My Secret Fantasies

That didn’t deter me. I slipped out of the passenger seat and hopped down to the ground, feeling the pull of destiny.

The structure resembled a bungalow, with a wide porch, where I could imagine setting up a few outdoor tables. There was enough space for a small parking lot; no doubt it had served as one in the building’s former life as a farm stand. I might be able to squeeze in a little garden around a patio if I used the space wisely.

I was already through the door, dreaming about how to convert the walls into shelves full of teas and tea-related products to sell to happy wine-country tourists, when I heard Damien clear his throat behind me. I turned, unsure how long I’d been planning my future in a total mental fog.

“Does it suit your purposes, Ms. Cortland?” His close proximity was not an unpleasant feeling. If I shut my eyes, I could imagine myself backing against him. Leaning into all that maleness.

What was it about him that had me thinking sexy thoughts so easily?

“Miranda. And yes. Very nicely.” There was a studio upstairs that would be quite enough room for living space. No one from my past would bother me—no one would even find me in the middle of a Sonoma County Thoroughbred farm.

I’d sell tea, bake scones and after hours I’d write my novel, under a pseudonym. In fact, I felt all the more compelled to write my book now that the hum of sexual attraction pulsed just below the surface of my skin. If ever I needed inspiration, I’d just look out my window and wait for Damien Fraser to ride by on a horse or in a pickup.

Definitely liking this vision of my future.

“You said in your original email that you hoped to put a tearoom here?” he prodded.

“Yes.” I tried to think about business details and not secret fantasies, but I was really distracted, imagining what he’d look like astride a horse.

Mmm.

“If I sell it to you, I’d need you to commit to that. The contract would include a stipulation that I’d have some say in the kind of business operating here. We can work that out with the lawyers, but I want to be up front with you.”

I had no idea about the legality of that, but I understood why he’d want that kind of control, since my little piece of property would essentially be surrounded by his.

“Certainly.” I set my backpack on the scarred hardwood floor that would gleam after I refinished it. I dug through my things to find my wallet, so I could hand the man my check and unpack a few things before it got dark.

I noticed the electricity had been turned off, so I wanted to get started ASAP, while I could still see.

From outside, a man’s voice called. “Mr. Fraser?”

“In here, Scotty.” Damien backed up a step and opened the creaking front door, allowing a wide swath of sunlight into the main floor.

A wiry young guy stepped inside. He wore a trucker’s cap, with a big pair of old-fashioned headphones clamped around his ears. I could hear the wailing steel guitar and fiddle music from where I stood across the room, so I had no idea how he heard anything else.

I smiled at him, ready to make his acquaintance. But when his eyes met mine, I knew.

I’d been recognized.

My heart sank even as his face lit up.

“Miranda Cortland?” He shoved off his headphones and stepped closer, with the familiarity of someone who’d known me all his life. “No freaking way. The Nebraska Backstabber in my own backyard.”

I swallowed hard, hating that stupid nickname the press had jumped on. Resenting that they’d dug up details about my past, even though I’d listed “Los Angeles” as my hometown.

“Scotty.” Damien did not sound amused. His hazel eyes flashed a deeper brown and he tugged the kid back a step. “What the hell kind of manners are those?”

I would have been touched by that moment of chivalry if I wasn’t sure that Damien Fraser would turn on me in another minute.

“It’s okay,” I rushed to explain. “Just a dumb nickname the media stuck me with after I won a reality TV show.” If I downplayed it, maybe he’d let it drop.

Of course, Joelle had tried ignoring it when I returned to work at her tearoom in L.A. At first, she hoped my notoriety would be good for business. But two weeks in, she was so fed up with the paparazzi harassing the other employees for an “angle” about me, and Hollywood watchers clogging up the tearoom so her real customers couldn’t get a seat, she’d asked me to take a paid leave.

Seriously? I wasn’t about to collect a check I didn’t earn.

“Don’t let her fool you, Mr. Fraser. She’s totally famous.” Scotty shut down his music and reached for his iPod. “See? The Nebraska Backstabber won last season’s Gutsy Girl by stepping back and letting everyone else fight it out. It was totally epic.”