Chapter 15
Brett
Bailey Owens is a fucking apparition. I watched her all afternoon charm the guests with her quick wit and dry humor.
Her knowledge of Alpine Falls is impressive—including every damn tree, flower, speck of dust on the path, everything—there was nothing she couldn’t name.
I’m in awe of her. I loved seeing how relaxed she was even after confessing this was part of the job she didn’t enjoy as much because she’s not a ‘people person.’ You’d never tell.
The guests loved her and went away raving.
I can honestly say today was one of the best days I’ve ever lived.
“If you’d allow me to make you dinner sometime, I’d be honored,” I say as we’re packing up.
She raises an eyebrow. “You really cook?”
That only makes me laugh. “Yes. I wasn’t kidding about that. Groundbreaking, huh?”
Her lips twitch. “Do men really talk like that in Nashville?”
“Like what?” I laugh again. I can’t help it around her.
“You’d be honored?”
“Men from the south talk like that. Well, some men, anyway.”
“Fine. Tonight suit you? I’m famished.” I grin. “Of course, I’ll need to use your kitchen if you say yes, if that’s okay? My digs don’t have an oven or any cooking equipment.”
“Yes, I’d like that…” She raises a brow. “Any clues on what you’re cooking?”
I tap my nose. “Grandma knows best. Do you like surprises?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who likes surprises?” she throws back.
Touche.
“It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
“If it includes that mud cake you keep bragging about, then count me in.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Does seven work for you?” I know she gets up early, so any later is probably pushing it.
“That works for me. The doors are unlocked, help yourself, I’ve got some paperwork to take care of here for a while. I take it you know your way to the grocery store?”
I nod. “I do. I’ll see you later.”
Bailey trusting me to enter her house makes my heart skip a beat. After today, she deserves a nice, home-cooked meal, especially after she told me she eats a lot of frozen meals because cooking for one is boring and pointless.
I check with Jed if there’s any more jobs to do, but he just grins and tells me to get going. He must have a sixth sense that I’ve got somewhere to be—Bailey’s place.
I grab all the ingredients as fast as I can.
My favorite home-cooked meal recipes I know off the top of my head, I also make sure I have everything I need for the mud cake.
Some people may be surprised to find that I love to cook, but it’s like therapy for me.
I’ve baked my way into a frenzy over the holidays, giving cookies to friends as gifts because it’s how I show people I care.
Money can buy lots of stuff, but it can’t buy the hearts of the people who I want in my life.
I have plenty of money, but I quickly learned that using it to buy stuff only gets you so far.
Yeah, it’s nice to get a fancy house, car, boat, whatever, but that too only lasts for so long if you don’t have good people in your life to share moments with.
Real moments. I spent so many years of my life keeping up with the Joneses when I made my first million dollars, but it was tiring because I wasn’t being my authentic self.
I didn’t want staff, or someone making my food, or doing my housework—not that I’m complaining, I still hire a cleaner to deep clean every few months—but the real nitty-gritty things like gardening, riding, and getting my hands dirty, all of that had gone by the wayside.
People treated me differently, yet I was still the same person.
The money, prestige, fame, none of it went to my head because my parents raised me right.
They didn’t let me get too big for my boots.
When I got home from being away, they made sure I didn’t have a big head.
It was good for me. So many people in the industry lose themselves, and they didn’t want that for me.
I owe everything I have to them, because I know how greedy and manipulative some parents can be.
Mine, thank God, are normal and only wanted what was best for me.
I cook up Nashville chicken, which is roasted with buttermilk, served on white bread with pickles.
I don’t make it really spicy because I don’t know how hot Bailey likes her food.
In between, I begin the process for the cake, but it takes several steps because you don’t want to dry it out.
Grandma taught me to bake when I was just a kid.
My sister and I, along with our cousins, loved watching her make food every Sunday morning when we’d all pile over there for a meal and a catch up.
I have the best memories. There was always a wonderful feeling at her place when everyone got together, so food has been a big part of our family gatherings.
When I glance up at the clock on the wall, it’s just after seven. I realize I don’t even have Bailey’s number, but a few moments later, I hear her truck pulling up to the side of the house.
I bought a couple of cheap candles for the middle of her wooden table. It’s quaint and barely big enough to hold the food, but it’ll work.
When she comes through the front door, the first thing she says is, “Something smells good.” With a dishrag over my shoulder, I glance up just as I’m taking the pie from the oven. “I hope you’re hungry, Bailey Owens, because I made a meal Grandma would be proud of.”
She takes off her tool belt and hangs it up on the hook, then kicks off her shoes. “Do I have time for a quick shower?”
“Of course.”
She peers over the counter, but the chicken is covered, along with the pie. “What did you make?”
I tap my nose. “I know you don’t like surprises, but I think you’re gonna like this.”
“Then I’ll be super quick.”
She takes off and I smile to myself at the urgency with which she moves. My stomach rumbles because that chicken sure smells delicious.
When I find the plates, I lay out the cutlery, and let the cake cool before I apply frosting after dinner. I reach into the fridge and pull out the wine. I wasn’t sure if she even likes the stuff, but it’s a fruity Verdelho from California, so I thought it would pair nicely with the chicken.
