Country Heaven (3 page)

“I like your spunk, and the reviews on Yelp did say a meal here is worth every penny. What would you say to a thousand?”

Her eyes fluttered before narrowing again. They were as green as his favorite beer bottle and almond–shaped. So, she hadn’t thought he’d agree to up the ante. Wasn’t that interesting?

“That works,” she replied.

The amount was over–the–top, but it would be good PR. Stories like this tended to get out. His people could spin it into something good. He was helping out some ladies who’d served him a great meal.

Myra clutched her hands, muttering something he couldn’t make out.

Rye counted out ten crisp one–hundred dollar bills. “So, what can you make me?” He caught the shake in Tory’s fingers before she shoved the money into her pocket.

She crossed her arms in a cocky stance. “What do you like?”

Oh, did he have some inventive responses to that one. “I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy, but after Myra’s praise for your intuitiveness, I’ll take whatever you want to make me.”

She started tapping her tennis shoe on the linoleum. “You like chicken fried steak?”

He gave her a smile. “Yes, Tory, I do. Thanks.” How had his life gotten to the point where he was casually spending a grand on a meal at a greasy spoon?

She turned and walked past Myra, who was shaking her head like a disapproving schoolmarm. “Not a word,” the pixie said.

Still muttering to herself, Myra poured him a glass of tea, which he immediately sweetened. Then she picked up her dishrag and started scrubbing the stainless steel counters by the cash register, keeping at it until Rye could see her reflection in them. As he waited for his food, he flapped his damp shirt against his chest, hoping it would air dry. The stickiness against his skin was cold and uncomfortable.

Fifteen minutes later, he heard a shout from the kitchen. Myra raced back and came through the doors moments later with a heaping plate. She smiled when she set it in front of him.

“I hope you like it.”

The chicken was fried to perfection, all golden and crisp. Rye closed his eyes as the smell and steam wafted up to him, taking a moment to be grateful. Food always pleased him, and tonight he needed the comfort of it more than usual. He cut into the chicken fried steak, eyeing the buttery mashed potatoes and creamed beans. The first bite was just as advertised. Heaven. He fought the urge to gobble the whole plate up like a hog. Some things were worth savoring. The food was incredible, but then again, he’d always thought diner food had something on those snooty five–star restaurants where his mama used to drag them.

He ate slowly as his belly warmed and filled. The noise in his head—like New York City at rush hour—faded away. If he didn’t know better, he’d say there was something special in this food. He hadn’t been this calm and focused since
The Incident
.

Myra hurried over with a pitcher of tea and refilled his glass. He dumped in half a cup of sugar and stirred.

“Someone’s got a sweet tooth.” She grabbed his empty plate. “Do you want lemon meringue pie or carrot cake for dessert?”

Rye leaned back against the booth, sated. “If it’s as good as the meal, how about a slice of both? I nearly licked my plate.”

“Sure thing. Tory might be sassy, but she’s a damn good cook. She’s just more stressed than usual. Her grandfather died four months ago, and she’s trying to make things work with the hospital bills, mortgage, and school. That’s why she pushed you for more money for the meal, I think.” She grimaced. “I wanted to tell you as a way of apology. She’s a good girl.”

“It’s no problem.”

Myra slid his newest CD out of her apron and shyly extended it toward him with a pen. “I was listening to your music earlier tonight since I didn’t get to go to your concert. Would you autograph it for me?”

He studied the cover.
Cracks in the Glass House
showed him swinging his guitar like a nine iron at a glass house covered in spider fractures. They’d taken a hundred pictures of him before declaring they had the winner. Personally, he couldn’t tell why this one was any better than the ninety–nine others.

“I’d be happy to. What would you like me to write?”

“For continued courage.”

He tapped the ballpoint on the table. “You having a tough time too, Myra?”

Her face turned red. “I have two kids in college and another graduating next year. Always seems to be another bill in the mail. That’s why I understand Tory. She’s a survivor. Sometimes I wish I had her courage.”

“I’ll bet you have more courage than you think,” he said as he signed the CD.

Myra touched the case reverently after Rye pushed it toward her. “About what happened in Nashville…” she whispered. “Those of us who love your music know the media is blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I hope you find a way to deal with the bad press. Your music inspires us.” Her face beamed like soft lamplight. “I’ll get your dessert now.”

