Working at the Farmhouse

Country music’s golden boy. His small-town ex. A competition neither of them saw coming.

When Cambry returns home, she never expects to become the nanny for her ex-boyfriend’s brother—especially when that ex is Kyler Holden, now a famous country star with a stunning city-girl girlfriend at his side. She tells herself she’s moved on. So has he. Everything will be fine.

But when a documentary crew arrives to film Kyler’s life, a challenge is thrown into the mix: a city vs. country showdown between Cambry and Kyler’s girlfriend, all in front of the cameras. Forced into the spotlight, Cambry is thrust back into Kyler’s world—the one she walked away from.

As competition heats up and the cameras capture every moment, Cambry begins to wonder: Did she make a mistake leaving him? And if she did… is it already too late?

If you like the heartwarming, small-town feel of Jessie Gussman and the enthralling romance of Liz Isaacson, then you'll devour the final book in this addictively moving series.

Buy WORKING AT THE FARMHOUSE, the final installment in Catelyn Meadows' cowboy romance series, to see which woman Kyler chooses today!

Chapter One - Chapter One

This no longer felt like home.

Don’t get me wrong, plenty of things were still in their usual places—the couches, the tall plant our cat peed in one time (Who am I kidding? It was probably more than once.), the huge TV mounted in the corner of the room.

But Dad’s massage chair was gone. His books no longer crammed their way onto the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace. Now, Mom had everything so minimalistic, with little decorative touches like succulents or figurines taking up an entire shelf.

Like something that small needed that much space.

Then again, maybe she didn’t know what else to put there yet. She’d never been much of a reader.

Dad had always been the bookworm.

I stalked past the fireplace and stared at the mantel that once had been littered with pictures. Mom and Dad’s wedding, the trip we took to Vegas, my parents smiling next to my brother and me as we all sat together on the open hatch of our side-by-side on one of our many trips up into the south hills together.

They were all gone, too. The house didn’t look right. It was too organized.

It was too clean.

Through the front window, Mom’s car slowed past the house and pulled in. The sound of her honking multiple times in succession pealed through, and I couldn’t help the smile that overtook my face.

I didn’t wait for her to come to me. Instead, I pushed out through the front door that I’d opened with my key only minutes before and stepped back out into the sunshine.

“Cambry!” Mom said, lifting her arms into the air the minute she stepped out of her blue Subaru.

“Hey,” I said, striding over to her as quickly as I could.
Pocatello wasn’t that far away from Bridgewater, but I hadn’t been home since before their divorce last year. I’d been shocked by the news that my father had left my mother. And admittedly hurt.

I hadn’t wanted to see either of them.

I still wasn’t sure what happened. It’d taken a few days before I’d agreed to talk to either of them. But now, Dad lived in Utah with the woman he’d left Mom for, and Mom was still here.

Still teaching kindergarten. Still smiling.

Her arms were so warm as they wrapped me into a hug I didn’t realize how much I’d needed or missed until I was living in it.

“Hey, bug,” she said, calling me by the same childish name she always had.

I loved it.

“Hey, Mom.” I breathed her in, inhaling her scent of the floral perfume she’d worn for as long as I could remember.
She pulled back and cradled my face in her palms. “How’s my college graduate?”

“I’m home,” I said, smiling, taking in the subtle changes in her appearance:

The additional fine lines near her eyes. The tired circles beneath them. Streaks of gray in her blonde hair that you couldn’t see unless you looked closely.

“I’m glad. Help me out, would you?” Turning, she gestured to her car, which had several boxes in the back seat.

“What is all this?”

“Decorations for my classroom.” Grinning, she opened the back door and bent to grab one of the gray tote boxes within. “And tonight is the Back-to-School carnival, so I was setting a few things up.”

I followed suit, retrieving the next tote, which was much lighter than it had probably been before she’d taken it to her classroom. Most teachers did typical back-to-school décor for their classrooms, and Mom was no different.

Bridgewater didn’t have an official elementary school, per se. It had a high school, but the town was too small to warrant much. Consequently, students either attended the elementary school in Burley or in someone’s home.
I’d gone to Burley for grade school.

“Any luck with the job hunt?” she asked, propping open the front door with her foot and waiting for me to enter first.

“Nothing yet,” I said.

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Mom had always wanted to teach—and she rubbed off a little on me.

The majority of schools I’d applied to so far had been highly competitive, and openings had been scarce. I was willing to move if it came down to that, but I had mostly applied for schools near my hometown, and so far, nothing had opened up.

And the school year was starting soon, which meant I was out of time. I’d decided to find a job closer to home and apply again next year—to more schools this time.

“Something will turn up,” Mom said.

“Yeah. It will.” Or so I hoped.

At this point, I was feeling a little overwhelmed and unsure. I’d devoted the last four years of my life to getting an education with the idea that finding a job at the end of things would come easily.

The fact that it hadn’t, that every school I’d applied to—and those I’d interviewed for—had either turned me down in favor of someone else or simply didn’t have openings, was disconcerting to say the least.

