Country Heaven Read online

  Country Heaven

  When famous—and infamous—country singer Rye Crenshaw saunters into the diner where she cooks, Tory Simmons is certain she’s got him pegged. He’s a bad boy who indulges himself in all things, women included. But while she couldn’t care less about country music or arrogant men, Rye makes her an offer she can’t refuse when he asks her to be his private chef on his multi–city concert tour. The job is the answer to all her prayers: it will clear out her debt and finance the fresh start she desperately needs.

  Rye is certain his sassy new cook is the last woman who’d ever tempt him, but spending time with the wholesome girl next door will do wonders for his damaged public image, whether she likes being forced into the spotlight or not. Her food also happens to be the best he’s ever eaten, both comforting and seductive. But spending time with Tory on the road shows him a new side to her—one that’s as impossible to resist as her food. And when an emergency in his family whisks him home, he does the one thing he’s never risked: he lets a woman into his heart…

  Soon the emotions Rye faked for the tabloids become all too real, but will the country heaven he’s found in Tory’s arms survive in the real world?

  PRAISE FOR AVA MILES

  NORA ROBERTS LAND

  Selected as one of the Best Books of 2013 alongside Nora Roberts' DARK WITCH and Julia Quinn's SUM OF ALL KISSES.

  —USA Today Contributor, Becky Lower, Happily Ever After

  "It {NORA ROBERTS LAND} captures the best of what I love in a Nora Roberts novel..."

  —BlogCritics

  “…finding love like in the pages of a Nora Roberts story.”

  —Publisher’s Weekly WW Ladies Book Club

  FRENCH ROAST

  "An entertaining ride…(and) a full–bodied romance."

  —Readers’ Favorite

  “Her engaging story and characters kept me turning the pages.”

  —Bookfan

  THE GRAND OPENING

  “Ava Miles’ Dare Valley world is a wonderful place to visit…”

  —Tome Tender

  “The latest book in the Dare Valley series is a continuation of love, family, and romance.”

  —Mary J. Gramlich

  THE HOLIDAY SERENADE

  “This story is all romance, steam, and humor with a touch of the holiday spirit…”

  —The Book Nympho

  THE TOWN SQUARE

  “Ms. Miles’ words melted into each page until the world receded around me…”

  —Tome Tender

  To my sister, Tabitha, for her inexhaustible sense of humor, her kind heart, and for telling me how to ride the bull. For her husband, Mark, the best brother–in–law imaginable—who feels like one of my brothers; for teaching me Texas Hold ‘em and showing me how the big boys play poker. And to blessed, darling Alexis, my niece, for making me laugh and for being a woman who already knows her own mind. I can’t wait to see how your life unfolds and will always be here to cheer you on. I love you guys.

  And to my divine entourage, who paves the way for my highest good always.

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank the following people for supporting me on this amazing journey:

  My editor, the magnificent Angela Polidoro; my incredible assistant, Maggie Mae Gallagher; the awesome Gregory Stewart for always supporting me; the Killion Group for the eye–catching cover art; my wonderful copy editor, Helen Hester–Ossa; my brilliant eformatter, Meredith Bond; Jennifer Fusco and Melanie Meadors for support spreading the word; Bemis Promotions for my website; and my aunt for answering all my law enforcement questions.

  It might sound strange, but art inspires art, and I want to thank Carrie Underwood for turning me onto country music, and Tim McGraw for singing “Real Good Man.” Rye might not exist otherwise, and I certainly wouldn’t have written country music songs to go with this novel.

  T.F. My hope rests in you.

  To all my readers who have been asking for Rye’s book! You are a blessing. Happy reading.

  Obligations make my stomach hurt.

  They’re no fun.

  Make me want to run.

  Feel too up–pity.

  Don’t make me go.

  Forget about the show.

  I’m not for display.

  Obligations just aren’t for me.

  No more obligations please.

