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“It’s not too hard to get started. I could teach you.” I go hot again and close my eyes. Like that would ever happen. Way to sound like a desperate loser, Hertzsprung.
She squeezes my arm again. “That would be nice. But unless you can teach me in about four days, I’ll have to take a rain check. Oh, look, Helmut’s! I remember this place!” She points across the street.
The natural grocery store is housed in a building that resembles a massive cuckoo clock. A waterwheel hangs from one side, although it’s not currently spinning. A large clock dominates the front, with carved wooden figures above who dance on the hour, and a blue door hides a bright yellow bird.
“Does the cuckoo still work?” She hurries to the edge of the sidewalk, gazing up at the metal-trimmed door.
“During the day. It doesn’t run at night, though.” I pull out my phone to check the time: eight fifteen. An intense urge to make this woman happy surges through me. “We missed it tonight. But maybe I can pull a few strings.” With a quick look both directions—no cars in sight—I urge her across the road.
As we approach the store, Nica pushes her big sunglasses onto her face again. She catches me watching and gives a self-deprecating smile. “Don’t want to be recognized.”
I reach toward her glasses, then pause. “May I?” At her nod, I carefully remove the tortoiseshell frames from her face. “Wearing these at night probably generates more interest than not.” I pull the hood of my jacket over her shining blonde hair, leaving her face in shadow. “That makes more sense—it’s chilly out here.”
“It’s not that cold—you aren’t wearing a coat.” She giggles but doesn’t move to return my jacket.
I shrug. “I’m a local. We’re used to the weather.” I pull the front door open and gesture for her to precede me. “After you.”
Chapter Four
NICA
While I wander through the aisles of Helmut’s Natural Foods, Matt Hertzsprung heads to the checkout and initiates a whispered conversation with the clerk. The tall shelves and narrow aisles give the store a kind of claustrophobic feel. We’re the only shoppers in the place, so I push the hood off my head and grab a basket.
I stroll along the snack shelf, running a finger across the stocked items. A locally made chocolate bar, some nougat things from the next town over, and a bag of hard candies go into my basket. After the wedding, I’m headed to Georgia for a shoot, and it’s always fun to bring unique items to share with my castmates. Especially since I really want to impress Hugh Harper and Ryan Davis. This is my first—possibly only—chance to transition to the big screen, and I’m doing everything in my power to make it perfect.
Men’s low voices rumble from the front of the store, arguing softly. I hope Matt talks the boy into turning on the waterwheel. I’m sure that’s what they’re talking about—I’m good at convincing men to do things. If you wanted to be mean, you could say I manipulate them, but it’s the Hollywood way. We all have our types, and I’m a sweet girl next door. Cute like a puppy dog. And when you’re cute, you have to use that because no one will take you seriously otherwise. I can’t play super-competent like Jennifer Lawrence or Charlize Theron. I’ve tried, but I always get cast as the spunky sidekick or the sweet victim.
Even in the big screen film I’m shooting next month, I’m a nice girl who gets rescued by the big strong man. It’s my wheelhouse, and I play it well. Flutter the lashes, smile demurely, squeeze the bicep. It’s become so natural to me, I barely notice I’m doing it.
And let’s face it, men eat it up.
“Nica.” Matt appears before me. “I talked Trevor into running the cuckoo clock.” He takes the basket from my hand and leads me toward the front of the store.
Trevor, a tall, lanky kid wearing an AC/DC T-shirt with lederhosen, scratches his scruffy goatee. “You sure I won’t get into trouble, Mr. H?”
Matt shakes his head. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Fogelhaus if anyone complains.”
Trevor rings up my purchases, and Matt whips out his phone before I can pay. “My treat.”
“No, I can’t let you do that.” I make a half-hearted attempt to push his hand away from the charge terminal, but the phone beeps and it’s too late.
Trevor puts the candy into a small paper bag and shoves it across the counter. “Here ya go. I’ll start the waterwheel in a second.” He taps a key, the register dings, then he heads for the back of the store.
Matt grabs my hand and pulls me out the front door. His hand is big and rough, but he holds mine loosely, his fingers warm around my always frozen ones. We cross the deserted road and turn to look at the store.
A cool, pine-scented breeze brushes against my cheeks, and I’m grateful for Matt’s coat. I slide my hand from Matt’s grip and pull the zipper a little higher. “I hope you aren’t getting cold.”
Matt tucks the paper bag under his arm and shoves his hands into his pockets, shaking his head. “I’m good.” He has such a nice face. Fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes hint at his age. I’m not a huge country fan, but I know Blake has been big in the genre for at least ten years. Which means he was probably hanging around Nashville for five or ten years before that. Most overnight successes are far from it. I spent four years playing bit parts before I got discovered, so I know what I’m talking about. Matt said the two of them played together as kids, so they’re close in age. That puts Matt around his late thirties or early forties. Right in my usual dating age range—not that it matters. After tonight, I won’t see him again.
While we wait, I tip my head back and look up at the stars. The blanket of sparkling pinpoints isn’t as bright as at the ranch, where there aren’t any streetlights, but it’s spectacular, nonetheless. I sway, and Matt’s hand touches my lower back, providing stability. I point. “That’s the big dipper!”
Matt doesn’t even look up—he’s watching me. “Yup. I could take you up to the observatory, if you want to see the stars.” His face goes dark—the color of his blush washed out by the low light. “I mean, if you want. I’m sure you’re busy with the wedding and all.”
“How did you know about the wedding?” I think back to our meeting in the chapel. Did I mention the wedding? Probably. I’m terrible at keeping secrets.
“That photographer said your father was getting married again. Everyone in Rotheberg knows he has a house up at the Ranch. He’s a legend here. He stops by the Bäckerei every time he drives through town. He always gets a Berliner and a piece of marionberry streuselkuchen. Except at Christmas time, when he gets the stollen.”
I laugh. “He’s been doing that since I was a kid. He eats two bites of each, and whoever’s with him gets the rest. Can’t mess with the diet too much, but you can’t miss the Rotheberg Bäckerei. It’s a family motto.”
