Keeping You: A steamy small town romance (Chikalu Falls Book 2), page 1
Keeping You
A steamy, small town romance
Lena Hendrix
Copyright © 2021 by Lena Hendrix
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental or fictional.
Edited by Nancy Smay, Evident Ink
Proofreads by Laetitia Treseng, Little Tweaks
Cover by Kim Bailey, Bailey Cover Boutique
Contents
About This Book
1. Honey
2. Colin
3. Honey
4. Colin
5. Chikalu Chatter
6. Honey
7. Chikalu Chatter
8. Honey
9. Colin
10. Honey
11. Chikalu Chatter
12. Colin
13. Honey
14. Chikalu Chatter
15. Colin
16. Honey
17. Colin
18. Honey
19. Chikalu Chatter
20. Colin
21. Honey
22. Colin
23. Honey
24. Colin
25. Honey
26. Colin
27. Chikalu Chatter
28. Honey
29. Colin
30. Honey
31. Colin
32. Honey
33. Colin
34. Honey
35. Chikalu Chatter
36. Honey
37. Colin
38. Honey
39. Colin
40. Colin
41. Chikalu Chatter
42. Honey
43. Chikalu Chatter
44. Honey
45. Colin
46. Honey
47. Colin
48. Chikalu Chatter
49. Epilogue
50. Irish Butte Pasty
51. Midnight BLTs
52. Sagebrush Cocktail
Sneak Peek at Protecting You
A Special Note
Also by Lena Hendrix
Acknowledgments
About This Book
I never should have slept with Colin McCoy.
When I moved to my sister’s small town, I was looking for a fresh start—no more shallow relationships, no snotty fake friends, and definitely no charming, dirty-talking musicians.
We had a fun, red-hot night together, and we agreed that hooking up was a mistake, a one-time thing. But when my dream bakery location happens to be right next door to his bar, every day I’m forced to see that chiseled jawline and remember the feel of his incredible body on mine.
No. I’m starting over. I have rules. No more bad habits, definitely no falling in love. No matter how hard he tries to convince me, I know hooking up with him again would prove I’m the flake everyone expects me to be.
But here I am, stuck between wanting to make something of my life and wanting to grab him and make another delicious mistake.
One
Honey
Okay, so maybe flipping the entire Sunday morning church crowd the bird was not one of my finest moments.
Or snatching the mimosa off that old lady’s table and downing it in one gulp.
But hear me out . . .
Sunday work brunches were my least favorite part of the week. Sylvia, my boss and an actual demon from hell, thought the meetings would build team morale and, while they were “optional,” it never felt that way. I sucked it up and woke up extra early on Sundays just to get ready.
Everyone who worked at Sylvia Jay PR had several expectations to live up to—impeccable fashion, full-face makeup, ruthless attitude. When I started with the company, the allure of a high-profile job and getting out of bumfuck nowhere was intoxicating. I could leave behind the cowboys and miners of Montana and use this job as a stepping stone to somewhere more exciting, like New York or L.A.
After three years of it, I was starting to realize that in order to get ahead in this company, you were forced to step on the backs of anyone in your way—including your colleagues and friends.
Sitting at brunch, I watched Sylvia drone on, again, about branding, scouting, and using our assets. She emphasized this by slapping her own ass.
Jesus.
“This,” Sylvia drilled a hot pink lacquered nail onto the white tablecloth, “is a business. You need to do what it takes to get the job done!”
“Take Megan, for example,” she continued as we all shot poor Megan tentative glances. Getting called out by Sylvia was never a good thing. “Megan? Did you meet your deadline this week?” Sylvia’s eyebrow hitched up as she coolly looked down her sharp nose at Megan.
Megan cleared her throat, “I did not.” She looked calm, but under the table I could see her high heel bounce up and down.
“Exactly,” Sylvia stood and rested her hands on her hips. “You failed, Megan. Again.”
Megan’s head drooped slightly. I wanted to reach out and rest my hand on hers, but we weren’t really close, so I tried to give her a look that showed her I was sorry she was put on the spot like that. God, Sylvia was such a bitch.
“So the lesson here, ladies, is that when you’re a failure, you’re off the team. Megan, pack up. You’re fired.” No one dared to gasp at the abrupt dismissal of Megan, but it was shocking. Megan led in client recruitment most weeks, and her father had recently died, which was probably why she got behind in her work. My jaw hung open.
Sylvia looked around the brunch table, daring anyone to speak. The women around the table glanced at their manicures or picked absently at their skirts and napkins.
This was team building?
Sylvia took sick joy in pitting us against each other, making everything from our numbers to our clothing a competition.