  Rye Crenshaw’s first Top Twenty Hit, “No More Obligations”

  Prologue

  Nashville’s Disadvantaged Children’s Association’s Annual May Day Charity event at one of the city’s finest country clubs didn’t have a whiff of disadvantage, in Rye Crenshaw’s opinion.

  Ice sculptures of unicorns and cherub–faced children were dripping in the hot sun on the plush buffet table. The silver flatware fairly blinded him, and the plates gleamed so brightly they looked like they’d been shined with furniture polish. At least the food appealed to him, the succulent beef tenderloin and slow–roasted pork being sliced delicately by black–tie waiters while others carried around silver trays with champagne, mint juleps—this was Nashville, after all—and delicate canapés of crab and caviar. An assortment of European cheeses from bleu to goat caught his eye, and his stomach grumbled. Food was one of Rye’s greatest pleasures in life, and he loved indulging in it.

  Thank God the only thing the chairperson of the DCA wanted from him today was his presence, his pocket book, and for him to take some pictures with the disadvantaged kids they’d brought to the event. No live performance singing songs from his new album, Cracks in the Glass House, which continued to rise to the top of the charts.

  His had been a wild ride to stardom after a childhood spent without any autonomy. Now, he did exactly what he wanted, went where he wanted.

  Except on days like today, when his manager, Georgia Chandler, arranged for him to attend a hobnob charity event. He liked giving back to the community and hated seeing kids treated poorly, but he didn’t like being put on display like some zoo animal.

  And he downright hated hoity toity events like these, having had his fill of them growing up in blue–blood Meade, Mississippi, before breaking the family tradition of being a lawyer in the family practice to pursue country music.

  Of course, his family hadn’t liked that one bit. And events like these made him think about them…and how they’d disowned him when he stepped out of line.

  Georgia made her way toward him, wearing a leopard–print mini skirt, a black blouse, a black cowboy hat, and five–inch black cowboy boots that left punctures resembling bullet holes in the finely manicured lawn as she meandered through the crowd.

  “Are you ready to work your magic?” she asked when she reached him.

  “Yes,” he said, and joined her to stroll through the crowd of Nashville’s finest, being stopped for an occasional autograph or a more personal proposition from some of the elegant ladies in attendance.

  He had just finished shaking hands with the mayor when his cell phone vibrated in his jeans, and since Georgia was busy chatting with the politicos, he stepped away. He dug his smart phone out of his pocket, and his heart just about stopped…

  It was the number from his family’s house, which he hadn’t stepped foot in for five years.

  A spear of fear drove straight into his heart.

  “Hello?” he said, hurrying away from the crowd, the sun beating down on his black cowboy hat.

  “Rye, I hope this is a convenient time to call,” she said.

  Mama? The reason she was calling must be dire. She must have gotten his number from his sister, the only person in his family with whom he still communicated. And just as he remembered, Mama’s tone was so cold it could have kept the ice sculptures from melting.

  “Of course,” he woodenly replied.
Manners must always be observed.

  “Good. Well, then. I’ve learned that you plan to attend Amelia Ann’s graduation from Ole Miss, and I’m calling to tell you not to come.”

  Anger sparked inside him, hot and fierce. “She’s my baby sister, Mama, and I’ll come see her graduate if I want.” It wasn’t like he’d planned on sitting with them anyway.

  A brittle laugh echoed on the line. “I thought you might say that. Rye, when you left this family and turned your back on everything we stood for, your Daddy and I made it crystal clear you were to have no contact with any of us again. And wasn’t it a surprise to hear that you’ve been secretly in contact with Amelia Ann for some years now. Well, I forbid it.”

  One of his songs suddenly erupted from the speakers, and he had to put his finger in his ear to hear her. “Too bad. She’s an adult now, and I’ll see her if I want.”

  Amelia Ann had reached out to him five years ago when he’d been disowned, sending him an email, and they’d kept up a secret correspondence ever since. When she started at Ole Miss, they began talking on the phone now and again, and Rye had even visited her periodically. But they’d been careful, both of them well aware that Mama wouldn’t approve.

