Country Heaven (17 page)

No wonder Rye respected him and had taken his name. Tory curled her leg under her seat, eager to hear more of the story.

Amelia Ann traced the couch’s arm, deep in thought. “But Granddaddy was always around. He had enough money that he could buy his way into just about anything, even if the more traditional families didn’t respect him. Daddy always liked him since they shared a passion for golf and the stock market. When Betty, his second wife, died, Daddy insisted he come live here in this guest house. Mama wasn’t happy about that.”

A new warmth blossomed in her heart when she realized they were staying in his granddaddy’s house. That had to mean a lot to Rye.

“He and Rye were close. The man died of a heart attack with a glass of whiskey and can of chew by the bed, just like he would have wanted to go out. His funeral was the last time Rye was home. Three years ago. Mama had this house redecorated after he passed. Daddy fought her at first, but he gave in.

“Granddaddy would have hated what she’s done to his house. So will Rye, but Daddy thought he’d like to stay here anyway. Rye spent a lot of time in this place. It holds good memories.”

“Speaking of Rye, how about we go get him? Besides, those groceries shouldn’t be in the car in this heat.”

It was still over ninety degrees according to her last check on her smart phone. She’d heard about Southern heat, but even so. They both rose and headed for the door.

“I left the car running with the A/C on, so they should be okay.”

“Still, we shouldn’t leave them out there forever. Besides, I’m hungry.” She rubbed her stomach for effect.

Amelia Ann placed a comforting hand on Tory’s arm. “Oh, bless your heart. Let’s get Rye
this instant.
We don’t want you blowing away with the wind.”

Blow away with the wind? Who said that? “Why don’t you go get him? Be nice to talk to him in private, I’m sure.” She could heft the groceries in by herself and start dinner.

“When I went to Ole Miss, I managed to slip away and see him for the first time in a long while. After that, I tried to see him a few times a year. Mama didn’t find out until recently. That’s when Rye shoved that rude man at the charity event. Mama had called him that day, forbidding him to come to my graduation or contact me anymore. It was all my fault he got in trouble.” Her eyes were glistening with tears.

Goodness. So that’s what had set him off. “That’s not true,” Tory said, placing a hand on her arm. We all make our own decisions.”

Amelia Ann’s hand patted Tory’s before falling away. “I pray Daddy’s desire for peace will allow Rye to come back to me. I miss him so much.”

Her love for her brother was as warm as the night they’d just walked into. “I imagine that means a lot to him.”

Amelia Ann looked off at Rye, who was still standing at the fence, looking like he hadn’t moved an inch. “I think so, but he rarely talks about his feelings.”

“Go get him then.”

Tory watched her walk down the gravel path.

It was at times like this that she wished she had a brother or sister.

***

The groceries Amelia Ann had brought made for a grade–A dinner. She pan–fried steaks and zucchini and whipped up some mashed potatoes, one of Rye’s favorites.

The siblings’ murmured words drifted in from the living room. Her stomach was growling, so she decided to start without him, not wanting to interrupt their talk. She had finished half her plate when Rye strolled into the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you say dinner was ready?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your talk with your sister. Besides, you said you weren’t hungry.”

“She just took off. Said to say bye.” He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sank wearily into it. “And technically I’m not hungry, but it’s like having a hard–on in the morning. Even if you’re not really interested, the hunger is still there. I find it hard to pass up your food. It’s always on the edge of my mind.”

She arched an eyebrow at his rude metaphor, but rose to reheat his dinner. When she placed the plate in front of him, she picked up her own plate.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I was going to let you eat alone.”

“Sit down and eat with me. You’re probably starving.”

Sitting back down, she speared another piece of her steak and dabbed it in the blue cheese cream sauce she’d thrown together. “Yes.”

Rye pushed his zucchini around with his fork. “Well, I’m glad this little drama hasn’t ruined
your
appetite. Amelia Ann told me about your little chat.”

Tory finished chewing. He was in a mood, there was no doubt. “So was she right? Did you bring me here to piss your mama off?”

“No, I damn well did not.” He leaped up and started rifling through the cabinets.

“What are you looking for?”

