Unlucky in Love (25 page)

PHOTO: GEOFF MCLOUGHLIN

M
AGGIE
M
C
G
INNIS
is the author of
Once Upon a Cowboy, A Cowboy's Christmas Promise, Accidental Cowgirl,
and
Driving Without a License,
which was a finalist for Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Award. A former high school English teacher, an accomplished musician, and a certifiable pen addict, she lives in New England with her family.

maggiemcginnis.com

Facebook.com/​MaggieMcGinnisAuthor

@Maggie_McGinnis

Available from Loveswept

Shelby eyed the funeral buffet, wondering what the tabloids would say if she took the tablecloth and gave it a big yank right now…wondering what all of that fine bone china would sound like as it shattered on the marble floor.

She thought it might make a very satisfying noise, actually.

“My father despised caviar,” she said.

“The guests expect it.” Nicola patted her carefully on the arm, like she was crystal with a fatal crack.

Shelby turned around, taking in the sea of black suits, black dresses, sparkling jewelry, red—oh, so red—lipsticks. It all hurt her eyes, and not just because she'd been crying for days.

Conversation was muted, and servers darted skillfully between little groups of people, doling out champagne and crudités while they gathered empty glasses. Half the crowd had left from the church. Another quarter had fled straight from the cemetery. This remaining group of two hundred people apparently considered themselves family.

“Daddy would hate this,” she whispered, her chin quivering like she was five years old. “Please tell them to leave.”

“I wish I could. I really do. But we need to let people pay their respects.”

“Why?
They
didn't lose him. I did.” Shelby knew the words sounded childish and illogical, but that didn't help her rein them in.

“They're just trying to show their support for you.”

“Bullshit. They're just trying to be seen.”

“Shelby.” Her assistant-slash-publicist's eyes widened as she took Shelby's elbow and guided her to a corner of the enormous great room. Of all the spots in their Nashville mansion, Daddy had hated this one most. He'd preferred his music room, with the big cushy couches, coffee stains on the tables, and windows that looked out toward nothing but grass and trees. “You can do this. Just another hour, and we'll be finished.”

“I don't know these people, Nicola.” Shelby eyed the crowd as they stood in their funeral best. Had most of them even
known
his music? Had they known
him
? They were in his house. They were looking at personal family portraits on the walls. They were eating, talking, smiling…laughing.

Laughing.

The center of her world was gone, and they were laughing.

Prickles crept up her spine, and she braced herself for the cold wash of panic that inevitably followed. For a full week now, when she hadn't been sobbing, she'd been shivering. She was a twenty-six-year old woman swimming through a fog of managers and publicists and fans, but she'd never felt more like an abandoned child.

Her father's
real
inner circle had stood close by at the funeral home last night. They'd called and texted and visited his house when she'd arrived. They'd closed ranks and held tissues and rubbed her back as she'd cried and vomited and screeched at the television, which just wouldn't stop showing photos of the wreckage of his plane…wouldn't stop circling the
C
OUNTRY
M
USIC
L
EGEND
D
EAD
banner along the bottom.

They'd left after the graveside service because they knew
how
to show respect. And it wasn't by standing around in a house he never wanted, in a room decorated by an expensive designer, eating fish eggs and drinking bubbly wine he never would have touched.

Shelby closed her eyes as the din of conversation grew louder. The caterers had moved furniture every which-way to make room for the food tables, and the clack of heels on marble was giving her a migraine.

“I'm going upstairs to lie down,” she said, but before she could turn toward the stairway, Nicola grabbed her arm.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

Nicola took a deep breath. “Because you need to be seen.”

“Why?
Why
do I need to be seen?”

“You just…do, okay? Trust me on this.”

Shelby set her jaw at Nicola's tone, even while internally, she knew her assistant was right. She'd been giving Shelby orders for days now. Hell, she'd been doing it since Shelby's sixteenth birthday. She was good at it.

And what was Shelby good at? Taking those orders. Playing the game. Dressing up in glitter when she'd rather be in denim. Rocking to a pop beat when a country twang filled her bones instead. Singing to a stadium of strangers when all she'd wanted was her guitar, some friends, and a roadside coffeehouse.

