Choose Me (The Lindstroms Book 4) Read online

  CHOOSE ME

  The Lindstroms #4

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  Katy Regnery

  writing as

  Katy Paige

  CHOOSE ME

  Copyright © 2020 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery

  Kindle Version

  Sale of the electronic edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.

  Katharine Gilliam Regnery, publisher

  This book is a work of fiction. Most names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any references to real people or places are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com

  Cover Designer: Marianne Nowicki

  Formatting: CookieLynn Publishing Services

  First Edition: May 2020

  Choose Me: a novel / by Katy Paige—1st Ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-944810-67-2

  Contents

  CHOOSE ME

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  EPILOGUE

  Also by Katy Regnery

  About the Author

  For Henry, who listened patiently the very

  first night Mommy started writing

  this book. This one is yours.

  I love you.

  xoxo

  CHAPTER 1

  Lars Lindstrom had drawn the short straw.

  It was a feather in the cap of Lindstrom & Sons to be contracted by Trend magazine for such a high-end job, but the fact that Lars was saddled with picking up some lowly assistant at the Bozeman airport and chauffeuring her around all weekend while she did errands and whatnot was infuriating. He was a capable tour guide with sought-after park expertise, not a glorified taxi driver.

  At thirty years old, Lars had been working with his father and older brother for over a decade, and both would agree that Lars knew Yellowstone better than anyone. Almost as if Lars and Yellowstone had a personal, symbiotic understanding, the park cooperated with him in ways that it didn’t for other tour guides, who often surrendered their business to the Lindstroms without a fight:

  You’d like to see grizzlies? Lars Lindstrom will know where they are.

  Wolves? Yup. Lars Lindstrom again.

  Looking for hidden waterfalls? Look up Lars Lindstrom when you get to Gardiner; he’ll hook you up.

  Part of this expert knowledge was due to the sheer number of hours Lars spent in the park, familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny in the northern parts, particularly around the Grand Loop. But it was more than that: his connection to the park felt visceral, palatable. Like the tree in the children’s story The Giving Tree, the park almost seemed to want to please Lars as much as possible, in exchange for Lars’s sheer love for it.

  With the park as his partner, Lars grew adept at leading tours throughout his adolescence into adulthood, careful to ensure a sense of adventure without compromising safety. He was requested specifically for corporate fishing tours—ice and fly—which he handled with equal savvy. He was also the tour guide of choice for the all-female groups…especially since his little brother Erik had gotten hitched and moved away to Kalispell.

  Still, despite everything Lars offered to Lindstrom & Sons, he was continually relegated to what he considered the drudgework, and he blamed this on two factors, one static, and one long past due for review. He was the youngest employee, which he couldn’t do a thing about, but more irritating to Lars was that his father and older brother, Nils, each owned forty-five percent of the business. That left Lars, who was a teenager when the original papers were drawn up, a paltry ten percent.

  It smarted to be treated as the youngest when in fact he wasn’t the youngest of his siblings. And while his salary was good, his stake wasn’t, and it bothered him. He was treated like the lowest man on the totem pole because, well, that’s exactly what he was.

  Lars glanced out the window of the van, following the signs for Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport. He knew the way by heart. Not more than a week of his life in the past ten years had been spent without at least one trip to or from Boze to pick up or drop off tourists. There was no public transportation from Bozeman to Gardiner, which worked to the Lindstroms’ benefit. If you wanted to get to Yellowstone from the airport, hiring the Lindstroms for a transfer was a good way to go.

  “Heya, John.”

  Lars waved to the gate attendant at the short-term parking lot, stopping the van to exchange hellos.

  “Heya, Lars. Who’ya got coming in today? More pretty girls?”

  “Nah, not today. But, one very pretty girl coming in soon. You ever heard of Samara Amaya?”

  “Who hasn’t? Dated the Viking’s QB last season, right?”

  Lars nodded, grinning. “That’s the one. She’s coming to do a magazine photo shoot in the park, and guess who’s in charge of getting Miss Amaya everywhere she needs to go?”

  “Lucky Lars, I’d wager.”

  “You got it!”

  “What I wouldn’t give to have your job, brother. She’s smokin’ hot.”

  “Tell me about it.” He winked at John, who chuckled. “But, I’m a professional.”

  “So, who’s comin’ in today?”

  “Location assistant. Gotta babysit her until Miss Amaya gets here. She comes early to get everything set up, I guess. You wouldn’t believe the kind of things these famous people ask for. Water cooled to such and such a temperature. Organic, no-salt peanut butter and Hendrick’s Gin. Like it would kill her if she had Jif and Beefeater. Goose-down pillows with no feathers.”

  “Down without feathers? How do ya do that?”

  “Beats me. Couldn’t stay in any of the local hotels either because they weren’t fancy enough. We had to rent a cottage for her and get it all fixed up. But with the kind of money she’s paying? I don’t ask questions.”

  “You got that right. When you coming back for the supermodel? I’ll be sure I’m in the terminal getting a cup of coffee that day!”

