Mortified, Bridgett closed her eyes and vainly struggled to keep a nervous laugh in check. She failed. “Let me try this again.”
“It’s okay,” he drawled. “I’m intrigued by your offer.”
If she’d thought his eyes were gorgeous before, they were downright intoxicating up close. And his voice reminded her of a song, but she couldn’t place which one. She needed a distraction, and this sexy newcomer had just claimed top billing.
* * *
ADAM STEELE HADN’T eaten since yesterday—a day he’d rather forget. When he’d arrived at his sister’s in a sorry state, she’d taken him in. She’d cut and colored his hair from bleached blond to its natural brown, then forced him to shave off his jet-black beard. The new Adam was unrecognizable, even to himself.
“Are you in town for this weekend’s Harvest Festival?” the waitress asked. The name Bridgett was embroidered on the front of her pink-and-white fifties-style uniform, next to where the zipper began to reveal a hint of cleavage. Normally he’d pass on the whole retro vibe, but it worked on her.
“The festival’s a pretty big deal here, huh?” The main reason he’d pulled into town had been his growling stomach. He also wanted to test out his new look to see if anyone would recognize him. Bodyguards usually accompanied him and his band when they traveled. Outside of the quick shopping spree he and his sister had made to buy some normal clothes for his trip, this was his first solo performance and he needed to be sure he’d be able to travel incognito. How ironic his “disguise” was his real identity.
Bridgett’s eyes widened and Adam feared he’d already blown his cover. “You’re not a reporter, are you?” She took a step back. “Because I’ve had my fill of those lately.”
Adam inwardly cringed. “A reporter? People have called me many things, but a reporter hasn’t been one of them. Why would I be?”
“Because you answered my question with a question. It’s what they do. And I’ve endured enough questions to last forever.”
Okay, retro girl has a problem with reporters. After countless world tours and the tabloids’ constant fabrications about him and his band, they ranked at the bottom of Adam’s list also.
“No, I’m not a reporter or remotely connected to journalism. What do they want with you?”
“Corrupt mayor, political scandal.” Bridgett quickly broke eye contact, reached into her apron pocket and removed her order pad. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“The sign for the festival caught my attention and I thought I’d check it out. Can you recommend a hotel?”
“New to the area? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“I’m from Katy. Three hours to the east.” Adam almost flinched at his own answer. When had he last told the truth regarding his hometown? Nine, or, ten years ago—maybe. After that long, he hadn’t expected it to roll off his tongue so easily. Tension usually surrounded the question. This morning it was absent. The fear someone would expose his lie vanished with the truth. If anyone had recognized his “true” identity in the past, his credibility in the industry would have ended. He’d managed to keep the truth from everyone, including his band. The world knew him as The Snake. It was the biographical lie his first manager had created and he’d never been able to escape it. An extremely lucrative persona had grown from that lie, playing on people’s emotions. The orphaned street kid from one of Miami’s roughest neighborhoods, discovered on a corner playing guitar. Only it wasn’t true.
It wasn’t until this last tour when he’d finally came clean with his drummer, Phil, telling his best friend how he actually hailed from Texas. Strangely enough, the story hadn’t surprised Phil. Bogus childhoods weren’t unusual in Los Angeles. But most people hadn’t gone to the extremes Adam had. He’d created a career based upon that lie. If the truth surfaced, Adam knew he’d lose all credibility in the music industry. The products he currently endorsed would take a hit, as well. Why would anyone want to be associated with a man who had not only lied to the world, but also shunned his family in order to make millions of dollars?
“We don’t have much in the center of town, except for the Bed & Biscuit—biscuit as in dog biscuit. Mazie, the owner, caters to people with pets, although oddly enough she doesn’t own one herself. But her sister, Lexi, is an equine veterinarian and... Good heavens, I’m rambling.”
Adam enjoyed the pink tinge flooding Bridgett’s cheeks. Her high ponytail enhanced her long, slender neck. He’d love to loosen those thick honey-red waves and watch them fall down around her shoulders.
Adam caught himself staring at her, neither one of them making a move to speak. Form words, Adam. You’re no stranger to women. He had certainly partaken in his fair share of the opposite sex in his younger days, but none of them had caused his heart to beat like a revolutionary war drum.
“Bridgett!” A voice boomed from the kitchen. “For the third time, order up, table seven.”
“Huh?” Bridgett shook her head and Adam wondered if she’d figured out who he was. “I need to— I’ll be— I—”
“She’ll be with you in a minute. Meanwhile, you can look this over.” The other waitress thrust a menu at him, placed her hands on both of Bridgett’s shoulders and turned her toward the pass-through window. Adam couldn’t hear everything the other woman whispered to Bridgett, but he clearly understood the words, “What the heck is wrong with you?”
Bridgett swatted the woman away when she offered to take his order instead. He’d had women stumble over him before, but this was different. He genuinely didn’t think they knew him from...well...Adam.
“I’m sorry.” She returned, her voice interrupting his thoughts. “Let’s start from the beginning. I’m Bridgett, welcome to Ramblewood.”
She offered her hand. Her skin felt soft as velvet against his callused fingers. Adam wondered if his attraction to her was real or if the sudden freedom to roam where he wished had seduced him. He probably had a ridiculous grin plastered across his face, but he didn’t care.
“Adam. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Not waiting for her answer, he rose slightly on his stool and leaned on the counter, her hand still in his. “Are the boysenberries really local in the Local Boysenberry French Toast?”
Bridgett moved closer to him and whispered, “Yes, and it’s to die for...my personal favorite.”
“Well, on that recommendation—”
The sound of a woman clearing her throat caused them both to look down the counter. The other waitress stood with both arms full of dirty dishes, one eyebrow raised.
Releasing him, Bridgett stood up straight and adjusted her apron. “And this is Lark.”
“Charmed,” Lark grumbled. “Unless you want more gossip floating around, I suggest you two cool it until you find a more private place to ogle each other.”
“More gossip? Involving you?” Adam asked. Could there be more to the reporter story than Bridgett indicated earlier?
“She means small-town gossip in general.” Bridgett may have dismissed the question, but Adam caught the slightly aggravated inflection in her voice. The sidelong glance she shot Lark was a clear message for the other woman to shut up. “Where were we? Oh, yes, the French toast. A local farmer grows and cold-pack cans the boysenberries so we have them year-round. Maggie’s boysenberry syrup is incredible. And a few of our pastries have a boysenberry filling.”
“Maggie?”
“Maggie Dalton.” Bridgett checked her watch. “She owns the luncheonette, but she ran to the farmers’ market this morning. She should return any minute.”
Bridgett’s green eyes reminded him of the dew-covered clover