lost the bulk of the paparazzi on the first day. Then they'd picked up his trail again and he'd had to trade the truck in for an older, more beat-up model that wouldn't link back to him. He got cash advances on all his credit cards so he could pay cash wherever he went--Molly would pay the bills and he had more than enough to cover it.
Four days later it was nearing sunset and he'd been hopelessly lost for the last two hours, trying to find Scotty Dean's house.
He was bouncing over a dirt road and, damn, this beat-up old thing he was driving had nothing on his truck. He missed his truck.
He turned a corner onto a new dirt road, still no signage, nothing. The road curved, and the trees that lined it thinned and suddenly there was a big old farmhouse right in front of him. A truck nearly as beat-up as the vehicle he was driving was parked next to a large shed.
Could this be Scotty's place?
He pulled up next to the truck and turned off the engine, then headed for the front porch. "Hello? Anyone home?" Please be Scotty's place. Please.
"Well, well, well, if it ain't the prodigal son." That low, deep drawl rang out, bright blue eyes dancing at him from under a black cowboy hat. "Goddamn, you're a sight for sore eyes."
Jesus Christ, Scotty'd grown up well.
Drake found himself grinning as he admired the lanky form, some of the weight falling off his shoulders. "Scotty Dean. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I got your letter."
"Yeah, I saw your ass on the TV and thought you looked like you were being hunted. I didn't reckon anybody'd hunt you out here in the boonies." Scotty headed over, grinning from ear to ear. "You gonna really be able to stay awhile, honey?"
Oh, that drawled honey did something to his insides. Something his lady fans would be shocked to know.
"I can stay as long as I like. I ran away from it all, Scott," he admitted.
"Good on you. I got a whole room ready for you." He got a full-on hug, back slapped good and hard. "Come on in, honey. I was just fixin' to put a chicken on the grill."
He held on to the hug just a moment longer, craving the human contact of a friend, someone who didn't want anything from him, didn't want to be in his life because of his money or his fame or what he could do for them.
It might have been high school since he last had that, too. His disastrous marriage had been a sham on both his and his wife's parts.
He let go and grabbed his bag out of the truck, hoisting it over his shoulder. "You cook?"
"Hell, yes. Otherwise I'd starve." Long and lean, Scotty looked even better from the back than he did from the front. Damn. Old, tissue-paper thin jeans that were painted on. "I go into town once every two or three weeks for supplies. Otherwise? I grow my own or trade for it. It's a good life. You like artichokes?"
"I like food, period." Though he was tired to death of fancy crap that barely filled you and the last four days had been pretty much all fast food. "I'll eat whatever you put in front of me." Hell, even burned food would be a small price to pay for not having anything to do and not worrying about anybody jumping out from behind a bush to take his picture.
"Well, there's grilled chicken and artichokes and some rice in the kitchen steaming." Scotty took him around the back of the house, the porch huge and screened, with a hammock and a few big cushy lounges. "Let me get these off the grill, and I'll give you the tour."
"Oh, this looks comfy." It smelled damned good, too. He didn't sit, worried he'd crash right out if he did. "So what are you up to these days?"
"Working, working." A giant grill was opened and Scotty turned food. "The big barn there is my studio. The little barn in the back has the horses."
"Studio? You still painting?" Too cool. He breathed in deeply. "Smells great, Scotty." His growling stomach agreed.
"Yup. I do good for myself." Why wasn't he surprised? "Saw you and Laura broke up. That must've sucked."
He grimaced. "The break-up
Four days later it was nearing sunset and he'd been hopelessly lost for the last two hours, trying to find Scotty Dean's house.
He was bouncing over a dirt road and, damn, this beat-up old thing he was driving had nothing on his truck. He missed his truck.
He turned a corner onto a new dirt road, still no signage, nothing. The road curved, and the trees that lined it thinned and suddenly there was a big old farmhouse right in front of him. A truck nearly as beat-up as the vehicle he was driving was parked next to a large shed.
Could this be Scotty's place?
He pulled up next to the truck and turned off the engine, then headed for the front porch. "Hello? Anyone home?" Please be Scotty's place. Please.
"Well, well, well, if it ain't the prodigal son." That low, deep drawl rang out, bright blue eyes dancing at him from under a black cowboy hat. "Goddamn, you're a sight for sore eyes."
Jesus Christ, Scotty'd grown up well.
Drake found himself grinning as he admired the lanky form, some of the weight falling off his shoulders. "Scotty Dean. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I got your letter."
"Yeah, I saw your ass on the TV and thought you looked like you were being hunted. I didn't reckon anybody'd hunt you out here in the boonies." Scotty headed over, grinning from ear to ear. "You gonna really be able to stay awhile, honey?"
Oh, that drawled honey did something to his insides. Something his lady fans would be shocked to know.
"I can stay as long as I like. I ran away from it all, Scott," he admitted.
"Good on you. I got a whole room ready for you." He got a full-on hug, back slapped good and hard. "Come on in, honey. I was just fixin' to put a chicken on the grill."
He held on to the hug just a moment longer, craving the human contact of a friend, someone who didn't want anything from him, didn't want to be in his life because of his money or his fame or what he could do for them.
It might have been high school since he last had that, too. His disastrous marriage had been a sham on both his and his wife's parts.
He let go and grabbed his bag out of the truck, hoisting it over his shoulder. "You cook?"
"Hell, yes. Otherwise I'd starve." Long and lean, Scotty looked even better from the back than he did from the front. Damn. Old, tissue-paper thin jeans that were painted on. "I go into town once every two or three weeks for supplies. Otherwise? I grow my own or trade for it. It's a good life. You like artichokes?"
"I like food, period." Though he was tired to death of fancy crap that barely filled you and the last four days had been pretty much all fast food. "I'll eat whatever you put in front of me." Hell, even burned food would be a small price to pay for not having anything to do and not worrying about anybody jumping out from behind a bush to take his picture.
"Well, there's grilled chicken and artichokes and some rice in the kitchen steaming." Scotty took him around the back of the house, the porch huge and screened, with a hammock and a few big cushy lounges. "Let me get these off the grill, and I'll give you the tour."
"Oh, this looks comfy." It smelled damned good, too. He didn't sit, worried he'd crash right out if he did. "So what are you up to these days?"
"Working, working." A giant grill was opened and Scotty turned food. "The big barn there is my studio. The little barn in the back has the horses."
"Studio? You still painting?" Too cool. He breathed in deeply. "Smells great, Scotty." His growling stomach agreed.
"Yup. I do good for myself." Why wasn't he surprised? "Saw you and Laura broke up. That must've sucked."
He grimaced. "The break-up
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