“And, Honey?”
Fuck.
I lifted my chin to meet her gaze.
“Where are we with the social media reviews for our new client?”
Clearing my throat, I stood. “Actually, I am looking to get more product into the hands of their target audience.” I smoothed my pencil skirt down my thighs. “The initial reviews are less than favorable. I need to get something that we can use.”
“The client expects a full social media takeover, including product reviews, next week.”
“Yes, I know the deadline, and I’ll meet it, but right now there’s nothing coming in that I can use. People actually hate the product.”
“I don’t see the problem here.”
Is she fucking serious?
“Um, well . . .”
“Make. Them. Up.” Sylvia rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t get sucked into her skull.
I blinked once but recovered quickly. “I’m sorry, Syl. I can’t do that.” Not only was blatantly making up product reviews unethical, it was actually illegal.
“Do we have a problem here?” Her arms crossed over her large, fake breasts.
I ticked my jaw, and the words came tumbling out of me. “Yes, apparently.” I leveled my eyes with hers. “I won’t make up reviews. We can leave the reviews out or wait to get in some that aren’t so awful, but I can’t just fabricate them.”
Anger flared on Sylvia’s face. “Huh. I’m surprised by you, Honey. You’re driven, talented. I didn’t realize you were also a bleeding heart.” A small chuckle rippled across the table. I looked around and saw plumped up lips pressed together, eyebrows raised. The women I had called my friends were all enjoying the show.
“I may be driven but I’m also honest. Their product sucks and everyone knows it. I can spin it to make it look a little better, but if I don’t have any actual customer reviews to use, then so be it.” I tossed a blond curl over my shoulder and glared at her.
I’d always been like that—back me into a corner and I stand my ground when any normal person would know it would be a great time to shut the fuck up. But I was just not wired that way.
Sylvia’s eyes slitted and she looked around the table. “Anyone else have a problem with how we do things here?”
Slow, quiet murmurs and head shakes passed around the table. Sylvia raised both her palms up, as if to say, “See, you’re the one not falling in line here.”
I was stuck, rooted on my feet. I needed this job and the promotion I’d been working toward for over a year. Over the drone of her voice, my mind flicked back to my string of colossal fuckups.
Leave your dreams behind to chase a man. Check.
Follow him around like a lovesick puppy. Check.
Lose your ability to make a single decision for yourself. Check.
Gather the scraps of your dignity when you discover he’s fucking your roommate. Check.
Shame burned hot in my cheeks. This job and its fancy office had been my fresh start. A new, serious, and independent me.
“If you think for one minute,” Sylvia continued, “that you hold any value outside of my company, you’re kidding yourself.”
If I just sat down and shut up, I could figure out a way to make both Sylvia and the client happy.
Did I do that? Of course I fucking didn’t.
Instead, I wheezed out a breath. “You know, Syl,” I sipped the last of my mimosa from the champagne glass. “Working for you has been the most soul-sucking three years of my life. Go fuck yourself.”
At the audible, pearl-clutching gasps from the table, I put the champagne glass down with a snap, grabbed my purse, and walked toward the door. On the way out, I saw a full mimosa at the end of a table of sweet old ladies enjoying brunch after church. I snatched up the glass and downed it all in one gulp while flipping my former employer and the rest of her Barbie-cutout minions the middle finger.
“You. Did. Not!” My sister Jo squealed on the other end of the telephone.
“Yeah, pretty much did.”
“I can’t believe it! What did they say? What are you going to do?”
Rolling the dough into a fresh batch of cinnamon buns, I held the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Hell if I know, sis. I didn’t wake up today planning to be jobless.”
“This is crazy. I can’t believe you just . . . did that!” Joanna was always the level-headed older sister. She marched to the beat of her own drum—she was actually a female fishing guide several counties over—but she was reliable, steady. Unlike me, she was cautious and actually thought things out—things like having a backup plan before randomly quitting your job and losing your only source of income.
For the first time, I started to get a little nervous about what I had done at brunch. I had plenty in my savings account since my only expenses were my apartment and the clothes that I needed for work, but Butte, Montana was a small city. I was sure word was getting around quickly that I’d stormed out, made a scene, and if Sylvia had any say, she’d be calling around to blacklist my name by dinner.
Me and my damn mouth.
“I’m sure I’ll figure something out.” The oven creaked open as I placed the pan of cinnamon buns inside.
“Are you stress baking again?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “I thought it would make me feel better, but so far it isn’t working.”
“Hon, you know you can always come see Lincoln and me. We’ll happily take some of whatever you’re baking!”
I laughed. “I’m good. Really.” I was working hard to convince myself as much as her that I was really okay with my life right now.