He watched her go, his fingers gripping the table. How could he undo that moment of idiotic recklessness? If he hadn’t pushed the man aside, the guy would never have fallen. Yes, there had been reason enough for his moodiness, but it wasn’t any of
People
magazine’s business. He never talked about where he was from and his life before country music, and it was that life that had risen up to kick him in the nuts once again. And break his heart. Oh, Amelia Ann.

His career was all he had left, and right now he needed some positive publicity, and he needed it pronto.

Strategies rolled around in his mind as Myra brought him dessert. The lemon meringue had to be about four inches tall. This meringue melted like cotton candy in his mouth, and the tangy lemon filling made him think
za za zing,
lifting his spirits again. Then came the carrot cake. The cream cheese frosting coated his tongue, and the cake—loaded with raisins, shredded carrots, and nuts—hit his taste buds like a flavor bomb. His eyes fluttered shut, and he groaned, chewing slowly. God, sometimes food was as great as sex.

The cake crumbs called to him, and he swiped them up with the last trail of frosting before pushing his plate away. He couldn’t remember eating anything that good since he’d been at his Granny Crenshaw’s house.

And all from the hands of a cranky, down–on–her luck cook.

“Down–on–her luck,” he muttered.

An idea started to piece itself together like the first verse of a song. Why leave everything to Georgia or fate? He could kill two birds with one stone. Eat well
and
improve his image.

“Myra, could you have Tory come on out?”

“Sure, Mr. Crenshaw. I’ll be right back.”

She left before he could tell her to call him Rye. Or how he planned to thank Tory for the incredible meal, which was worth every penny of the thousand dollars she’d negotiated, just like Yelp had said.

***

Tory scrubbed the grill in furious strokes, ignoring her aching muscles. God, she hated cleaning it, and twice in one night royally sucked.

And all for that stinking redneck—literally. She didn’t care what Myra said. Febreze might be magical stuff, but it did
not
completely obliterate skunk smell.

The grayish dishwater coated her hands and soap and grease bubbles danced and popped across her skin. She closed her eyes, hoping to relax. Her head was too full, her thoughts like a sprinter racing relays from one mark to the next.

She couldn’t ignore the facts anymore. She was on a one–way path to bankruptcy. The thousand dollars would help, but she’d give Myra half. Her family was having troubles too.

What was happening to her? Part of her couldn’t believe she’d hit the guy up for more money, but seeing him throwing the bills around like they were Monopoly money had set her teeth on edge. Why were the most undeserving the most successful? Seriously, every major media outlet had covered Rye Crenshaw’s attack on that man, at an event for children, no less. Myra swore up and down the man had been inebriated, just like Rye had said in his official statement. Like she knew.

Deep down, Tory knew it wasn’t just Rye’s presence that had set her off. Another hospital bill had arrived in the mail yesterday, and the tight–knotted terror of that number at the bottom of the page had overwhelmed her. Her grandpa hadn’t had supplemental insurance, so Medicare hadn’t covered everything.

Scrubbing faster, she told herself she’d get through. Maybe she could pick up a second job. She curled over the sink, making her lower back twinge. When? Now that the semester had ended, her time at the diner began at breakfast and, after a short break in the afternoon, she was back until midnight. With her student loans and the mortgage to the family house she couldn’t sell, the bank wasn’t about to give her any more money. She’d have to take out another credit card, and pray she could handle the payments and horrible interest rates.

“Tory?” Myra called when she came through the door. “Mr. Crenshaw wants to see you.”

“Isn’t he finished yet? I’m beat.”

“I know, dear. I need to get home too. He’s just had his dessert. I think he just wants to pay his compliments.”

She was gone before Tory could reply. Finishing off the grill, she wiped her hands on a faded blue dish towel. There were new black streaks across her apron, but what did she care?

Her knees hurt like she had a sprain when she trudged out of the kitchen. Even though he sure seemed to like food, he was fit, built. Broad shoulders. Firm chest. The ball cap looked strange on him after the pictures she’d seen of him in a cowboy hat, but she liked it. Without the cowboy getup, he was attractive—someone she would have looked at twice in a bar. His ash blond goatee framed some seriously chiseled lips. God she must be exhausted to be thinking like this. He was the last person she’d ever go for… And Lord wasn’t it funny that she’d even think of that—it was hardly like he’d go for her either.