  “She’ll be here on Tuesday, after the long weekend.”

  “Alrighty, then. Park it wherever you want, Lars. And have a good Labor Day weekend!”

  “You too, John. Hope you see some fireworks!”

  “I don’t know about me but it sounds like your fireworks are on the way!”

  Lars saluted the parking attendant and pulled into the lot, but something about John’s parting words stuck around in Lars’s head.

  Fireworks? With Samara Amaya? Talk about reaching for the stars. Lucky me, I’m just stuck with the location assistant.

  Lars pulled into a parking space and cut the engine on the tourist van, resting his hands on the steering wheel in thought.

  As much as he griped about the job of babysitting Miss Amaya’s assistant because it hurt his pride, this job intrigued him. Last night, he’d had a very vivid dream—one of those dreams that feels so real, you’re shocked when you wake up to find out it wasn’t. It faded quickly. He didn’t remember much—just a blurry-faced girl with dark hair, wearing a poodle skirt. She’d made him laugh—made him feel something mor
e than attraction, something greater than lust. And he had woken up breathless, hard as a rock, confused by the realness and intimacy of the images, and melancholy to realize they weren’t real.

  As he made his way through the parking lot to the terminal, he couldn’t shake the feelings brought on by the dream—like this was more than just a job, like it was something more important.

  Rationally, he knew his intuition had nothing to do with Samara Amaya or her location assistant, but the timing of the job and the dream had gotten all mashed up together in his head today. He couldn’t help it. There was something that felt…possible about the dream. Almost as if—if Lars had believed in such nonsense—it was more of a premonition than a dream. His heart pounded a little faster as he walked through the sliding glass doors.

  He checked his watch. 11:42. Her flight would arrive from New York in thirteen minutes, and then she would have to deplane and make her way down to baggage claim. He stopped in the men’s room to check himself out in the mirror, running his fingers through his short, thick blond hair and giving his reflection a wink and a winning smile before heading back out to the terminal. Assistant or not, she’d get the full Lindstrom & Sons treatment that Trend had booked and paid for, and that included Charming Lars, her flirty, friendly tour guide.

  As he sauntered over to the escalator adjacent to the baggage carousel, he took the cardboard sign out of his back pocket and unfolded it. He looked down at the neatly penned sign in his hand, thinking “Jane Mays” was about as plain as a name could get, and shuttling her around for the next few days wasn’t exactly the stuff of fireworks.

  Dream or no dream, the only fireworks Lars expected this weekend were the ones set to go off in the Gardiner Community Park on Monday evening. There was no reason for Lars to feel extra excited or expectant.

  No reason at all.

  ***

  Jane Mays looked out the window of the taxiing Boeing 757, still groggy from the nap she’d taken from Chicago to Bozeman. Leaving LaGuardia Airport in New York at seven a.m. meant arriving at the airport at five-thirty a.m. That meant waking up at four a.m.

  And since Jane was the furthest possible thing from a morning person, now it meant she was feeling crabby and sluggish, even after her catnap.

  It didn’t help that Jane had left her favorite camera at her cousin’s downtown loft last night while she was there packing her cousin’s things for the trip, which meant going back to get it at one o’clock in the morning. But there was no way Jane was going to spend a week on location without her camera. Returning from Sara’s apartment, she had packed until about two-thirty and then fell asleep for ninety minutes draped across her kitchen table before the alarm on her phone buzzed her awake.

  Turning toward the small airplane window, Jane rubbed her eyes, noting snow-capped mountains in the distance. The window didn’t afford a great view, but she admired it as best she could through the scratched, cloudy plexiglass. She hoped to get some good shots in before Sara came to town on Tuesday, but there was so much to do between now and then, she probably wouldn’t have the chance.

  In the five years since Jane had graduated college and been pressured into taking on the job as her cousin’s assistant and location coordinator, Sara—er, um, the model professionally-known as Samara—had progressively become more demanding, more needy, never fully satisfied with anything.

  And Jane, who had developed the skill of tuning out Sara’s over-the-top drama, abusive language and absurd demands, was once again reaching her breaking point. It happened cyclically. Jane would have just about enough of Sara’s attitude and share with her uncle her intent to quit. But then between Uncle Mays cajoling Jane to give it another month and Sara choosing to behave herself, Jane wouldn’t walk away.

  There was something about her uncle, the identical twin of her deceased father, beseeching her with her father’s face that made Jane’s gumption fold and crumble every time. The words “Something is better than nothing” circled in her head, and quite simply, her uncle, Sara’s father, was all she had.

  Jane turned on her phone and waited for it to boot up as they reached the gate. She couldn’t remember the name of the tour operator she should be looking for. Trend’s travel department had made all of the ground arrangements and Jane had been assured that all of her instructions pertaining to Sara’s needs had been passed along.

