Meant to Be Page 3

  “Here we are!”

  Shelby felt her mouth fall open as she took in the log cabins, the rustic lodge, and the bright red barns. White paddock fences and gorgeous horses made her blink, sure she was looking at a photo. But no. It was real. And it was otherworldly beautiful.

  It was also the exact sort of place Daddy had dreamed of owning someday—the kind of place he would have owned if his money hadn’t disappeared in a Ponzi scheme that had imploded two years ago.

  Kyla pulled around the back of the lodge and parked the truck in front of a picturesque little cabin set against a hillside, and Shelby exhaled carefully. Breaking down right now, after holding it together all day, was not gonna happen.

  “Here’s your cabin—Periwinkle.”

  Kyla hopped out of the driver’s side, and Shelby waited a beat, flipping down the mirror to check her eyes and lipstick before she slid the sunglasses firmly back on and opened the door. She pasted a smile on her face, trained to be ready for the flashbulbs, but then she let that smile fade. There were no flashes here. No snapping shutters. Just…birdsong and horses and a radio muted so low she couldn’t hear anything but the outline of a song.

  “It’s so—”

  “Quiet?” Kyla raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes.”

  “A little different from where you live?”

  Shelby nodded slowly, not even sure how to answer that question. Where did she live? Certainly not in the Nashville mansion that was already under foreclosure proceedings. Not in the bus where she’d spent the past twelve years crisscrossing the country. Not…anywhere.

  Kyla hauled one suitcase out of the truck, then another, and Shelby shook her head quickly, trying to quiet her thoughts as she pulled down the other two.

  “Come on. Let’s get you inside. You must be exhausted.”

  She followed Kyla into the cabin, stopping just inside the door so she wouldn’t crash into her as Kyla tried to maneuver suitcases into the living area.

  “So it’s not the Ritz, but it’s our best cabin. We really hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

  “It’s adorable.” Shelby felt her shoulders slowly relax as she glanced around the open, homey, sunlit space that would be her home for the next month. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

  She followed as Kyla showed her the stocked fridge and cupboards, the gorgeous bedroom with its canopy bed and handmade quilt, and the oversized claw-foot tub in a sunny bathroom. In the open living area, wood was piled next to a stone fireplace, and a bookshelf was filled with at least a hundred novels and a pile of board games.

  “I imagine you won’t be playing a lot of Monopoly, but we stocked the bookshelf for you. And if you need anything in town, just keep a list, and one of us will come grab it from you when we head in.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.” Shelby looked around at the pains Kyla had obviously taken to make her feel comfortable, probably at warp speed, since she couldn’t have had more than a few days’ notice of Shelby’s arrival. “It’s lovely.”

  It was a beautiful place—she’d give Nicola that. If she’d had to pick a hideaway for herself—not that she was in the habit of picking anything for herself—she might have even chosen Whisper Creek, too. The porch of this cabin alone might have her moving here permanently, if not for…everything. With its huge Adirondack chair and white double swing, it invited lemonade, cicadas, and a good, long book.

  When was the last time she’d had enough free hours to pick up an actual book?

  “Okay.” Kyla smiled brightly, but Shelby could sense her nerves under the smile. “I’ll let you get settled, but if you need anything, just use that phone there. It rings straight to the office and the kitchen in the main lodge.” She pointed downhill toward the rambling lodge, which looked warm and inviting as the cool summer breeze danced through the cabin windows.

  “Thank you.” Shelby nodded, desperate to be alone so she could let go of the calm, unemotional mask she’d worn all day long.

  It was the same one she’d first donned at sixteen when she’d had to go onstage in spite of a one-hour-old breakup, the same one that had gotten her through countless concerts in countless cities over the past decade…the same one she saw flashing back at her from newsstands in every airport.

  The capped smile, the rosy lips, the perfect mascara, the face that always looked slimmer on paper than it did in the mirror—it was all a mirage, and she wasn’t sure when she’d quite lost track of which parts were real.