  “Rye, I won’t have my baby sullied by your lifestyle or your unconventional belief system. Amelia Ann will take her rightful place back home in Meade after graduating, and she’ll marry a fine Southern gentleman and have babies, just like Tammy has done.”

  Yeah, his older sister, Tammy, had toed the line. She was so much like Mama they might as well be twins.

  “Mama, I’m going to that graduation,” he said, an edge in his voice.

  “If you do, Rye, or if you have any more contact with her at all, I will disown her too.”

  The punch of that threat rolled across his solar plexus.

  “I won’t tolerate another rotten apple in my barrel.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said, even though he knew she would. Mama was the kind who would eat her own young at any provocation.

  “Try me, Rye. You didn’t use to underestimate me.”

  No, he hadn’t. Her weapons were sharp and unforgiving. And he had the scars to prove it. “Fine,” he said. “I won’t go to her graduation.” It cost him to consent, but he couldn’t bear to see Amelia Ann hurt. She had a gentle, loving heart, which is why she loved her black sheep brother against the family’s wishes. They would find a way to be in touch.

  “And no more phone calls,” Mama added, as if reading his mind. “I’ll be monitoring her phone bill in the future.”

  Christ.

  “Don’t mess with me on this, Rye. I’ve spoken to Amelia Ann, and she has accepted my dictate. You’d best do the same.”

  His sister had caved? The hurt of never again seeing her bright smile or hearing her laugh on the phone almost brought him to his knees. “You’re a goddamn mean–spirited bitch,” he spat.

  “I love you too, son. Bye now.”

  The phone went dead, and he fought the urge to hurl it across the yard. Goddammit! He punched the air instead, wanting to strike out at something, anything.

  He didn’t often feel helpless in his life anymore, but he did now. And it was pure hemlock, hearing the utter hatred in Mama’s voice again, like he was a whelp she’d brought into the world and hoped would simply disappear from existence.

  Getting out of this charity event was the first order of business. He didn’t care if it was early. Georgia could write them a fat check to smooth over any complaints.

  He texted her to say he was leaving and that he’d explain later. As he reached the side entrance to the country club’s lobby, a heavily built man grabbed his arm.

  “Leaving so soon?” the man drawled, his mouth an ugly sneer. “A hot shot like you can’t even stay to help disadvantaged kids?”

  Since he’d been harassed by strangers before, he knew better than to reply. He tried to step around the guy without comment, but the man was bold and blocked him. Rye could guess at the reason for that boldness when the stench of alcohol wafted over him.

  “Best get out of my face today, boy. I’m not feeling too nice today.”

  “You’re just some country whelp.” Little did this man know how thick the blue blood ran in Rye’s veins, even if he went out of his way to conceal that fact. “You don’t belong among good family folk,” he continued.

  “Your opinion.”

  The man only scratched his fat belly with his other hand. “You’re a good–for–nothing son of a bitch, and you don’t deserve to be here.”

  The words echoed in Rye’s head, but this time it was his mama’s voice he heard. The towering inferno of rage erupted inside him, spewing like a dormant volcano that had just come awake after sleeping for years. He shoved the man out of his way, and the man fell to the side and started howling.

  Rye immediately reached to help him up, but the guy jerked away and yelled, “He hit me! Rye Crenshaw hit me.”

  Of course, a crowd gathered at the noise, the man yelling about how violent Rye had been. How he wasn’t fit to be around children. And wouldn’t you know it, a few of the disadvantaged children the association had brought for the event teared up and cried like in some frickin’ Dickens novel.

  Camera phones flashed everywhere.

  He was screwed.

  Striding out of the country club, hounded by the man’s shouts, he waited for his truck to come around to the valet stand and called his lawyer on the way home to tell him what had happened so he could call the police and give Rye’s account. He’d bet the farm the man was going to press charges. Good God, the whole rigmarole made his head swim.

