Country Heaven (5 page)

Her skill at speed reading helped. One of the papers gave her pause. “Is this really necessary?” she asked, gesturing to the confidentiality agreement.

“All our employees sign one,” he explained, pushing back his cowboy hat. “Rye’s real concerned about his privacy. We don’t want anyone giving an exposé to the tabloids, especially after recent events.”

So, that’s what they were calling it?

“You’ll be approached by reporters—even fans,” Clayton explained. “Especially since you’re going to be on Rye’s bus. You seem like a nice girl. Just keep your nose clean, your mouth shut, and you’ll be fine.”

She tried to give him a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to worry about me.” Still, she read the entire agreement, wondering why lawyers had to use such complicated language. It seemed even more foreign at this hour. It took her fifteen minutes to complete the paperwork. Clayton worked quietly in a chair in the corner while he waited. When she handed them to him, he winked.

“Welcome aboard, Tory Simmons. Now, I’ll introduce you to Georgia, my mama. She’s Rye’s manager.”

So it was a family affair, she thought, as she tugged her purse up and followed him to the last door in the narrow hallway. His knuckles rapped on it before he opened it. “Mama, this is the lovely lady that Rye’s hired as his cook.” He made the introductions.

Georgia sat smoking on a mini leather couch in front of a window. She had fiery, dyed red hair and three–inch long blood–red nails. She didn’t look like anybody’s mama.

“Well, Rye says you cook like a dream, and he’s a good judge,” she said in a voice so husky she must have been smoking for decades. “I hear you’re having a tough time. I’m glad this is going to work to everyone’s benefit.”

Tory fought the urge to choke from the smoke. This room was larger than Clayton’s, but it reeked like a backed–up chimney.

Georgia stubbed out the cigarette. “I imagine you want to get settled. I’ll see you in the morning.” She stood and rose onto her tiptoes to kiss Clayton’s cheek. “Night, son.”

“Night, Mama.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Chandler,” Tory added, trying not to run for clean air. She took deep breaths as she left the room.

“She’s perfect,” she heard Georgia whisper to Clayton before he left the room.

Perfect? What an odd comment. “Why did your mom say I’m perfect?” she asked, turning to Clayton.

He tugged his cowboy hat lower. “She thinks you’re perfect for the job, I guess. I’ll show you to your room in Rye’s bus now.”

Whistling softly to himself, Clayton led her to the second bus. Once again, he stepped aside and gestured for her to precede him. So far, his manners had been exquisite. Must be that southern gentility everyone talked about. She nodded to the driver tapping the steering wheel.

“Hi. You must be Tory,” he said. “I’m Bill.”

Did everyone know her name? It was a surreal feeling, particularly since she’d only met Rye Crenshaw a few hours ago. She shook the man’s hand. “Good to meet you.”

“We can take off in a few minutes,” Clayton told him as they walked away. “First open door on your right, Tory.”

She walked down the hallway, and Clayton flicked on the light when they reached the opening. “Here’s your new office.”

Tory stepped into the kitchen. The space wasn’t too bad. She could work with this. A touch larger than a galley kitchen, it opened onto a small eating area. The honey brown tile floors blended into honey–colored cabinets fitted with a stainless sink in the middle. The appliances were stainless steel too, and so clean they sparkled. The side–by–side door refrigerator was nestled in the corner. She was grateful to see the dishwasher. Washing dishes by hand sucked. The stove drew her attention next.

“It’s gas,” she whispered. And there were five burners. Oh yeah.

“Yes, it’s a gas grill setup with a tank,” Clayton said. “I think it’s a fire hazard, but Rye’s convinced it cooks food better.”

“I agree with him.” She studied the tan leather booth in the corner, the table decorated with blue placemats. There was a plasma television mounted on the wall. Probably, like most men, he watched the tube while he ate.

She smiled at the white Kitchen Aid mixer on the counter. Good. The kitchen might be small, but it had everything she needed.

Clayton walked by her. “Just tell me what you want grocery–wise, and I’ll have someone swing by the store for you.”

She trailed her fingers over the microwave above the stove. “I prefer to do my own shopping,” she said.

“Fine. I’ll get you some petty cash. You can do it in Minneapolis tomorrow morning. There should be enough fixings for breakfast.”

Tory let out a bone–cracking yawn.

