Chapter 2
Abigail drives her rental into Smithville after taking narrow, winding country roads that unfurled through cornfields and farms that looked like postcards, but she’s paid little attention to the scenery, her hands clamped around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled vise, her body rigid and her gaze fixed straight ahead as she thinks she should’ve brought Loretta with her to do the driving in this place where, unbelievable as it sounds, she actually misses New York traffic.
Smithville feels like a kind of rural museum as she heads down one of its streets, a pharmacy, a barbershop, and a few small stores with sidewalks practically empty except for a few passersby who eye her car sideways, trying to see who’s behind the wheel.
Abigail sighs, understanding that in a town this small, everyone knows everyone and spots tourists instantly, unlike in her beloved New York, where people don’t notice anyone else, focused on the day’s stressful grind.
She follows the GPS until she reaches the hotel Patricia booked for her—only it isn’t a hotel; it’s a bed she’s only staying two nights. She can handle it.
Abigail pulls her suitcase from the back seat and heads up the porch steps, nearly colliding with the owner, who comes out to meet her as soon as she steps through the door.
"Ms. Stone, right?" he asks with a wide smile that makes his cheeks even rounder.
"Yes," she replies with her usual coolness, suddenly aware of how tired she is.
From the moment Loretta dropped her at the airport to when she landed in Nashville and arrived here, a little over eight hours have passed, and all for a small-town singer who probably only stands out because her voice has an uncommon timbre around here.
"I’m Harold, the owner here. Welcome to Smithville."
"Thank you."
The man moves behind the counter, nervous and awkward as he searches for Abigail’s room keys, while she watches him with impatience.
"Here they are. One second while I find the TV remote," Harold says.
"No need," Abigail answers.
"It’ll just be a moment. What brings you to town?" the man asks as he opens a drawer.
Abigail gives him one of her icy looks, and Harold seems to stop for a moment, as if she’d literally frozen him.
"Just passing through," Abigail replies curtly.
"Right, of course. Here you go," Harold says, not losing his smile. "If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’ll take you to your room."
The room turns out to be a surprisingly large suite.
The decor isn’t Abigail’s style—too old-fashioned—but it’s cozy, and the view from the small terrace (Patricia came through) offers a panorama of the surrounding hills that leaves her impressed.
This town is everything Abigail considers removed from civilization, but it has something intoxicating about it.
"Enjoy your stay," Harold says before leaving.
"Wait," Abigail calls after him. "Is there somewhere nearby I can go for a meal?"
"Nearby, yes, of course," he says, pleased to help. "The Daveys’ restaurant. It’s on this same avenue, and they have the best fried chicken around."
Fried chicken—it’s been so long since she’s had it she can’t even remember what it tastes like.
"Thanks, Harold."
When she’s finally alone, she gets to work.
First she plugs in her phone to charge. Second, she sets her laptop on the desk and places her planner beside it, along with her two pens, her notepad, her reading glasses…
In two minutes flat, she’s turned the room into her workspace and can finally breathe, then she sits near the phone and calls Patricia to get up to speed.
"There are two contracts you need to review, and another clothing brand wants to sponsor Martin. They sent the proposal a little while ago," Patricia reports.
"Forward everything to my email. I’ll have time to look it over here," Abigail concludes.
"Yes, ma’am."
Only when she hangs up and feels caught up and in control does she unpack and step into the shower to wash off the grime she feels after every trip.
Abigail walks out an hour later, her light brown hair so fair it’s almost blonde, shot through with near-white highlights, shining as if the sun beams only on her.
She’s chosen a dark gray pantsuit with a white shirt, but she hasn’t put on the jacket because in mid-June Smithville sits around 82 degrees with plenty of humidity, so her sleeves are rolled up and the buttons are undone almost to her cleavage.
Davey’s turns out to be exactly what she expected, a classic family restaurant with checkered tablecloths, laminated menus, and that unmistakable fried-food aroma that seeps into everything.
Abigail can’t even remember the last time she ate somewhere like this, but right now her stomach is growling so fiercely she’s willing to overlook her standards.
"How are you?" a guy of about thirty asks, approaching her table with a smile.
He’s attractive, with messy dark hair, light eyes, and the kind of confidence that probably gets every girl to smile at him right away. Abigail doesn’t. She just looks at him while he sets a glass of ice water in front of her after wiping down the table with a damp cloth.
"I’m Ethan. I’ll be taking care of your table," he says, smiling.
Abigail looks around. She figures there are about fifteen tables in the place, but only five are occupied given the hour, so she doesn’t think it’ll take much effort for this Ethan to wait on her.
"If I may make a recommendation, the fried chicken is our specialty, but if you’d prefer something lighter, the grilled chicken salad is an excellent choice. Here’s the menu. Anything besides water?"
"A glass of white wine," Abigail replies, picking up the laminated menu.
"Of course. I’ll be right back to take your order."
Ethan walks away and she stares at the menu for a moment, but she’s not in the mood to think, and her eyes drift to the wall on her left.
There are a bunch of photos from a music festival, the Smithville Fiddler’s Jamboree.
Abigail knows that one, and it’s why Smithville sounded so familiar.
While she was waiting at the airport and looking up information about the town, it was one of the first things she found—an annual festival in the area with attendance between 20,000 and 40,000 people.