  Her phone buzzed noisily, downloading messages, as she put on a beat-up Red Sox cap and tossed her chic Coach backpack over her shoulder. Five messages from Sara: two calls and three texts—even though her cousin knew good and well that Jane was flying—and it was all nonsense: Make sure there’s Burt’s Bees lip gloss on my bedside table; Did you pack my fave slippers? and What did I get my daddy for his birthday?

  Jane had packed a dozen Burt’s Bees lip glosses for Sara, had purchased an extra pair of her favorite slippers for Yellowstone so that she wouldn’t have to be without them in New York for even one day, and had sent her uncle Patriots season tickets, signing the card from both girls.

  Jane had taken a small measure of satisfaction in signing her own name first—she had, in fact, purchased the tickets and card with her own money—sure that Sara wouldn’t remember his birthday anyway. If Sara hadn’t read the email Jane sent advising Sara of the gift, that was her problem.

  There was a voicemail from Sara’s agent, Sebastian, who would be traveling with her on Tuesday morning, as well as two calls from Sara’s trainer, and a text from her makeup artist, Ray, which simply read: Wow! 3 days to u-self, girl. U deserve it. Enjoy. xo

  Jane smiled at that text, shoving her phone back in her pocket as she made her way down the jetway and into the airport. I do deserve it. And damn it, if she had to spend a week in the same house with Sara once her cousin arrived for the shoot, the least Jane could do was to enjoy a little time to herself before Sara arrived.

  Once upon a time the cousins, who were only a year apart in age, had been best friends. Both only children, the girls spent every holiday and school vacation together—at Jane’s house in San Francisco or Sara’s house in Boston, at Disney World over spring break and in Cape Cod for two weeks every summer. But when Jane’s parents had been killed in a car crash a few weeks after her tenth birthday, she’d been sent to live with her aunt and uncle Mays permanently. Her sudden presence in the Mays family had upset the careful balance that had pre-existed her. Spectacularly beautiful nine-year-old Sara, who was unaccustomed to sharing her parents—her father, especially—had quickly come to regard her older cousin Jane as an interloper, and whatever friendship that had once flourished between the cousins met a hasty demise.

  Jane sighed, shaking herself out of her reverie. Distracted by the barrage of texts, she had forgotten to look for the name of the tour operator who would be meeting her flight. As the escalator gently lowered her to the ground floor, Jane dug into her back pocket to find her phone. She tapped on her email and scrolled through the messages filed under Yellowstone Trend Shoot, looking for ground details. Ah-ha. Lindstrom & Sons. Lars Lindstrom will be waiting to collect you from baggage claim…

  She looked up as she stepped off the escalator and realized she needn’t have bothered looking him up since she couldn’t have possibly missed him. Aside from the fact that Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport was one of the least bustling places she had ever touched down, making him a standalone figure at the bottom of the escalator holding a sign reading Jane Mays, he was, hands down—and Jane had seen the best-looking men in the world up close and personal—the most jaw-droppingly handsome man she had ever seen.

  Not that it could possibly matter for Plain Jane Mays.

  ***

  There weren’t a whole lot of people arriving from Chicago, and without the benefit of a photo, Lars just assumed that the assistant of Samara Amaya would be a fashionable woman. She would also sit in first class, thus be one of the first to deplane, but as he watched the passengers step onto the escalator, no one fit the bill. There was an older couple,
two businessmen, a middle-aged lady struggling with a rambunctious toddler, and a teenage kid in jeans and a sweatshirt with a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, and a few brown curls escaping over her ears.

  The couple, the men and the lady made their way to baggage claim without giving Lars a second glance. The kid in the baseball cap got off the escalator and walked purposely toward Lars. Huh. Maybe she needed directions.

  But as she walked closer, Lars realized that she wasn’t a teenager, as he’d originally assumed, but a young woman in baggy clothes. His glance flicked to the strap of her backpack. He could tell it was real leather, and it looked expensive. Flipping his gaze back to her face, he saw diamond studs glistening in her ears. Suddenly she was in front of him, and putting two and two together, Lars realized just in time that this must be Jane Mays, the woman for whom he was waiting.

  “Miss Mays?” he asked, hoping she didn’t notice the surprise in his voice or on his face.

  She looked up at him from under the brim of her beat-up cap and grinned. “Mr. Lindstrom?”

  “Lars, yeah.”

  “Well, Lars-Yeah, thanks for picking me up.”

  Her voice. Oh man, her voice. It was distinctly low and gravelly, like Demi Moore or Kathleen Turner, and he wondered if she was recovering from a cold or if she always sounded that way. The way she said picking me up made him do a double take, though her body language read friendly, not flirtatious.

  “Just Lars,” he clarified.

  “Okay. Over this way, Just-Lars?” She gestured to the baggage claim area where the battered carousel had just started to make its first lazy rotation.

  “Lars.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just—” She half-smiled, about to say something, then turned and walked over to the conveyor belt, speaking over her shoulder. “Did you bring a big car, Lars? This could be ugly.”

  Lars stared after her, trying to figure her out. She dressed like a hobo-teenager, but she was low-talking, playful and dry. She was throwing him, and women never threw Lars.