When Bailey comes back, my dick stirs at the waft of her cinnamon scented lotion. Her hair is wet, and she’s in sweats with bare feet. Nothing fancy for my girl, and I love that. I love that she can be herself around me, even if this is her own home.
“Did you get through all your paperwork?” I ask, pulling out a chair.
She walks over to me, a little hesitant. “Yes, I did, mainly because I didn’t have a hot cowboy distracting me all afternoon trying to kiss me.”
“I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” I say, sliding into the chair next to her.
She laughs. “You’re not really.” She looks over the table, her eyes wide. “Wow. You outdid yourself. I love chicken.”
“Not just any chicken, Tennessee oven roasted in buttermilk.”
“My goodness. You weren’t kidding about being a good cook.”
“Hold that thought, you haven’t tried it yet.” I stand to cut the bird, then place the slices on her plate along with all the extras. I also prepared some creamy mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables. “Would you like everything?”
She nods, licking her bottom lip. “Yes, please. Remember how I said I’m not one of those girls who doesn’t eat.”
I laugh because I don’t know where she puts it, because she’s as slender as a rake. “I didn’t have time to whip up a batch of homemade ice cream to go with dessert, but I got talked into buying some locally.”
“Let me guess, Mrs. T’s vanilla bean and caramel chunks?”
“How did you know?”
“Lone guess,” she says.
I serve myself next, as Bailey waits for me. “You can tuck in,” I laugh. “No airs and graces.”
“I know I’m from Colorado, but we don’t live in caves,” she says matter-of-factly, but a second later, there’s amusement in her eyes. “And as much as I’d love to stuff my face, I’d like to say Grace, if you don’t mind.”
I look at her in surprise. “Of course I don’t mind.”
“I’m not religious,” she tells me. “But we always did it when we had roast dinner on a Sunday, and something tells me your grandma would approve.”
“She would’ve loved you,” I say before I can stop myself. Shit.
She swallows and presses her lips together, then releases them a moment later and smiles.
“The feeling is mutual. I’m sure she was a great lady.
” She takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze.
“Thank you for the food that Brett so generously paid for and cooked with his own two hands. Please make me strong enough to not look like a complete hog in front of him. Amen.”
I laugh out loud. “Best grace I’ve ever heard.”
“Better than two, four, six, eight, bog in, don’t wait.”
I shake my head and try to control my ongoing laughter. I wait until she scoops up some chicken, bread, pickles, and a little mash onto her fork. Then she makes the most delicious sound. “Brett,” she sighs. “That is so, so good.”
Okay, she’s talking about the food, not me or how I make her feel, but it hits in all the right places.
I take a bite too, not bad. Then reach for the wine. “Would you care for some Verdelho? The clerk said it was good with white meat and light meals. I promise I’m not a big drinker, but I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
“That sounds lovely. I usually only drink on weekends, but I’ll make an exception because you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“I enjoy cooking for the people I lov—” I take a beat. “Um… I mean—” What the heck do I mean?
Her fork halts just as she’s about to take a bite. Crap. I didn’t even mean it like that.
I don’t even know her, but somehow I feel as if I do.
I take a breath, hoping I’m not coming on too strong, we only spent one night together after all. I probably am. Being too upfront is always an issue. I not only wear my heart on my sleeve, I clearly don’t have a filter either.
“I meant, people I care about,” I amend, clearing my throat.
“I do also cook for the people I love; like my parents, friends, sister—” She takes the bite, then chews thoughtfully.
A second later, she drops her knife onto the plate and reaches to me to squeeze my hand.
“You’re an incredibly decent guy, Brett.
I knew that from the first moment I met you.
So don’t apologize to me. Ever. I don’t always say the right thing either, and I always put my foot in it.
So, I get it.” I feel a sigh of relief bubble up inside me.
Phew. I’m also glad I get to be myself around her, at least for a little longer.
I will have to confess the truth eventually.
The longer I leave the fact I’m a very famous country singer with multiple platinum albums and hit songs under my belt, the more I run the risk of her finding out from someone else.
I don’t want that. Calm your ego, fool. Yeah, I really do need to work on that.
We eat in companionable silence for a second.
“Today was great,” I say, after a few moments. “I really enjoyed it. Thank you for what you did. It may not seem like much, but it was everything to me. I realized today that I need to truly get back in the saddle and get another horse.” I omit adding when I get back home.
“Oh, really? That’s fantastic,” she says. “You know what you’re doing, that’s obvious. Pepper was in love with you.”
“Well, I do have a way with the wayward saddlebreds.”
“Not the thoroughbreds, though?”
I shake my head with a laugh. “I like a little wild. A little crazy. Unexpected.”
“We’re still talking about Pepper, right?” Our eyes meet. Her face softens somehow, like she really is taking me in.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Ooh, cryptic.”
“So, what do you think of the chicken?”
“Delicious, and I’m going to ask for seconds.”
“You don’t have to ask. It’s your home.” I can’t help but feel a little smug. “But I do like a girl with a healthy appetite.”
“Well, that’s me. My mom always said I had hollow legs as a child, and nothing much has changed.”
“Tell me about them,” I say. “Your parents, and back home.” And she does. For the next hour, we talk about all things Colorado and I learn that Bailey Owens is the one woman I’m not gonna let slip away.