changing in the family room, hoping none of the residents would walk in on her, ready to slide under the covers on the ancient brown and gold plaid couch. The toothbrush Zane had given her lay on top of the old console television, along with her clothes, which smelled like beer and sweat and which she was supremely grateful to get out of.
She was as tired as she’d ever been in her life. She’d been up for twenty hours, she was desperate for a shower, and she’d lost everything she’d brought on this crazy venture—and the man she’d come to see wasn’t even here. So maybe that explained why, when she thought of the fiancé she didn’t have, she accidently pictured the handsome but rude man at the table rather than the perfectly delightful groom.
She crawled onto the sofa and pulled the soft old quilts up under her chin. They smelled faintly of rosewater and fresh air, and she was certain that the last time they’d been washed, they’d been hung from a clothesline to dry.
She snuggled deeper into the covers, Zane’s old T-shirt deliciously soft against her skin. The couch was, surprisingly, just as comfortable as Matthew had promised.
Amazingly, sleep didn’t come right away. Caryn lay in her nest of covers, listening to the sounds of the old bunkhouse: the creaking of the old wood-paneled walls, the tapping of branches against the windows, the far-off mooing of a cow—she was pretty sure it was a cow, anyway—and the much closer hooting of an owl. It was nothing like the sound of traffic and sirens and the bustle of life in the city, but it was…nice.
Suddenly, her reasons for coming here seemed awfully blurry.
It seemed absurd that she had thought she could come here to North Dakota, dressed like she was going to a Halloween party, and spy on Buddy using some guise that she hadn’t even bothered to figure out in advance. That plan had started falling apart the minute the plane touched down. For one thing, apparently Buddy was still well enough—or stubborn enough—to live at home and even romance a woman. Camping! What kind of dying man went camping? Which begged the question of whether her mother had exaggerated when she said he was dying. Of course, there was a chance Georgia simply didn’t have her facts straight, but she was generally meticulous about details. Caryn should have come right out and asked Opal or Turk, but she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without raising suspicions.
Opal referred to her boss as an “old goat,” but Caryn thought she detected affection in her voice. She certainly hadn’t said anything to suggest that he was battling a fatal illness. Whatever the case, Buddy apparently was content to let the bar run itself until Monday night, which made him either a very careless businessman or a guy who just didn’t care any more.
All of which meant Caryn had to stay in character for a few more days if she wanted to maintain her disguise. And that meant returning to the horrible bar and waiting on the horrible customers and showing the world yet again how incompetent she was, unable to do a job that thousands of women did every day without the benefit of a fraction of the education that Caryn had received. Waitressing was far more difficult than she had ever imagined. At one point, earlier in the evening, when a customer had dropped most of a whiskey sour on her boots while his friend tried to stuff a dollar bill in her waistband, Caryn had considered quitting on the spot. Her bio-dad had never done anything for her, so why was she making this effort for him?
But it wasn’t Buddy’s fault that she’d become a celebrity. Wasn’t his fault that Caryn had inherited her mother’s thick blond hair and wide golden eyes, their features so similar that she couldn't have avoided becoming a recognizable celebrity, her privacy traded away before she could make the decision for herself. Designing jewelry had provided Caryn a welcome respite from the constant media
She was as tired as she’d ever been in her life. She’d been up for twenty hours, she was desperate for a shower, and she’d lost everything she’d brought on this crazy venture—and the man she’d come to see wasn’t even here. So maybe that explained why, when she thought of the fiancé she didn’t have, she accidently pictured the handsome but rude man at the table rather than the perfectly delightful groom.
She crawled onto the sofa and pulled the soft old quilts up under her chin. They smelled faintly of rosewater and fresh air, and she was certain that the last time they’d been washed, they’d been hung from a clothesline to dry.
She snuggled deeper into the covers, Zane’s old T-shirt deliciously soft against her skin. The couch was, surprisingly, just as comfortable as Matthew had promised.
Amazingly, sleep didn’t come right away. Caryn lay in her nest of covers, listening to the sounds of the old bunkhouse: the creaking of the old wood-paneled walls, the tapping of branches against the windows, the far-off mooing of a cow—she was pretty sure it was a cow, anyway—and the much closer hooting of an owl. It was nothing like the sound of traffic and sirens and the bustle of life in the city, but it was…nice.
Suddenly, her reasons for coming here seemed awfully blurry.
It seemed absurd that she had thought she could come here to North Dakota, dressed like she was going to a Halloween party, and spy on Buddy using some guise that she hadn’t even bothered to figure out in advance. That plan had started falling apart the minute the plane touched down. For one thing, apparently Buddy was still well enough—or stubborn enough—to live at home and even romance a woman. Camping! What kind of dying man went camping? Which begged the question of whether her mother had exaggerated when she said he was dying. Of course, there was a chance Georgia simply didn’t have her facts straight, but she was generally meticulous about details. Caryn should have come right out and asked Opal or Turk, but she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without raising suspicions.
Opal referred to her boss as an “old goat,” but Caryn thought she detected affection in her voice. She certainly hadn’t said anything to suggest that he was battling a fatal illness. Whatever the case, Buddy apparently was content to let the bar run itself until Monday night, which made him either a very careless businessman or a guy who just didn’t care any more.
All of which meant Caryn had to stay in character for a few more days if she wanted to maintain her disguise. And that meant returning to the horrible bar and waiting on the horrible customers and showing the world yet again how incompetent she was, unable to do a job that thousands of women did every day without the benefit of a fraction of the education that Caryn had received. Waitressing was far more difficult than she had ever imagined. At one point, earlier in the evening, when a customer had dropped most of a whiskey sour on her boots while his friend tried to stuff a dollar bill in her waistband, Caryn had considered quitting on the spot. Her bio-dad had never done anything for her, so why was she making this effort for him?
But it wasn’t Buddy’s fault that she’d become a celebrity. Wasn’t his fault that Caryn had inherited her mother’s thick blond hair and wide golden eyes, their features so similar that she couldn't have avoided becoming a recognizable celebrity, her privacy traded away before she could make the decision for herself. Designing jewelry had provided Caryn a welcome respite from the constant media
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