  Or whether she’d ever find them.

  Chapter 3

  Hours later, long after she’d heard guests depart from the main lodge and disperse to their cabins, Shelby ventured out to her front porch, where the double-sized Adirondack chair with its deep cushions begged for someone to sit down. As she did, she felt a chill creep up her spine, but this time it was because she was cold, not because the icy fingers of anxiety were taking hold. She wrapped the quilted throw from the couch more tightly around her shoulders as she let her eyes adjust to the inky darkness beyond her steps.

  She could hear tree frogs off to her left, and the muted sounds of horses settling down for the night came from the two stables just down the hill from the main lodge. Someone had country music on in the other honeymoon cabin, and she could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and laughter through the open windows of the lodge.

  She took a deep breath of the mountain air, and could almost taste the firs in the gentle breeze. She’d left a light on in her cottage, but the porch itself was dark. The combination of warm quilt and oversized chair made for a cozy cocoon in the darkness, and she was grateful for the way her cabin overlooked the ranch, with nothing behind it.

  She’d spent so many years watching her back that she’d taken a deep breath earlier this evening when she’d looked out the rear windows of the cottage to see only grass, flowers, and trees. If she followed Nicola’s orders and kept to herself, there wasn’t any reason anyone here would even see her, as far as she could tell.

  A few seconds later, a movement on the porch of the other honeymoon cabin caught her eye, and although she didn’t want to be nosy, she couldn’t help but look. And then swallow.

  Hard.

  The man who’d just emerged was in shadows, lit only by the glow coming from within his cabin, but even in the dark, it was impossible to miss the confident posture, the sculpted body under his T-shirt, the watchful stance he took as he scanned slowly from right to left.

  Shelby pulled the quilt closer, hoping he wouldn’t see her out here. But as she watched, he stepped casually down the three stairs of his porch, then walked down the pathway toward hers.

  Automatically, she looked over her left shoulder, where usually, a security guy stood just far enough away to be unobtrusive. But not here. Not now.

  She was alone. Really, really alone.

  She swallowed, looking quickly around her, but the porch was dismally short on self-defense objects.

  “Hey.” The guy stopped ten feet away, his voice soft and friendly.

  Like Ted Bundy.

  “Hi,” she replied, trying to pretend she wasn’t having a mini–heart attack over a perfectly innocent—probably—stranger talking to her. Funny how fame and fear-of-other-humans went hand in hand after losing all semblance of privacy for most of her life.

  Or not funny at all.

  He pointed to his chest. “I’m Cooper. You settling in okay?”

  “Yes.” She nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

  “Okay.” He paused like he’d intended to say more, but then thought better of it. Instead, he jerked a thumb toward his cabin. “I’m right next door if you need anything.”

  She wondered at his use of the singular I, since he must have a wife stowed in that honeymoon cabin, but she didn’t see any movement in the windows as she glanced behind him. Also, what was he doing out here at eleven o’clock at night talking to her if he had a brand-new bride waiting for him inside?

  “Thank you,” she finally said, b
ut figured her suspicious nod was probably a dead giveaway that she’d come asking a newlywed stranger for help just about as soon as she’d go out rattlesnake-catching.

  With a casual wave, he turned and walked away. She watched him go, scanning him from head to toe, despite trying not to. He had the body of a TV cop—strong shoulders under his T-shirt, biceps straining the fabric, even in the dark. His waist was trim, and his jeans hid what she was pretty sure was a tight, perfect ass.

  Damn.

  She’d spent the last decade surrounded by other headliners, tour dancers, and the entourages that surrounded everyone in the business, and she swore she’d lost sight of what a real, honest-to-goodness man looked like. She was so used to the costumes and the makeup and the glitter and glitz that she’d forgotten just what a good pair of Wranglers could do for a guy.