I changed the subject, hoping to move the focus away from me and onto her upcoming wedding plans. “Have you set up any appointments for dress shopping?”
“I don’t know,” she hesitated. “There’s a little shop here that I wanted to look at, but I don’t think I need anything too over-the-top.”
“Joanna,” I scolded. “Next year, you are marrying a broody, handsome, brick wall of a man that you waited a long time for. Don’t you want him to fall to his knees?” Only part of me was teasing her—I knew she’d look amazing in whatever she chose—but sometimes Jo needed a hype woman, and I took that job very seriously.
“If I promise to let you pick it out with me, can we please stop obsessing over the dress?” Joanna’s voice was laced with laughter.
“We’re going to find you a dress so hot that the way he will look at you will be wildly inappropriate. The whole town will be scandalized.”
Jo bubbled with laughter, and I peeked at the cinnamon buns slowly rising in the oven. I’d successfully averted more talk about the life that was crumbling around me and the stark contrast between my sister and me.
I was thrilled for her. Lincoln was her best friend's older brother, and while he was deployed overseas, Jo had written him letters. He didn’t know her at the time but had kept every single one.
Joanna deserved how the pieces of her life were clicking together. She was meant to find her special someone.
I, on the other hand, tended to avoid deeply romantic relationships. Young and dumb, I’d completely abandoned my dreams of culinary school in New York to follow my high school boyfriend to state college. From that I learned the hard way that relationships have the power to change you, make you vulnerable, without you even realizing it.
Plus, serious boyfriends took up way too much time, and there were always unrealistic expectations, and meeting families, and “fixing” each other.
No thanks.
I preferred my relationships to be mutually satisfying, brief, and hot between the sheets—that was a must.
We chatted a few more minutes, and I mulled over her offer to visit her in Chikalu Falls. It was a small mountain town at the base of the Kootenai National Forest, and I was convinced there was something in the water. That place was crawling with burly, handsome men. The strong jawline of one particularly hot bar owner clicked through my mind.
Maybe a quick trip out there wouldn’t be so bad after all . . .
After hanging up with Jo, I flipped through my closet and contemplated what could be next for me. Everything I owned was designer. It had to be, in order to fit in at Sylvia Jay PR. Skirts, heels, blouses, and jewelry were all luxury items. Anything less was unacceptable there. I caught my reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the always-put-together woman looking back at me.
Who even are you?
My boyfriends, college sorority sisters, even my career had changed me. Little by little, I made choices, sacrifices. Somehow I morphed into someone I barely recognized. I built my life on a superficial façade, but, secretly, one of my favorite parts of the day was coming home, whipping off my bra, and snuggling into oversized pajamas. No one ever saw me so undone, but snuggling into the plush blankets of my couch kept the tension in my jaw from compounding and helped the little, daily annoyances melt away.
Baking was the same way. I had inherited my Grandma Nana’s love of baking. It calmed me, excited me, and I revelled in the thrill of taking an old recipe and enhancing it. My neighbors loved it because by the time I got done mixing and prepping and baking, I wasn’t really in the mood to eat any of it.
As I waited for the cinnamon buns to finish, my phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Chad: I’m in town tonight. Busy?
Chad was a real estate attorney that made his money traveling through Butte and surrounding small towns. We’d been sleeping together on and off for about a year, but it wasn’t anything serious. He had a big dick, and he knew how to use it. Tonight I found myself more annoyed than excited.
Me: What did you have in mind?
Chad: Drinks at the Monolith hotel bar? I’ll be done with dinner about 10:30.
After-dinner drinks at the hotel bar definitely meant he was looking for a hookup, and it had been months since I’d had sex. For some reason, the casual flings I’d always enjoyed just weren’t doing it for me. I mulled the possibility of Chad showing me a good time. I wasn’t really feeling it, but didn’t have a good reason not to go either.
Me: Sure. See you then.
A little zip of unease ran through me. Maybe I could forget all about quitting my job with zero future prospects and focus on feeling something good tonight. I blew out a quick breath. Chad and I were going to have a great time.
Chad was not a great time.
I settled in at the hotel bar just after ten thirty, as we’d agreed. Forty minutes and two dirty martinis later, he finally showed up.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Chad caught the eye of every woman—and a few men—in the bar. He had a megawatt smile with straight, white teeth. It was no wonder he was so successful—he could wheel and deal and charm anyone within a fifty-mile radius. His hair was puffed and styled back away from his face, and every time he smiled, I imagined a little wink and cartoon sparkle popping around his face. The unease I felt earlier hadn’t gone away, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