Mostly folk, bluegrass, and country. Not the kind of artists she deals with, which is why she’s never been, but music is music, and the style never matters; the quality does.
"Here you go," Ethan says, appearing with her glass of wine. "Do you know what you’d like?"
"The chicken salad," Abigail answers, lifting her glass for a sip.
"Excellent choice." Ethan retreats at once, aware he doesn’t stand a chance with the elegant woman at the table by the column.
The salad is better than Abigail would’ve thought—or she’s just really hungry.
Even the chicken tastes like heaven. She eats while she goes through emails on her phone, fully focused.
Ethan brings her a second glass of wine without her looking up; she only thanks him with a murmur until another voice, this one female, makes her raise her head, and her shoulder-length wavy mane slips over her shoulders, drawing the waitress’s eyes a little too long to her cleavage.
"Would you like dessert?"
That’s the question that caught her attention.
The girl at her table, wearing a polo with the restaurant’s name embroidered on the right side of her chest—the same one Ethan wears—leaves Abigail speechless.
That’s not something that ever happens. Abigail is a woman of few words, but by choice; she doesn’t talk because she doesn’t want to, and now her mouth is dry, she feels as if she’s choking, something that hasn’t happened in…
hasn’t happened before, Abigail is sure.
The girl has olive-toned skin that seems to radiate heat toward her.
Her wavy black hair falls behind her shoulders like an untamable cascade, tousled and glossy, while she looks at her with almond-shaped eyes the color of melted chocolate.
But it isn’t her wild beauty that has disarmed Abigail Stone; it’s her powerful presence, the way she holds her gaze without blinking, without feeling intimidated by her the way everyone else usually does, while a playful smile appears in the middle of those full lips.
The girl is pure sensuality and radiates self-confidence; she knows the effect she has and has no intention of apologizing for it. Neither does Abigail.
"Depends," Abigail replies, turning toward her with all the confidence she has to spare. "What are you offering me?"
Her tone comes out as seductive as she intended, and the girl’s smile widens to one side.
Her gaze slides over Abigail’s body with a boldness that surprises the executive.
It moves from top to bottom very quickly, pausing a second at her hands with their perfect manicure, another beat longer at her cleavage, full (Abigail has a generous bust), and then settles on her gray-green eyes as something sparks in her dark gaze.
"Well, I can give you whatever you want," she replies, unabashed, "but if you want to start with dessert, I’d suggest the blueberry pie."
Abigail’s phone rings at that moment, and she slides her hand across the table to pick it up. She glances at the screen for only a second before answering to see it’s Liam.
"Talk to me," she says, fixing her cool eyes on the waitress, who holds her gaze.
"I take it you’ve arrived," he says with a hint of disapproval.
"Yeah. I’m eating. Maybe coming to this place wasn’t such a bad idea," Abigail says coolly, without looking away from the girl.
The waitress’s smile curves a little more, only on one side, sexy and provocative, aware she’s the subject of the woman’s conversation.
"Who are you going to fuck?" Liam fires off louder than he should, though it doesn’t seem to bother Abigail.
"Give me a second, Liam."
Abigail covers the phone with her hand and lifts her gaze a little higher.
"Then the blueberry pie," she says in that voice that sounds silky and sharp at the same time.
"Pie…" the girl nods and disappears after jotting down the order.
"Back to you," Abigail says into the phone.
"Have you really already hooked up?" he presses.
"Maybe." Abigail looks for her behind the bar, but she doesn’t see her anywhere and turns toward the entrance.
"Who is she?" Liam asks, intrigued. "Well, it doesn’t matter. You’ll do what you always do—fuck her without even asking her name."
It’s true. Abigail will. Names aren’t important and don’t interest her, nor do conversations. She only wants release; sex is just another transaction, except this one pays in orgasms.
"Anyway, I haven’t been able to talk to Jimmy yet—his phone’s off," Liam continues.
"Doesn’t matter. I doubt many bars around here have live music. Harold will know which one," she says with a grimace.
"Harold? Who’s Harold?" Liam asks.
"The owner of the place where I’m staying. I’ll call you later," Abigail says, hanging up without mercy when she sees the waitress approaching with her pie.
The girl slides it in front of her while watching her, and a wave of her perfume reaches Abigail. It’s soft and pleasant, and she’s surprised it isn’t mixed with the smell of frying.
"I hope you like it," the waitress says.
"I’m sure I will," Abigail replies, sinking the spoon very slowly into the pie.
"Do you need anything else?" the waitress asks before leaving.
Abigail can feel the heat of that girl’s body beside her, a flare radiating toward her that’s warming her skin to the point of burning.
"I’m staying on this same street," Abigail blurts, leaning back in her chair as she stares at her.
The girl holds her gaze, serious for a second, then the left corner of her mouth quirks again.
"Harold’s house," she says, leaning in a little.
"Yes, Harold’s house," Abigail repeats, feeling her mouth go dry again.
"What room?"
Abigail toys with the spoon before answering. Harold’s house has only five rooms, and it feels strange to say a number with fewer than three digits.
"Five."
"Five," the girl repeats, and she leans over her. "My shift ends in half an hour. I might stop by, or I might not."
And she walks away. Abigail watches her, furious and amused at the same time. No one plays games with her; no one leaves her in suspense. And yet she doesn’t mind, because she’s so sure of herself she knows the girl will come to her room at some point this afternoon and make this trip worth it.