  She shook her head. What was she even thinking? He’d spoken all of maybe fourteen words to her, and she knew absolutely nothing about him. But…the timbre of his voice had hit her somewhere way down low, and the way he’d kept his distance—as if he’d sensed she needed him to—made her feel…safe.

  Which was weird. It was all…weird.

  Music filtered through his windows again, and her eyes widened as she recognized the song that was playing. Tears pricked behind her eyelids as she listened to the opening notes and pictured her daddy singing them on a stage in Nashville.

  It was one of his early ones—written back in the days when they’d ride his big bus for hours, tour stop to tour stop, with nothing but grass and interstate outside the windows. Daddy’d get out his guitar and pat the padded bench seat next to him. “C’mere, Pipsqueak. Help me write a song.”

  And they would. He’d stick a pencil behind his ear and he’d start strumming chords, and Shelby would close her eyes, looking for the melody. First she’d hum, and then the words would come, floating through the air, waiting to be caught. Like dandelion fuzz, she’d explain to him. Like God was gifting her the words…and smiling when she put them into a song.

  He’d play, she’d sing, he’d harmonize, and for hours, they’d ride that bus, making the miles disappear as they created magic. And at the next stop, he’d play his sets, and close to the end of the concert, he’d always pull her onstage, call her his little nightingale, and they’d sing their latest invention together.

  She’d loved the country circuit, loved the other artists who traveled with her father, loved the crews who set up and took down equipment and staging until the early-morning hours. But when an agent had spotted her, signed her, and set her up on her own tour the moment she’d turned sixteen, she’d kissed it all goodbye.

  She just hadn’t known that was what she’d been doing.

  Neither had Daddy.

  A sudden scent hit her nose, and she inhaled deeply. The honeymooners were apparently eating late tonight, and it smelled like dinner was juicy hamburgers, fresh from a grill she couldn’t see. Her stomach growled, as if it, too, had caught the scent and realized it had been hours—or maybe days—since she’d had a decent meal.

  She stood up and headed back into her cottage. The refrigerator and cupboards were both full; surely she could find something to make herself, even though her food prep skills were absolutely nil.

  She’d been on the road for twelve years, with craft services or room service at her beck and call. She could have had anything her heart desired, but she’d always just chosen from what was already prepared or on the short menu.

  Daddy’d always told her not to make trouble for anybody—“Nobody in the business likes a diva, Pip”—so although she might have given her left pinky finger for a grilled hamburger over the years, it had never been on the list of acceptable foods Nicola held her to. And no matter how you spiced it, tofu never tasted like cow.

  She peered at the refrigerator shelves, lifting up celery, carrots, broccoli, and something with an odd shape she didn’t recognize. There was soy milk, almond milk, and some sort of designer milk Nicola had apparently put on a list. Orange juice and cranberry juice. Apples and oranges and grapes. And in the drawers, she found chicken, some other sort of meat she’d never seen, and of course, tofu.

  She shut the doors. It was perfectly good food, but she didn’t want any of it. She craved pizza, chips, or maybe—gasp—a beer. She wanted nachos, or a hot dog, maybe even one with sauerkraut and mustard dribbling out its edges.

  She wanted one of those damn burgers taunting her from next door.

  With a sigh, she opened the cupboard and found a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Thank God. Something she could make.

  But when she opened the jar and peeled off the seal inside, she held her stomach as the smell of fresh peanuts assaulted her. Daddy’d probably made her eight thousand peanut butter sandwiches on that tour bus over the years. And as she stared at the bread and the knife, she could see his hands deftly spreading and slicing while he whistled.

  Then they’d sit at the window-seat table and watch the land go by while they ate, guessing at the lives of the people along the way. Daddy’d always let her pick a house as they went by, and he’d weave a tale of the families who’d maybe passed through it—or who’d lived there for generations—and she’d lean on his chest and listen while the vibrations from his voice lulled her to sleep.