He chuckled. “Let me show you your other room.”

The light was already on in the bedroom. It was as small as Clayton’s, but there was a coziness to it that appealed to her. Her suitcases were already lined up against the wall, she noticed. He walked past her.

“So, tour buses are all about efficiency. We can store your suitcases below once you unpack. Your clothes can go in this closet,” he gestured. “And the bed folds out like this.” He opened the compartment, demonstrating.

It reminded her of the bed Eva Marie Saint had crammed Cary Grant into on the train in
North by Northwest.
She was rather like his character, Roger Thornhill—one moment she had been leading an ordinary life, the next she was on this incredible cross–country adventure.

“The desk folds out the same way in front of the windows.” He pulled open yet another cabinet. “TV.”

Someone had given the room feminine touches. Yellow sunflowers graced the white bed linens, and the curtains lining the windows were a pale blue. “It’s great,” she said, even though the size would be an adjustment. Because heck, this whole situation would be an adjustment.

“It looks bigger when the curtains are open. And people can’t see in.”

She dropped her purse and rubbed her shoulder. “Thanks. Good to know.”

“Come on. Rye wants to see you before you hit the hay.”

Her feet dragged as she followed him to the closed door. When Clayton knocked, Tory heard a giggle.

“Come on in,” Rye called.

Clayton let out a sigh as loud as a wind gust and opened the door. Even though the giggle had sounded an alarm in her head, Tory’s mouth still dropped open. Rye was sitting in the ugliest hot tub ever created, a blond woman snuggled up to his side. As if the bright teal color of the tub wasn’t bad enough, the thing was actually studded with rhinestones. Fortunately, they weren’t arranged to spell Rye’s name. The hot tub was smaller than average, arranged smack dab in the middle of the far side of the bathroom.

Her eyes flicked back to Rye. He had on a black cowboy hat and, as far as she could tell, nothing else. His bare–chest was covered with water droplets and was as utterly gorgeous in the flesh as it was on his albums.

Holy loving Mary.

“Hi there, Tory,” he drawled, tipping his beer at her.

The blond gave a half wave and ran her hands through the bubbles frothing all around her. She didn’t appear to be wearing anything either.

Heat flushed her face in the humid room. For heaven’s sake, her new boss was greeting her while he basked in a hideous hot tub with some groupie? Was he going to be doing something like this every night?

“I see you got rid of the ball cap,” she commented dryly, striving for the same calm she used as a graduate assistant teacher before a classroom of freshmen.

The blond giggled. “I would have loved to see that.”

Keeping her gaze fixed on anything but them, she took in the rest of the bathroom, which was much more luxurious than the one on the other bus. A shower and toilet were to the right, and a two–sink vanity lined the wall on the left. Sharing this bathroom with him was going to be a heck of a lot weirder than sharing one with the six girls in her old dorm. And Myra wasn’t going to believe her about the hot tub.

“Cozy set up you have here.” Embarrassment burned away her fatigue, and regrets started to swirl like the currents in the hot tub. “I’m having second thoughts about this,” she said.

“Who could blame you?” Clayton muttered by her side.

Rye nudged his black Stetson up, water dripping from his fingers. “About what, darlin’?”

Was he dense or was this just a regular conversation to him? It was certainly the first conversation
she’d
ever had with two naked strangers. Heck, make that
one
naked stranger. “Being your cook. This situation is a bit…”

Rye shrugged out of the woman’s grip and started to stand.

“No! Don’t get up.” She threw a hand over her eyes.

His chuckle was dark and dirty. “Don’t worry. I usually wait until the third date to get naked.”

“Right,” Clayton snorted.

Tory opened her fingers a crack and peeked through them. Her breath rushed out in a sigh of relief when she saw his black swim trunks, but then her insides heated as she took in his dripping wet, muscular body.

Rye tugged a towel from a nearby stand and strode forward like a gleaming wet god. “Did she sign the papers?”

Clayton tugged on his hat. “Yep.”

Threading his arm through Tory’s, Rye led her into the hall. “Well, then it’s all official–like. What’s the problem, sweetheart?”

“First, don’t call me that.” She pulled away and rubbed the watery fingerprints he’d left on her shirt. “Second, I’m having second thoughts about our arrangement. I’m not going to be comfortable with this kind of…incident happening all the time.”