“It’s okay,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if it was for her or for me. “I think I’ll stick around for a while until I find something.”

“That would be amazing.” Mom paused long enough to smile at me. She closed the door and placed her tote down near the hall. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” I said, stacking my tote on top of hers.

Mom didn’t mention Dad, and even though I wanted to, I couldn’t either. She was acting like this was normal.

I supposed, now, it was.

“Oh,” she said, snapping her fingers on her way to the kitchen. “I forgot. I’ll whip up dinner just as soon as I get back. Or maybe I’ll grab something for us while I’m out.”

She reached for her purse hanging on the hook near the door.

“Get back from where?” I asked.

Mom slipped the strap of her purse over her head and pulled her graying blonde hair free. “I’m hosting the Bingo table tonight. I forgot to pick up some cereal that the kids can use as markers on their Bingo cards.”

“I can get that,” I said. “There are a few other things I need to pick up. I’ll just run up to The Mercantile. It’ll take all of ten minutes. And we can DoorDash something. What about
The Elkhorn?”

Mom’s smile emphasized the lines near her eyes. She gripped her purse strap. “You’re a dear. I have a few other things to put together, but I’ll order us a few burgers. When you come back, I can’t wait to hear all about your move and who you’re dating or what’s going on with your life these days.”

“Great,” I said, and though my smile was as genuine as I could make it, I hoped she didn’t read how false my sentiment was.

Dating would be a no one. And she already knew everything that was going on in my life. I had graduated from college. I had come back home.

That pretty much summed it up.

Pulling my keys from my pocket, I skipped out into the blazingly bright afternoon to my car. The dry August air baked my skin, making me wish we could drive to the pool or a nearby canal so I could cool off. I’d finished my degree during the summer term. ISU didn’t have a summer commencement ceremony—but I didn’t need to walk across a stage to celebrate.

My car gurgled a few times but finally sputtered to life. I could have walked to The Mercantile—it was only a few blocks away—but I wanted to get the cereal for Mom and get back as quickly as I could.

Jeralyn Perry always kept The Mercantile’s main entrance staged so cute. An inviting little wheelbarrow filled with glittering pumpkins, partnered by a scarecrow on a stick, greeted me before I stepped inside.

The ice cream counter was the first thing to greet me. It was unmanned—no one to greet me, which was fine. I paused, inhaled the scent of nutmeg, and strode past the counter to the left side of the store where the perishable items were kept.

I headed for the cereal aisle, gratified to find it was in the same place it always had been.

At least this much was the same. Just like the derelict gas station on the corner outside—the one that had been abandoned since who knew when—just like the old church that no one ever seemed to attend, just like the covered bridge and the Square where all the community events were held, and the old stone post office, those things were just as reliably unchanged as ever.

After I snatched the cereal, I grabbed a box of tampons as well. I wasn’t sure what Mom had on hand, and with most of my stuff still packed, I knew I’d be needing some within the next few days or so.

With the two boxes of entirely random products in hand, I strode back toward the ice cream counter where the register was located. And my heart sank for two reasons:

First, the counter was still unmanned. I could probably have walked out of the store without paying for both items if I was that kind of person.

Which I wasn’t.

And the second reason—

The bell over the door jangled as a cowboy strode into The Mercantile with a swagger and shoulders I’d know anywhere. A cowboy who’d occupied my dreams more often than I cared to admit—especially lately.

And the hand I’d once held while we strolled together down the street was now twined through the fingers of a pretty brunette wearing jeans and a black tube top that displayed a tattoo on her left shoulder.

Kyler Holden. An older, sexier, more famous version of the boy I’d grown up with.

He looked good. Too good. His dark hair was hidden by a cowboy hat, and a shadow of stubble dusted his steely jaw. A t-shirt hugged his impressive torso, and his muscular legs were hugged by stonewashed jeans that hung on him extremely well.

My heart tapped an unsteady rhythm against my ribs like an unpracticed drummer.

He didn’t see me. His handsome smile was directed first at the woman he was with. Then he held the door for an older, black-haired woman holding a mic and at a videographer wielding a camera like an Uzi toward him as he made his way into The Mercantile as well.

“And anyone who knows Bridgewater knows The Mercantile,” Kyler said, smiling at the camera.

The second woman strode in next to him, holding the mic close enough for him to speak into.

“Is this the grocery store?” the girlfriend asked.

Despite the obvious answer to her question, she didn’t sound like a balloon-headed ditz with nothing but cotton candy in her skull. No, she sounded mature. And sweet.

That fact grinded against me like a handheld sander—all whirring and jiggly and rough.

“Just about,” Kyler said. “It’s been owned by the Perrys for as long as I can remember. My friends and I used to come in here to get ice cream on hot summer days.”

Was he doing some kind of interview? What was going on? And how could I evaporate into thin air as quickly as possible?

They were blocking my only exit!

The four of them strode past me without a second glance. Without thinking, I dashed behind the counter and, hugging the boxes to my chest, ducked.

