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She laughs, sending the sparks up my spine again, and glides toward me, holding out a hand. “Sure. Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Nica. I’m sorry I scared your cat away.”
“I’m Matt.” I take her hand—her fingers are frozen.
“I remember. Matt Hertzsprung.” She doesn’t stumble over my last name.
“Wow, good memory. But you’re cold. Here.” I drop her hand and unzip my puffy coat. “This will help.” I hold the coat out for her.
Nica gives a flirty smile over her shoulder as she slides her arms into the sleeves. “My hero. I forgot how cold it gets at night here.”
“We are in the mountains.” I mentally kick myself—I sound like a knob.
She slides a hand around my bicep. “Would you like to walk with me, Matt Hertzsprung?”
I gulp. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“I haven’t been to Rotheberg since I was a little girl. My dad used to bring the family here—before he left my mom, of course.” She shrugs as if this was no big deal. “I came out in the summers after that, but I stayed at the Ranch. Show me your town. How long have you been here?”
I guide her toward the town hall, across the plaza. I can’t believe I’m walking around town with Nica Holmes. And in person, she’s as sweet and friendly as every character she plays on television. Except when she played the home-wrecker in Snow Way to Love, but that was a terrible movie. Although she was still amazing.
But why is she with me? Rotheberg isn’t that big—she won’t get lost on her own. And the town basically shuts down at five except in the summer, so there’s very little to see. Why would a star like Nica want to wander around with a small-town guy who’s almost twice her age?
I glance at her from the corner of my eye as we walk. “I grew up here. In fact, we lived in that apartment building when I was in elementary school.” I point at the fire department. “I mean, the building behind the fire hall. When I was seven, we moved to a place out that way.” I wave to the south. “A three-bedroom house, with a yard on the stream, so Blake and I had plenty of space to play. That was a long time ago.”
“That’s right—Blake told that photographer this was his hometown.” She squeezes my arm. “What was it like?”
“Growing up with Blake? It was—”
“No, I want to hear about you, not your famous brother. What was it like living here, in Rotheberg?”
The words send a surge of warmth through my chest. Once they find out I’m Blake’s brother, most people only want to hear about him. Nica is either a genuinely nice person or an excellent actress. Or both. As a teen, I met a few celebrities while working at the Ranch. Most of them made no effort to be kind to the locals. I’m a glass half-full kind of guy, so I’m going to believe she’s naturally friendly.
“It was great. We had two acres, with pine trees and the stream. We played cowboys and Indians, pirates, Batman. Built a racecourse with jumps for our bikes. All the things kids do—or at least used to do. We had a dog and a couple of cats, and Blake raised rabbits one year for 4-H.” We stroll in front of the town hall, then cross the street toward the shops near the highway.
“Did you raise rabbits?”
“No, that was Blake’s thing. And he only did it the one year. I was always into woodworking. I’m a luthier.”
“What’s that?” She stares up at me, her blue eyes glinting in the lamp light, as if I’m the most interesting man in the world.
“I build guitars.”
Her eyes go ridiculously wide. It should feel fake, but she seems truly interested. “That’s amazing!”
I bask in the glow of her approval. “I also teach a class at the high school. Once they’ve been through the basic shop class—where they learn to use the equipment safely—the kids can build a ukulele or guitar.”
“Are they any good?”
“Yeah, they turn out some great instruments. It takes the whole year for them to make one, so they have time to create some really amazing pieces. Not on par with the professionals, of course, but pretty work with decent sound.”
“If I wanted to buy one of your guitars, where would I find one?” She gestures to the candy store we’re passing, as if they might sell musical instruments.
“I work for Lockheart. We make high-end guitars, and a lot of our sales are by word-of-mouth. We’ve made instruments for some of the big country names—Cash, McEntire, Nelson. And Blake, of course—he’s our newest signature artist. That means he uses our guitars exclusively on stage.”
She nods. “I have a similar deal with a yoga clothing line. But we also sell at Target.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, we don’t sell there. We have a more accessible line—something real people can afford—but most of those are sold at shows. Are you in the market?” I ask the question hoping she’ll laugh again.
She does. “No, I can’t play. I can sing and dance but never learned an instrument.”