“Only happens a couple times a week,” he drawled.

Her glare didn’t diminish his naughty smile.

“You’re a bit of a prude, aren’t you?” he asked, his gaze wandering over her face.

Her mouth parted in shock. “By your standards, absolutely. My mother was a Catholic school teacher, and my father was the principal.”

“We’re leaving in five, Rye,” Clayton said from behind them.

Tory didn’t miss the stern note in his voice.

Rye rolled his eyes. “Best send the blond back home then. I’m talking to Tory.”

Shaking his head, Clayton wandered back into the bathroom. Seconds later, a high–pitched shriek sounded, followed by a string of curses.

“This could get ugly.” Rye started chuckling. “Let’s head back to my room.”

This was the type of thing that amused him? What kind of man played footsie with a woman in a hot tub before making another man give her the kiss off?

“No, here’s fine,” she said.

Another piercing shriek punctuated the silence, then a loud slap. The blond streaked out wearing nothing, and would have collided with Tory if Rye hadn’t pulled her against him. Coming into contact with his bare chest propelled her even further out of her comfort zone.

“You bastard,” the blond shouted and then streaked off. Literally.

Clayton emerged, rubbing his cheek. “Harder to catch than a greased pig,” he commented.

“Then you’ll be ready for the state fair this fall,” Rye said with a smirk.

His deputy glared at him as he left the bus. “I’ll make sure no one sees her running around the parking lot buck naked.”

“Thanks, man,” Rye said and then turned to Tory. “So, you’re a prude and don’t much like my shenanigans.”

The urge to lower her head was strong, but she met his gaze instead. “You want me to be comfortable, right? I’m going to be living here too, and I cook better when I’m comfortable.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, and it was the only leverage she had.

“Fine. We can set some ground rules. First, no frolicking in my hot tub with strange men.”

She blinked. “You’re talking about me?”

“What’s good for the goose…”

He could not be serious. “Trust me. It won’t be a problem.”

“Then I’ll try to limit my…interactions on the bus and be more discreet. You think you can live with that?”

Well, it wasn’t like she was working for a monk. This was probably the best offer she was going to get. “Okay. We can revisit things if necessary.”

His eyes gleamed. “Oh, I revisit things all the time. Now go to bed,” he commanded and headed down the hall. “Wouldn’t mind blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Say ten o’clock? Night, now.” Turning, he tipped his hat and shut the door behind him.

Blueberry pancakes? She’d do something to his blueberries all right.

Without any warning, the bus started moving. She wove at the sudden movement. With increasing dread, she found her room and shut the door, flipping the lock for good measure. She tapped her forehead against the wood of the door.

Why did she feel like tonight’s hot tub craziness was only the beginning?

She’d made a pact with a devil—a
crazy
devil—and now she’d have to cook for him in country hell.

What had she gotten herself into?

***

Rye was tugging on a shirt when Clayton opened his bedroom door. He closed it, leaning against the wood with crossed arms in that insolent stance he’d perfected their first year together at Vanderbilt University when they were both barely eighteen.

“We’re moving. How’d you get back on?” he asked.

“I called Bill to let me on at a stop sign. I’ve got five minutes to get back on my bus before we get on the interstate.”

Since he felt a lecture coming on, Rye picked up his beer. “Pretty blond, huh?”

Clayton rubbed the red mark on his cheek. “What were you
thinking?”

The beer was lukewarm. Rye didn’t want to drink it, but he wanted something to do with his hands. “I was thinking she was hot.”

“Bullshit. You were playacting for your new cook,” Clayton growled. “A girl next door with her kind of background? She’s the perfect way for you to restore your image, and you just gave her cold feet.”

Yeah, because her dark–smudged green eyes had made him feel a hint of responsibility for her, so not his speed. Rye took a sip of the beer for show. “No worries. I’ll sue her if she breaks her contract.” It was a joke. Mostly.

Clayton shoved away from the door and took a step closer to Rye. “You’ll what?” He stopped in front of his friend and crossed his arms again. “Look, I know you’re still upset about Amelia Ann, but you have to think about your career. Stunts like this are dangerous after what happened in Nashville. If that blond decides to tell all to some tabloid or someone got a picture of her running naked off your bus, we could be in big trouble. That’s certainly not a family values picture.”