And Daddy.

Yes, she'd played other peoples' games for ten years. She could do it now.

“That's my girl.” Nicola smiled, sensing a break in the ice as she pretended to wipe away a tear from Shelby's cheek.

Obviously someone from the press was watching. Nicola always knew where they were.

Shelby took a deep breath and turned back toward the crowd. “Thirty minutes. And then they have to go. I swear, Nic. I'll start throwing things.”

“Now honey.” Nicola tucked a hair behind her ear. “You're not that girl. Come on. Let's go talk to Graham Foster from Orion. We need to thank him for coming.”

Nicola took her hand, and like a marionette, Shelby followed. It was easier that way. Always had been. And when Nicola introduced her to the producer as Tara Quinn, she just smiled and shook his hand. It was the stage name they'd given her at sixteen, when they'd decided her real name sounded too country.

And when he tried to hide his knowledge of how badly her latest album had tanked, the chills had begun creeping upward again.

But this time, she couldn't tamp them back down.

Two hours later, Shelby tiptoed downstairs, drawn by the clanking of dishes and cutlery. The guests had left, Nicola right on their heels, and finally, after hours of chaos, the only other humans left in this cavernous house were the caterers.

She stepped into the great room, where champagne flutes were being boxed and carried out the back door. The buffet table still had a stack of unused china on it, and when a server headed for the table, she put up a hand.

“Please. Could you leave those?”

“Ma'am?” He tipped his head, confused.

“The dishes. And the tablecloth. Could you please…leave them?” She heard the tinge of panic in her voice, but couldn't make it go away. “I'll pay. Whatever they cost, just bill me.”

“Are you sure? We're supposed to take down the tables.”

“I'll have them returned to you. I just need this to be over with. Please.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He looked at her for a long moment, and she was struck by how the silver strands in his hair reminded her of Daddy's. “I'm sorry for your loss. I was a big fan of your father.”

And then they were gone, rounded up by a silent signal, and Shelby was left to stare at what was left. One table, five china plates, four crystal flutes.

She walked toward the table, drawn like a heroine in a horror film, and she lifted a corner of the cloth. She let it slide between her thumb and forefinger, felt the high thread count, appreciated the intricate, tiny design woven into the fibers. She picked up one of the plates, marveling at how the sunset's light almost shone through its delicate porcelain shell, a muted rainbow where there was no rain but her tears. She set it down carefully on its pile—wondering, wishing, wanting.

And then she took the tablecloth in both hands and gave a mighty yank.

She'd been right.

It
did
make a very satisfying sound.

“You want me to babysit a celebrity?” Cooper Davis looked up from the trail ride schedule he was working on in the Whisper Creek tack room. The Montana sunrise was seeping through the barn windows, and usually, this was his favorite time of day.

“Not babysit, so much. More like—you know—be a buddy sort of thing.” Kyla Driscoll, one of the owners of the ranch, had just sashayed into the barn with her ever-present clipboard, and Cooper's stomach had sunk as he'd realized he must be one of the checkboxes on today's list. “And I didn't say she was a celebrity.”

“You didn't say she wasn't.”

Kyla sighed. “Fine. Yes, she's a celebrity, but I'm sure she's very nice.”

“No offense, Kyla, but you assume
everybody's
very nice.”

“Only until they prove otherwise.” Kyla tipped her head. “You might try a little of that optimism someday.”

Cooper frowned. His optimism bone had been shaved thin by years of human razors, but that was his problem. He knew it was unfair to make it hers.

“I'll work on it.” He rolled his eyes. “But in the meantime, maybe we assign Miss USA to one of the other guys?”

“Sorry. You already pulled the short straw. She's yours.”

“How did I—there were no—
what
?”

She smiled. “You're the perfect guy for the job. So? I gave you the job. And really? You shouldn't complain. I took you off the guest schedule for an entire month. You get to move into Buttercup, put your feet up, and make nice with a celebrity. You scored prime real estate, along with a cushy assignment. All the other guys will be jealous.”

