Crazy in Love (Blue Lake #3)(6)

Guests usually came downstairs once they smelled bacon. Didn’t matter what time it was.

Cole’s sniffer must’ve been broken.

As she looked out the window over the sink and poured herself a second cup of coffee, two blacked-out Tahoes jerked to a stop at the curb. People filed out of every door. Opened up the back of the SUV’s. Stomped up the porch. Pounded on the front door.

It was a damn three-ring circus.

“Good morning,” she said to the burly man standing on the stoop. His hair was jet black, his eyes icy blue. “I assume you’re looking for Cole Turner.”

“Where should we put his things?”

“What…things?”

A string of people swept past her, charging into the house. Within seconds, speakers, instruments, and long, black duffle bags cluttered the living room floor.

A thirty-something woman in a tight red dress entered after everyone else, carrying nothing but an iPad.

“I’m Rita Flint, Cole’s manager,” she said, extending her hand. “I believe I spoke with you on the phone when I made the reservation.”

“Yes, nice to meet you.” Rachael took her hand, shook. “I’m Rachael McCoy.”

“Rachael.” The woman eyed her from her slippers to her sweater, and then smiled. “I think Cole’s going to do fabulously here.”

What did her appearance have to do with how Cole would enjoy the inn? She must’ve missed something.

“How’d he sleep?” Rita asked.

“Wouldn’t know.” Rachael shrugged. “He’s not up yet.”

“Not up?” She snapped to the burly guy who’d knocked on the door. “Bronx! Get him moving! We’ve got to be at StoneMill in ten!”

After Rachael directed Bronx to Cole’s room, she turned her attention back to Rita who strolled through the living room, checking out the old-timey pictures hanging on the walls.

“What is all this stuff?” Rachael asked, weaving around boxes.

Rita laughed. “Cole’s necessities. His guitars and—”

“Guitars, plural? How many can he play at once?”

“One, but there are different guitars needed for different sounds and songs. That one over there is his personal favorite, and the blue case holds the bedazzled one that matches his final outfit. We always say he should leave them in the van with the other instruments, but he insists on keeping them with him.”

Talk about high-maintenance.

Absentmindedly, Rachael wondered if Cole was the one who required the outfits and guitars, or whether that was his manager’s doing.

“The other boxes are his clothes, boots, and personal items. He carts those three boxes everywhere. A word to the wise,” she said, leaning close. “I wouldn’t touch those. He won’t let anyone see what’s inside, and he gets temperamental if he thinks you’re going to check ‘em out. It shouldn’t be a problem dropping his things here, seeing as I reserved the entire inn for Cole. Am I mistaken?”

“No.” Rachael knelt in front of the fire and threw a couple logs in. “You’re not mistaken. He can keep as many boxes here as he needs.”

“That’s what I thought,” Rita said from behind her. “I think this place will give him the space he needs to clear his head for this tour. He’ll need quiet and focus. Especially after what happened in Houston.”

“What happened in—”

In the upstairs bathroom, a faucet squeaked and Cole screamed.

Rachael stifled a laugh. Three men ran up the stairs—bodyguards, she assumed from their leather jackets and headpieces. Rita yanked her cell out of her pocket as if she was going to call the police. Heavy footsteps rained over their heads.