridiculous encounters with tons of rabid fans. There were celebrity and sports celebrity sightings at Kingsbrier when we were kids. My uncles taught us they were normal people. I’ve met way more famous people than Isaiah Roomer. Just not as hot, not as shirtless, and not me sans underwear.
That’s right, ya’ll. I’m going commando under these cotton pj pants.
“I’m sorry. I’m not normally this much of a spaz meeting anyone,” I concede. “I’m blaming Gatlin for not telling me Isaiah Roomer would scrounge for leftovers in my fridge.”
“It’s just Isaiah. And I was searching for the cream. I put on a pot of coffee.” He points to the gurgling appliance. “I’d found the sugar packets, but wasn’t sure if this was a place that used individual creamers. I wasn’t snooping… or stealing leftovers.” The corner of his mouth twitches.
“This is a place that puts the cream in a porcelain creamer.”
“Fancy. If I’d known I would have dressed for the occasion,” he adds as an aside.
“You’re fine.” He certainly is , my subconscious adds before I stumble out, “I use good china. My grandmother would haunt me otherwise.”
“But sugar packets are okay?”
I shrug. “It’s a compromise.”
Gran will forgive me about the sugar. I tried a bowl with a spoon. It got sticky and messy and I threw out a lot of clumped organic sugar. Although, she wouldn’t approve of me gawking at how fine our houseguest’s ass is as he crosses her kitchen.