  By the time he made it home to Dare River, Twitter had exploded with pictures of the fat man writhing on the floor, Rye standing over him looking dark and foreboding. And then there were the accusations.

  Rye Crenshaw Punches Innocent Man at a Charity Event

  Rye Crenshaw Mean to Children.

  Rye Crenshaw Violent Around Kids.

  He threw his phone against the wall of the den, the crack of it breaking doing nothing to comfort him. Georgia would be wild to talk to him, as would the rest of his staff, but he couldn’t handle that now. Grabbing a bottle of Wild Turkey, he headed out to the river and stood by the bank. But the usual delight he took at seeing the water turn to diamonds in the light was gone.

  His reputation had just taken a devastating blow. He might cultivate a bad–boy image, but what was being said in the media would shock his fans. And it wouldn’t matter if the police didn’t press charges. Like the old phrase went: a picture is worth a thousand words.

  Even he knew that.

  And just as he was starting his tour at the end of the month.

  His career could be in trouble, but all he could think about was that his baby sister, his precious heart, was lost to him.

  He hung his head and sank to his knees by the river.

  Daily specials make a real man’s day.

  Gimme that fresh food.

  Gimme that cooking crea–tiv–ity.

  Let me drink that sweet, sweet tea.

  Let me savor what you have in store for me.

  Serve me up butter–dotted cornbread,

  With some juicy, tangy ribs,

  And a side of collard greens,

  Finish me off with a coconut cream cake as tall as weeds.

  Sate me well.

  Make ‘em all just like my Granny,

  You steamin’ hot, apron–clad woman,

  And I’ll surely make you mine.

  Rye Crenshaw’s Top Twenty Hit, “Daily Specials”

  Chapter 1

  Over a month later…

  The run–down appearance of Diner Heaven just outside Lawrence, Kansas, didn’t concern Rye. Everyone knew diners were hidden food gems.

  Through a grime–encrusted window, he could see a lone redheaded waitress bustling around under harsh fluorescent lights, wiping down white countertops. That the diner looked to be empty was a bonus. He wou
ldn’t have to contend with any of his country music fans and their worried glances, pinched mouths, or flat–out nosy questions about whether he’d plumb lost his mind at the charity event on May Day. The man whom Rye had shoved, a wealthy businessman, had pressed charges for assault and blabbed to anyone who would listen about how Rye didn’t have family values and was too wild to be around “decent people.”

  He’d had to go to the downtown police precinct for questioning, and there were pictures all over the media of him alongside the men in blue. Few cared that the police hadn’t charged him, finding little evidence and observing the man had been drunk.

  Tonight, he’d fled the stage after his concert and was immediately attacked by a rabid female fan and swarmed by journalists with cameras who asked him rude questions while shoving cameras in his face. Over a month after The Incident, they were still asking him if he had anger management issues, if he needed counseling, and whether he hated kids and families.

  So here he was, craving a little comfort food and peace since he’d recently fired his tour cook—another disaster he didn’t want to think about. And he was crammed into a beat–up muscle car, two decades old if it was a day, that he’d borrowed from a member of their local crew, wearing a ball cap instead of his black Stetson. Trying to be all incognito–like.

  No one ever saw him without his cowboy hat, so he should be able to fly beneath the radar. Plus he met the restaurant’s high standards. He had on shoes and a shirt. Bully for him.

  The sooner he got inside, the sooner he could get back to the tour bus and start the drive to the next concert stop. He slammed the car door, rubbing the bite mark on his neck from the overzealous fan. Darn kids read too many vampire books these days. A cat the color of his beloved Oreo cookies shot past him.

  And then he saw the striped tail.

  He lunged for the car, but it was too late. A menacing hiss punctuated the silent parking lot, and a filmy spray misted his clothes. He gagged at the rotten smell and pinched his nose.