“Some booze. My mama probably threw it out like everything else when she redecorated Granddaddy’s place.” China rattled at his force. “He’d tan her hide if he could see what she’s done.”

She hesitated a moment before sighing. “There’s some Jack Daniels in the cabinet over the refrigerator. Amelia Ann brought you some from the house.”

“Well, bless her heart. I hope she brought a case.” Rye took a healthy swig from the bottle.

Tory winced. Watching someone drink from a bottle made her stomach queasy. She didn’t know what to do for him, so she stood with her plate. “I’m going to finish this in my room. You should eat your dinner. It always makes you feel better.” She prayed it would work tonight.

“No need to run from me, honey. I won’t hurt you.”

That infernal
honey
again. “No, but you’re hurting yourself, drinking like that, and I’m not sure I want to be around to watch.”

Rye smirked and leaned back against the refrigerator. “Careful, darlin’, you almost sound like you care.”

Her heart rapped against her ribs. Now that he said it, she realized she did. Alarm bells clanged in her head. The last thing she needed in her life was to care for this man. “There’s no need to get mean. You’re hurting, and I understand that. Best to leave you alone.”

She’d made it halfway across the kitchen before Rye grabbed her. Her skin tingled where his big hands held her arms. “Honey, I
am
a mean man. Best know what you’re dealing with.”

“No, you’re not. I can’t imagine reconciling where you came from with where you are now.”

His eyes narrowed. “Stop trying to understand. There’s nothing to reconcile. I know who I am. I’m Rye Crenshaw, dammit.”

He’d taken the name of the granddaddy who’d broken tradition after finding true love. It spoke volumes. Small–town culture being what it was, it must have been a huge scandal back then.

Tory set her plate down on the table. “I know who you are.”

“Dammit, you don’t.” He picked up the bottle of Jack and took another swig.

Her face grew hot. “You’re just spoiling for a fight tonight. I’m going to leave now before you do something you’ll regret.”

The bottle slide a few inches across the counter when he set it down. “Honey, Rye Crenshaw never has regrets. And he doesn’t run from anything.”

When he reached for her, she swatted his hands away. “Stop calling me honey. You’re acting like a child. And everyone has regrets, so don’t give me that bullshit. Enough of this playacting. Have the decency to be honest with me. After all, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

A chuckle escaped, soft and harsh. “Yes. Yes, we are.”

She softened, touched his arm. “Rye, I don’t know what good I can do for you here.”

He stared at the floor for a long moment before looking up and meeting her eyes. “Just do what you do best. Cook. And, ah…listen to me.”

Redness streaked up his neck, showing his embarrassment, and this evidence of his vulnerability squeezed her throat. “So I’m like your cooking confessor,” she joked to ease the tension between them.

“I like you, Tory,” he said. His Adam’s apple moved. “Maybe I…have a thing for you.”

She stilled. Oh no. While the attraction between them was unspoken and deep, she hadn’t imagined he would call it out like this. He shifted on his feet, his face the color of a ripening tomato.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” she murmured, a tingle of fear and excitement shooting down her spine.

He took his hat off. His thick hair was matted on the top, the ash–brown curls sticking to the back of his head. She wanted to twine her fingers through them like knitting needles.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean. You…darn well know that.”

Her eyes widened. The fact that he stopped himself from swearing—for her—had her heart rapping a spastic rhythm against her ribs.

“We’ve become…close, haven’t we? And I think you’re …about as lovely as sunlight kissing the leaves of a birch tree in autumn.”

She didn’t think his face could turn any redder, but it did. Somehow it did. Poetry? From him? It was the last thing she’d expected.

He exhaled in a whoosh. “I need you here, or I don’t know if I can get through this. It’s…hard. That’s why I asked you to make the trip with me.”

“Rye—”

“You don’t have to do anything for me, Tory, except be here.”

“Okay,” she whispered, overwhelmed by his words.

His hands suddenly framed her face. “I don’t know what it is about you.”

Ditto. He wasn’t the type of man she’d imagined herself with…but now he was the only one who entered into her thoughts. Her breath stopped. She tried to pull back to maintain the last vestiges of professionalism between them, even though she felt herself blossoming under his sweet hazel eyes. “Rye, this isn’t—”

“Shh, don’t talk.” He leaned in and kissed her, a gentle pass across the lips.