“You liked the meal?” she said when she reached his booth.

His mouth kicked up. “More than any I’ve had in a long time. I wanted to thank you.”

Maybe it was because she’d spent the break in her shift packing up her grandpa’s liquor cabinet, but Rye Crenshaw’s voice made her think of the small batch bourbon her Grandpa drank before he got sick. All dark and smoky and…

What was it about good looking men and deep, throaty voices?

Okay, now she really needed to get to bed.

“If my granny were here, she’d ask you for the secret to your carrot cake,” he said.

A man who punched people at charity events was asking her about secret ingredients? Wasn’t that a first? “I usually peel the carrots, but I can’t remember if I did today. Maybe it added texture.” Yes, she’d been that tired.

“Oh…”

He blinked rapidly, making her notice his heavily lashed eyes. To say they were hazel wasn’t enough. The browns, golds, and greens reminded her of a forest at dusk.

“Myra said you wanted something,” she said.

“Like I said, the meal was incredible. Best I’ve had in some time. Thank you.”

Well, she could be civil too, when the situation called for it. “You’re welcome.”

“She tells me you’ve had some tough times recently. You’re in school?”

Tory turned her head to glare at Myra, who ducked into the kitchen. The diner was quiet save for the whooshing of the swinging door and the hum of the fluorescent lights.

“She shouldn’t have said anything.”

“She was trying to explain your…”

“Bitchiness?” she supplied, a bit of laughter creeping into her voice.

Rye cleared his throat and broke eye contact for a moment. “I’d never use that word to describe a lady.”

Wasn’t he full of it? “Right.”

“What I wanted to say is that I’m sorry for keeping you open. You have to go to school tomorrow?”

She shifted her feet to ease her back ache. “No, I’m off for the summer. I work here full–time now.”

“You’re at the University of Kansas, right?”

“Yep.”

Rye reached for his dessert fork and tapped it on the table. “When does school start back up?”

“After Labor Day. Why?”

He turned a bit to get a better look at her. “Look, I need a new cook. Mine just quit. My last concert is July 30. My manager has started making inquiries for a replacement, but why make it hard when it could be simple? Would you consider being my cook on the tour? I’d give you a good salary and cover all your expenses.”

Her legs wobbled like Jell–O. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not.”

She slid into the booth across from him and scrubbed her face with both hands, trying to wake up. “You’re offering me a job?”

“Well, you’re out of school. We could help each other.”

Wow. Okay, this was a surprise. Tory rested her head on one hand. “God knows I need the money. I can’t sell my family’s house. It’s a serious fixer upper. I inherited the mortgage and my grandfather’s hospital bills when he died. And then the grant didn’t come through for my research, and the tuition and loan payments keep coming due.” She compressed her lips. “I must be tired. I don’t usually babble.”

Rye shifted in his seat like he was super uncomfortable. Who could blame him?

She rubbed her temples—his drumming was beating in time with the beginnings of a headache. “Tell me more about this job.” Was she actually considering his offer? Was he really violent? He didn’t seem to be.

“Our cross–country tour started ten days ago in Nashville and lasts until the end of the summer.”

“What would I have to do?”

Rye shrugged and put down the fork. Finally!

“If you joined the tour, you’d be on my bus. You’d cook me three meals a day and have a day off every week.” The salary he named made her jaw drop.

The thousand dollars he’d paid for dinner was peanuts in comparison. “You’re kidding.”

“I never joke about money. You’ll earn every penny as my cook. I love to eat.” He chuckled. “My last cook’s pie couldn’t compete with yours.”

“You said your cook quit. Seems a little strange since you just started the tour—”

“Ten days ago,” he finished, rubbing a hand over his goatee, grimacing. “Smart, aren’t you? Well, I don’t like to talk out of school, but she slept with someone in my band. It was a big mistake—for both of them. She heaved a chocolate cream pie at him on the way out. I’d need to know you wouldn’t follow in her footsteps, so to speak.”