nothing, had prepared her for the impact of this man in real life. His face looked a little careworn, but he was built like a stud. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, strong chin, straight nose...and when he looked toward the window he did it with eyes as blue as the Wyoming sky.
She could have stared at him forever. Odd, because he wasn’t perfect. His attractiveness ran deeper than looks.
The guitar case hit the porch with a quiet thud, shaking her out of her preoccupation. He went back to close the tailgate, and she decided it was time to start her job. Such as opening the door for him?
Dreading the first encounter, she walked out into the large foyer and depressed the brass latch, opening the door wide just as he was climbing the porch steps again.
“Mr. McLane?” she queried, as if she didn’t know. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of her instant recognition.
He smiled faintly. “You must be Abby Jason?”
“Yes, sir.”
He paused just as he was about to lift one of the suitcases. Straightening, he put one hand on his narrow hips and studied her. She could imagine what he was seeing: corn-fed farm girl, a little too plump, plain, no makeup, work clothes. She hadn’t dressed to impress.
“Do me a favor,” he said, his voice a baritone that immediately suggested he’d be a great singer. “First names, and no sirs. I’m Rory. Nice to meet you, Abby. Are your rooms okay?”
“Very nice,” she admitted. She hadn’t expected to have her own small suite of rooms at the back of the house. Nicely furnished, too.
“Good. I’d love some coffee if that’s not too much trouble. Just let me carry my bags in. I should be able to find my room since I approved the layout.”
He said that with a kind of humor that surprised her. She managed a nod. “Coffee coming up.”
“Staff of life,” he said pleasantly. One heavy suitcase in each hand, he started past her.
She hesitated. “Should I bring the guitar inside the door?”
He paused. “Thanks. That’s my old baby.”
“Old baby?”
“My very first guitar. Nothing can replace it. Just set it in here, please.”
She grabbed the case, put it in the foyer, closed the door and headed to the most modern kitchen she’d ever seen. Everything gleamed in stainless steel, the kind of kitchen a chef would want. Abby was no trained chef, just an ordinary everyday cook, but over the last week she had come to appreciate the ease of cleaning, if not the ease of removing smudges.
She’d had to read the directions on the coffeemaker, since it did everything except dance, but she’d mastered it. A thought struck her and she ran to the foot of the stairs. “Regular coffee or espresso?” she called up.
“Regular. Just black and strong.”
The machine ground its own beans and measured out the water according to the number of cups she chose. Since she had no idea how much coffee he might want, she selected the strongest brew and hit the button for eight cups. At once the beans started to grind, the loudest sound in this house usually. Then the grinder stopped and the coffee began to drip.
Well, she thought with a rare burst of humor, at least she couldn’t screw up the coffee.
Rory returned a few minutes later. Abby stood leaning against the counter, unsure of protocol. Would he be offended if she was sitting at the table when he entered? How would she know? She’d never dealt with the rich and famous before.
He strode into the room. She at once reached for a mug, but he stopped her. “Grab a seat. I can pour for myself, believe it or not. You want some?”
“Please,” she said quietly, because any other answer might have seemed rude, and sank nervously into a seat at the kitchen table, a very nice creation of wood and a tile top with some kind of Native American pattern.
To her surprise, he brought two cups over and sat across from her.
“Quit looking so nervous,” he said. “I never bit an employee yet.”
Again she managed an uncertain smile. So far he’d been okay. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I don’t know what my manager told you when he hired you.”
“Very little. I’m to cook and clean, I get one day off and whatever other time you choose to give me.”
He nodded. “You’ll get more than one day off. I’m not exactly incapable of looking after myself. Okay, ground rules.”
She tensed.
“I came here to be alone. Since I’m considered an artist, I get to call it my reclusive period.”
At that she felt another smile flicker over her face.
“Anyway, I really do want to be alone. I need some time away, time to work and find my voice again. I’m not looking for sympathy, just solitude. Get the creative juices going again. So don’t expect me to have a lot of guests. In fact, I plan to avoid that as much as possible, although I’ll probably get stalked by my agent and manager.”
Abby blinked. “Why would they stalk you?”
“They make money when I’m touring. This is not making them money. They’re also worried that my career might wind down if I stay away too long.”
“Oh.” She looked down. “A little mercenary?”
“In all of our interests. I’m not really criticizing, just warning you. They may show up even though I told them not to. Other than that, I’m not expecting anyone. But that doesn’t mean I want to cut you off from everyone, so if you want to have friends over, well, you’ve got your own space, okay?”
She thought that was generous of him, considering he’d just told her he wanted solitude. “Thank you.”
He nodded, took a long draft of coffee. “I’m not easy.”
At that point she stiffened, sure she was about to meet the arrogance she expected.
“I keep weird hours when I’m composing. You can’t plan meals around me. I may wander out to the studio and not be seen again for days. I realize that makes it tough on you, but if you can just make sure there’s stuff in the fridge I can heat in the microwave or oven, we’ll be fine. I might occasionally want to eat like a human being, but if so I’ll let you know in advance. As for the groceries...” He shrugged. “I’m not a picky eater. If I want something in particular, I’ll put it on a list. You got your housekeeping account, right?”
“Yes, your manager took care of that.”
“If it’s not enough, let me know. Money is one thing we won’t have to worry about around here. If something breaks, feel free to call a repairman.”
Relief was so great she felt a little bubble of unexpected laughter rise and escape her. It had been so long since she had wanted to laugh, it felt strange. “So wrap you in cotton wool?”
At that he flashed a grin. “Just pretend I’m a bear in a cage out there. Throw in some meat once in a while.”
At that she laughed outright. “I think I get it.”
“I may get a little more sociable as time passes, but right now...” He trailed off and his blue eyes stared somewhere beyond the room. “Back in Nashville, getting enough downtime is impossible. So call me the recluse of Conard County.”
His gaze focused on her again. “You must have been a tot when I left twenty years ago.”
“I think I was five or six.”
“Couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this place off my heels,” he admitted. “Look at me now. Like a pig headed back for my wallow.”
She