“I scored a honeymoon cabin.” He raised his eyebrows. “I think our definitions of prime real estate might be a little different.”

“You're missing the part about hanging with a celebrity.”

“I don't
like
celebrities.”

“You haven't met this one.”

“Neither have you. Why is she coming here, anyway?”

Kyla's smile fell a little. “I'm not entirely sure. Her assistant was a little vague.”

“Well,
that
doesn't scare me at
all
.”

“I know.” She put a hand on his arm. “But I think she was just trying to maintain privacy. Sounds like maybe something happened, and she needs some time to be out of the limelight.”

Cooper fought to keep his eyes from rolling again. In his more recent experience with pseudo-celebrity,
something happened
was kind of a broad area of possibility.

“What do we know about this woman?” He put down the list he'd been perusing, crossing his arms. “Because
something happened
is a pretty big red flag, don't you think?”

The cowboy in him didn't necessarily question the idea of a celebrity going under the radar in Big Sky country. The ex-cop in him, however, had a lot of questions.

“Is she coming here to dry out? Hide from the authorities? Lose a stalker?”

Kyla shook her head. “You can put your hackles down, officer. It's none of the above. She just needs a month of peace and quiet to help her get her head together.”

“A month…and a buddy.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

“Did she
ask
for one?”

“No. That part is my idea. I'm putting her in the Periwinkle cottage, right next door to yours.”

He closed his eyes in pain. “So you're moving me to a honeymoon cabin—alone—where I will spend a month sitting on my ass waiting for Miss America to decide she needs company?”

“I'm not sure I envisioned it exactly like that. And maybe you could stop calling her Miss…Whatever?”

“Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Not sure I want to know the answer to this, but does your husband know you've taken me off guest duty?”

“He'll be fine with it.”

“Ha.” Cooper smiled for the first time. Decker might be his out. “So he doesn't know.”

“Not yet.” Kyla raised her clipboard and made a checkmark. “But really, have you met me? He'll agree.”

His smile fell right off. Dammit. She was right. Decker would totally fold to her. The man was pathetically, hopelessly in love with his wife, and to hear tell, she'd been instrumental in saving this entire ranch from going under, years ago.
Everyone
at Whisper Creek folded to her.

Yeah, Cooper was screwed.

“So, not that I'm agreeing to this yet, but what do you envision this little buddy system looking like?” He shrugged. “You sure she's coming alone?”

“She'll be alone.”

“No security? No simpering entourage?”

“Wow, Cooper.” Kyla put her chin down and eyebrows up at the same time. It was her favorite schoolteacher pose, and he'd seen it work wonders when she wanted something…or wanted somebody to know she had Very Clear Feelings about what had just gotten said.

“Sorry.” He waved off his own comment. “Outta line.”

“How exactly did you get so bitter at such a young age?”

“I'm not bitter. Just—never mind. Let's just say I've met enough of her type—I've
worked for
enough of her type—backstage, private parties, the whole gamut. They're not my favorite kind of people. We'll just leave it there.”

“Huh.” She nodded like she'd just figured out a mystery that had been gnawing at her. “You dated somebody famous, didn't you?”

“What?”
Again, his hands went upward. “How did you get
that
out of what I just said?”

“Don't know. Decker calls it my eighth sense.” She shrugged. “He doesn't like it.”

Cooper laughed. “I don't blame him.”

“So did you? Date somebody famous?”

He looked at her, shaking his head. “You are insufferable.”

“Decker says that, too.”

“No. I didn't date someone famous.” A quick vision of Martina bolted through his head, complete with sky-high heels, glittery makeup, and mascara streaks on her cheeks. “Just somebody who thought she ought to be.”

“Perfect, then.” Kyla poised her pen over the clipboard. “I knew I'd picked the right guy.”

He paused, tipping his head. “Does Decker ever say, ‘Kyla, I don't follow?' ”

“All the time. But he's learned to go with it.” She tapped him on the bicep with her pen. “You could learn from him.”