Meant to Be (Whisper Creek #5)(2)

Shelby closed her eyes as the din of conversation grew louder. The caterers had moved furniture every which way to make room for the food tables, and the clack of heels on marble was giving her a migraine.

"I'm going upstairs to lie down," she said, but before she could turn toward the wide, curving stairway, Nicola grabbed her arm.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

Nicola took a deep breath. "Because you need to be seen."

"Why? Why do I need to be seen?"

"You just … do, okay? Trust me on this."

Shelby set her jaw at Nicola's tone, even while internally, she knew her assistant was right. She'd been giving Shelby orders for twelve years now. She was good at it.

And what was Shelby good at? Taking those orders. Playing the game. Dressing up in glitter when she'd rather be in denim. Rocking to a pop beat when a country twang filled her bones instead. Singing to a stadium of strangers when all she'd wanted was her guitar, some friends, and a roadside coffeehouse.

And Daddy.

She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to unclench her hands as she blew it out slowly. Yes, she'd played other people's games for twelve years. She could do it now. Just a little while longer, and then she could let her knees give way, once the photographers had left.

"That's my girl." Nicola fake-tender-smiled as she pretended to wipe away a tear from Shelby's cheek.

Obviously someone from the press was watching. Nicola always knew where they were.



       
         
       
        

Shelby took a deep breath and turned back toward the crowd. "Thirty minutes. And then they have to go. I swear, Nic. I'll start throwing things."

"Now, honey." Nicola tucked a strand of hair behind Shelby's ear. "You're not that girl. Come on. Let's go talk to Graham Foster. We need you to thank him for coming."

Nicola took her hand, and like a marionette, Shelby followed.

It was what she did best.

-

Two hours later, Shelby tiptoed downstairs, drawn by the clanking of dishes and cutlery. The guests had left, Nicola right on their heels, and finally, after hours of chaos, the only other humans left in this monstrosity of a house were the caterers.

She stepped into the great room, where two women in white uniforms were boxing champagne flutes and carrying them out the back door. The buffet table still had a stack of unused china on it, and when a server headed for the table, she put up a hand.

"Please. Could you leave those?"

"Ma'am?" He tipped his head, confused.

"The dishes. And the tablecloth. Could you please … leave them?" She heard the tinge of panic in her voice, but couldn't make it go away. "I'll pay. Whatever they cost, just bill me."

"Are you sure? We're supposed to take down the tables."

"I'll have them returned to you. I just need this to be over with. Please."

"Yes, ma'am." He looked at her for a long moment, and she was struck by how the silver strands in his hair reminded her of Daddy's. "I'm sorry for your loss. I was a big fan of your father."

And then everyone was gone, rounded up by a silent signal, and Shelby was left to stare at what remained. One table, five china plates, four crystal flutes.

She walked toward the table, drawn like a heroine in a horror film, and she lifted a corner of the cloth. She let it slide between her thumb and forefinger, felt the high thread count, appreciated the tiny, intricate design woven into the fibers. She picked up one of the plates, marveling at how the sunset's light almost shone through its delicate porcelain shell, a muted rainbow where there was no rain but her tears. She set it down carefully on its pile-wondering, wishing, wanting.

And then she took the tablecloth in both hands and gave a mighty yank.

She'd been right.

It did make a very satisfying sound.

-

"You want me to babysit a celebrity?" A week later, Cooper Davis looked up from the trail ride schedule he was working on in the Whisper Creek tack room. The Montana sunrise was seeping through the barn windows, and usually, this was his favorite time of day.

"Not babysit, Cooper. More like-you know-be a buddy sort of thing." Kyla Driscoll, one of the owners of the ranch, tried to hide her legendary clipboard behind her back as she leaned on the doorframe. Shit. He must be one of the checkboxes on today's list, but she was trying to play it all casual. 

He cleared his throat. "I don't follow."

"We have a-yes-celebrity arriving tomorrow. Her assistant called yesterday, looking for the perfect spot, and good news! We're the perfect spot!"

Cooper tipped his head, confused. Granted, he'd only been here for a few months, but Whisper Creek was a dude ranch designed for families and singles-normal people, not famous ones.