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Oops. I assumed he was single but never asked. Maybe he has a housekeeper. Maybe he’s just tidy. Maybe there’s a jealous wife with a carving knife. Note to self: avoid the kitchen. “Your wife isn’t home?”
He gives me a look that makes me think he’s reading my mind and is disappointed by the crazy. “No, I’m single. Didn’t I mention that?”
“Why would you? I don’t need to know a man’s marital status before accepting a ride. I didn’t ask Peter.”
“Who’s Peter?” He scoops a set of keys from a bowl on a side table and gives me a narrow-eyed look.
“The QuikTrip driver. At least I think it was Peter. Maybe Paul. One of those old-style Biblical names.”
“Probably Paul Turner. I heard he was starting a taxi service.” He holds up his hands in response to my unstated correction. “His words, not mine. I’m surprised he figured out how to download the QuikTrip app, much less use it. Trust me, you’re safer with me.”
I follow him down a short hall and into the garage. It’s clean and almost obsessively neat. A workbench stands against the near wall with a white pegboard above. Black outlines surround each tool hanging there. A half-circle of saw blade protrudes from a bench along the back wall, but there’s no sawdust beneath. On the far side, a dark green Subaru sits in the parking space, and a rack of yard tools hangs beyond it. “Why is that? Does he have a wife with a carving knife?”
He opens the passenger door. “I would assume Mrs. Turner has something to slice the Thanksgiving turkey.”
I wave that off and sit. “Never mind. I’d rather ride with you. Paul smelled like tuna.”
“And he’s about eighty-five years old. I’m surprised he still has a driver’s license.” He gets in and hits the garage door button. As the panel ratchets up, he starts the car. “He drives like a lunatic.”
“Yeah, I was glad there weren’t a lot of cars on the road. I did a lot of praying on the ride. Well, maybe not praying. More bargaining with God. Do you know anywhere I can light a candle and get some holy water?”
“There’s a Catholic church two blocks that way.” With a chuckle, he points then pulls onto the deserted highway and heads toward the Ranch. “I’ve never been inside, but they usually have candles, I think. But they’re probably closed for the night.”
“Next time, then. So, what’s your daughter studying?”
As we speed down the highway, he tells me about Eva’s program—a major in English with minors in business and theater tech. “I have no idea what she plans to do with that. She keeps telling me it’s about the education, not the skill set, but I’m the one paying the tuition bill.”
“Pfft, money.” I wave an airy hand. “Easy come, easy go.”
The dash provides enough light for me to see the sardonic twist of his lips. “We can’t all afford to be so cavalier about it.”
We drive in silence for a few moments. I open my mouth a couple of times but can’t come up with anything that won’t sound trite. Money has never been a problem in my family—my father was a well-known and well-paid actor before I was born.
Right. New topic. “I saw a flyer for the Sound of Music auditions. Do you think they’d let me try out? I have a little acting experience.” I bat my eyelashes, hoping he’ll take the bait and leave the unpleasant talk behind.
“Are you staying that long? Parts have already been cast, but I’m sure the director would make an exception for someone as talented as you. And let’s face it, a big name would bring in a lot of interest.”
I laugh. “No, that was a joke. Filming for my next project starts next week. In Georgia.” I put on my southern accent. “Ah’ve been workin’ on mah accent. Do you think they’ll buy it?”
“I’d buy it.”
The warm appreciation soothes my soul. My therapist has been helping me work on my need for external approval, but I’m not there yet.
We turn off the highway, and Matt stops at an intersection marked by a large signpost with arrows pointing out different sections of the Ranch. “Do you want me to drop you at the Visitors’ Center or take you to your father’s house?”
I weigh my options. On the one hand, it’s a good half mile to my dad’s house from here. On the other hand, my father would be furious if I gave his address to a random local. Even though Matt doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Dad thinks I trust too fast, and he’s probably right. I sigh. “If it was my house, I’d give you directions, but it’s not my secret to share.”
“Fair enough.” He turns onto a side road and parks in front of a large, dark building. Unlike Rotheberg, the buildings on Copper Butte Ranch do not adhere to the strict alpine code. The Welcome Center is a modern Northwest style building with steep roofs, soaring ceilings, and lots of wood and glass. A single light on the side indicates the twenty-four-hour drive-up window is open.
I turn to Matt, reluctant to leave him. Something about this man draws me. He’s open and genuine, in a way many—maybe most—actors are not. He clearly thinks the world of me—even when I say stupid things. And he’s real, solid, dependable. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
But he lives in the real world, and I live in Lalaland. I have a wedding to attend and a job to get to. He has a life here, with a daughter who must adore him. I’m an actress—a woman who makes her living pretending to be everything I’m not. Sweet, innocent, decent. I’m not really the girl next door, and when he realizes that, his interest in me will vanish. It’s better to exit now, leaving him with a fun memory of the evening he spent with the famous Nica Holmes. “Thank you for the ride. And the walk. And the waterwheel.”
He hands me a paper bag. “Don’t forget your treats.”
“Oops.” I take it, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a little electrical thrill through me. Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss his cheek, the stubble of his beard brushing against my lips in a way that sets my pulse racing. I take a firm grip on my runaway heart and turn away to open the car door. “Thank you. Have a good life, Matt Hertzsprung.” I shut the door and hurry away into the darkness.
Chapter Five