  With a catchy little breath, she wrapped up the bread and screwed the cap back on the peanut butter, no longer hungry…no longer sure she could get food past the lump in her throat.

  Daddy had been more than just a singer. He’d been a storyteller.

  But now his story was over, and he’d left her alone to figure out hers.

  —

  Cooper flipped his burger, reveling in the sizzle as his stomach growled. With VIP Shelby now on-site, they’d had a scramble of an afternoon getting the schedule rejiggered and her cabin ready, and he hadn’t had time to stop for dinner. He’d gone over a few minutes ago with the intention of introducing himself, but when he’d seen her practically curl up inside herself while her eyes looked for weapons, he’d decided instead to play it cool and casual.

  Miss Shelby-whoever-she-was definitely didn’t want company. And he couldn’t shake a strong feeling he had that she feared it.

  His phone rang, and he smiled as he hit the screen and put it to his ear. “Hey, Wonder Woman.”

  “Hi, Cooper. Whatcha doing?”

  “Waiting for my favorite sister to call. What else would I be doing?”

  “Ha.” Phoebe snorted. “I’m your only sister.”

  “Still my favorite, though. What’s going on back in the big city of Boston tonight?” He pulled the phone away to check the time. “And what in the world are you still doing up so late?”

  “Ugh. Nothing. Everyone except me is at Sarah’s party. And I’m fourteen, Coop. I don’t have a bedtime anymore.”

  Cooper pictured her, curled up in her second-floor bedroom, at least one cat purring at her feet. Fourteen-going-on-thirty—that was Phoebe. And while the rest of the family had shut him out, she’d refused to stop talking to him. Granted, she never did it when Dad was awake to overhear her, but still, she was making the effort, and he loved her for it.

  “Who’s Sarah?”

  “Popular beeyotch. She’s dating Bryan, remember? And he broke up with Felicity two weeks ago, but they’d been going out for three months and he did it right before the dance, which is so mean, right?” She stopped and took a frustrated breath. “I already told you all of this. Do you not even listen to the travails of my ninth-grade self?”

  He laughed. “Travails?”

  “Had to throw in a word that made me sound a little less like a freshman hormone.”

  “Gotcha. Well done. Speaking of your superior intelligence, did you hear about the math thing yet?”

  She paused. “Oh, y’know. These things take forever to find out.”

  Cooper felt his eyebrows furrow. Something in her tone was too casual. “You found out, didn’t you?”

  “It doesn’
t matter, Cooper. Not like I can go, even if I made it.”

  Phoebe had applied four months ago to some special advanced-math program that would supposedly give her a straight shot at an MIT scholarship, but she’d done it against Dad’s wishes. And honestly, Cooper could see where his father was coming from, just a little bit. Why get her hopes up, if there was no way the family could afford the program, anyway?

  But now she’d made it. He knew it.

  “What’d you score on the test?”

  “I’m not telling you. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing because you bombed it? Or embarrassing because you’re officially the nerdiest chick at St. Mary’s now?”

  She giggled. “The second one.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” He could hear the pride in that one word. “I kind of aced it.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yes shit.”

  “No swearing.” He laughed.

  “You did it first!”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice sobered. “It’s really expensive. I applied for a scholarship, but I don’t know if it’ll come through.”

  “Well, if you need a reference, I know a good cop who could give you one.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he had time to process them and realize that nobody in her right mind would put his name anywhere near a reference box.

  Not anymore.

  “Thanks, Cooper. I know you would.”

  “I’ll help you pay, Phoebe.”

  “Right.” She snorted. “You don’t have a pot to piss in.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

  He started pacing the small patio area behind his cabin. “Did Dad say that?”

  Asshole.

  “It wasn’t one of his finer moments, if that helps.” He could feel her cringing on the other end of the phone, wishing she hadn’t said it in the first place. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Cooper. He was just mad.”

  “Well, there’s something new and different.”