It might have been friendly, but the heat between them was undeniable. Tory pulled back to meet his burning gaze and couldn’t look away. Then he brushed his lips over her mouth again, nipping at her bottom lip this time.

It wasn’t enough. Tory opened her mouth, wanting more of him. Rye tangled his tongue with hers and took the kiss deeper. He groaned, the sound reverberating across her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. She fisted her hands in his hair, seeking his mouth like cool water until she couldn’t breathe. Moaning, she let her head fall back for a moment, drinking in air with shallow breaths. Rye kissed the column of her neck before pulling her mouth back to his. The wet, deep kiss had her knees shaking. She sagged against him, tasting the spiciness of the whiskey he’d drunk. When he pulled her against him, she could feel his arousal.

Tory moaned again and clutched his shoulders. Rye picked her up bodily, and her legs wrapped around his waist to hold on.

Part of her knew they were out of control, but she just couldn’t seem to stop.

He pressed her against the kitchen wall, his hand tugging at her shirt and slipping inside her bra to cup her breast. She gripped his neck when his fingers tugged on her nipple, her head arching back to hit the wall. When he replaced his fingers with his mouth, laving and then sucking, her hands dug into his biceps. Had anything ever felt this good?

“Oh, God,” she cried, her breath choppy.

“You really are a little thing.”

Was he talking about her breasts? Suddenly embarrassment dug in, and she wanted to cover herself. “That’s not very nice of you to say.”

He gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. “You misunderstand, darlin’. I’ve always heard people say good things come in little packages.” His fingers caressed her breast. “Seems they’re right.”

Tory rolled her eyes. “Must be a news bulletin to you.”

He pressed his forehead against hers suddenly, an endearing caress. “There she is. I was wondering where that sassy girl had gone.”

Could he be any sexier? “I’m at a loss here,” she heard herself saying. “I don’t know what to think.”

He kissed her softly on the nose. Moved on to her eyelids. “Neither do I. Can’t we take a time–out from being Rye the singer and Tory the cook while we’re here in Meade and just be together?”

She let her legs loosen from around his waist and stood shakily in front of him. “I’m not too good at that.”

Falling into bed with a man was rare for her, and it wasn’t something she took lightly.

He pushed a curl behind her ear. “You’re one of those commitment types.”

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I just don’t have anything to offer a woman in the long–term.”

She lowered her gaze to his throat. “I’m sorry that’s what you believe.”

“Are we at odds, then?” he murmured.

God, she hoped not. She didn’t want to be deprived of his touch. “No,” she said, “but we should probably stop. I work for you, and you said—”

“I know what I said.” His hands took a leisurely stroll down her arms, making her shiver. “I don’t usually have regrets, but I’ll regret it if I don’t make love to you.”

So would she. “We can’t always have what we want.”

He finally stepped back and picked up his hat. “You usually can in my world. I don’t feel much like eating, after all. Good night, Tory.”

“Good night, Rye.”

He put a finger to the brim in a salute. As he left, she sought comfort in cleaning up the kitchen, but tonight it didn’t bring her peace.

When my parents died, I was only twelve, and my grandma must have wondered what to do with me. When I came to live with them, they hadn’t had children in the house for decades, but I never felt like I didn’t belong. Grandma brought me into her magical world of cooking, which helped heal my grief. One of the first recipes she introduced me to was sugar cookies. Now most people make these at Christmas, but Grandma, well, she believed you could make them any time of year. So, we’d make the dough, and then pick from the cookie cutters she’d been collecting for years. If we didn’t have the shape we wanted, we’d improvise and make our own, using frosting to decorate instead of colored sugar. For me, it was better than cutting out paper dolls on a rainy day.

Sugar Cookies
1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
3½ cup flour
1 tsp. soda
2 tsp. cream of tartar
1 tsp. vanilla

Cream the butter and sugar. Add the eggs. When the mixture is fluffy, add the remaining ingredients. Blend well. Refrigerate until the mixture is cold and hard. Roll out into the desired thickness. Cut into shapes. Bake 375 degrees for 10–12 minutes. Decorate.