I bumped the ice cream scoop in the process. It wobbled precariously and fell to the floor—but not before it struck me in the face.

Lovely.

The metal left a cold, wet kiss against my cheek and then clattered to the wooden planks.

“What was that?” the girlfriend said.

“We should get some ice cream while we’re here,” the interviewer said with a charming southern accent. “What do y’all say? Would you recommend visitors stop by for a taste?”

“Absolutely,” Kyler said. “This ice cream is homemade by the Perrys. In fact, I won’t tell you that Jeralyn once let my friend and me get personal samples if we stopped by after closing.”

My eyes squeezed shut. Because the friend he was talking about?

Was me.

It was me.

Kyler and me. Him and I. Us.

And we used to meet up for the promised ice cream. It’d been a favor because Kyler had helped Jeralyn’s dog, and so she told him he could get ice cream any time he wanted. But he had to come after hours because she couldn’t offer free ice cream to just anyone.

The interviewer laughed. I imagined her winking at the camera. “You heard that folks. We’re going to sample some of this ice cream, and we’ll be back with more of our tour of country star Kyler Holden’s charming hometown, Bridgewater, Idaho.”

Country star Kyler Holden. I knew he’d hit it big—but big enough for them to do a documentary of his life?

“Is anyone here?” the girlfriend said with an air of looking around the store.

“I thought I heard someone,” Kyler said. “Hello?”

I heard motion and squeezed my eyes shut. My heart pounded. Prayers sounded off in my brain like a bad case of tinnitus.

Please don’t let him see me. Please let them think no one is here.

More motion sounded, and then I heard him mutter.

“Cambry? Is that you?”

Remaining out of sight was too good to be true. I grimaced and opened my eyes, tilting my chin upward.

Kyler was leaning over the counter far enough to see my hiding place.

Looks like I was caught.

“What are you doing back there?”

“Is this a friend of yours?” one of the women asked.

“You could say that.” Kyler’s response was nearly inaudible before he raised his voice to me once more. “I saw you back there, Cammie. Everything okay?”

Cammie. That nickname. That voice. It still had the same death grip on my heartstrings.

He knew I was here. No sense in hiding any longer. I might as well try to play it casual.

Inhaling, trying to steady myself and act like this was completely normal, I put my quads to work and rose, bracing myself.

Facing him.

The direct impact of Kyler’s blue eyes was a detonator. It was the press of the button everyone in movies dreaded, when the villain held the device in his hand and finally acted on the threat to push it if his hostages didn’t comply.

Well, that button had been pushed. And I was bracing for the explosion.

I knew seeing him again would be inevitable, but I had no idea it would affect me like this.

“Hey,” I said stupidly.

“Everything okay?” Kyler asked. His eyes flicked to my chest—or rather, the box of tampons and cereal in my arms.

“You’ve got something—” The picture-perfect brunette in her skimpy tube top with toned arms, perfect skin, and delicate makeup indicated her own cheek, flicking up and down with her finger.

Heat barraged my face. The ice cream scoop had struck my face as it had fallen—and I’d completely forgotten.

Mortified, I lifted a hand to my cheek to wipe the glob of ice cream away, only to lose my hold on the items in my arms.

Both boxes slammed to the floor.

“Hang on, now,” Kyler said, striding quickly around the counter.

“Oh, no, it’s okay—”

“I got it,” Kyler said.

“No, don’t—”

Ever the gentleman he always was, he bent for the cereal and . . . yep. My box of tampons.

He paused only long enough to stare at the box and for color to patch on his handsome cheeks before he rose to his notably impressive full height.

Had he gotten taller?

Heat strung from his body. And my body was reacting to it. It was like I had cracklers on the end of every one of my nerve endings and he was pure fire, sparking every single one of them, making each one explode the closer he drew.

“Here,” he said, setting the boxes on the counter in front of the ice cream.

And then before I could equate anything at all—like sensing that this side of the counter was colder because of the chill coming from the freezers where the ice cream was stored, or the sound of Neon Moon playing on the speakers overhead, or the fact that my nose’s job was to draw in air and bring it to my lungs—he reached for my cheek.

The molecules in the air slammed on the brakes. What sounded like, “I—ee—uhhh,” escaped my lips as his thumb stroked my skin and wiped away the glob of ice cream.

Someone call an ambulance. My heart just stopped beating.

“Looks like you got a little something there,” he said. And then he lowered his voice and added, “Sneaking back for a free sample again, Cammie?” with twinkling eyes.

Twinkling, I tell you. Twinkling! How could he still look at me like that?

I was dumbfounded. Mostly the dumb part of that particular state of being—in the literal sense—because my ability to speak had apparently disappeared.

He was so beautiful. So attractive and, hello, had the last four years been good to him or what? Broad shoulders. Chiseled jaw with stubble screaming at me to reach out and stroke it. His lips, his dark lashes, the scar on his nose from when he’d collided with a tree on his bike as a kid.

“This is darling,” the southern woman’s voice said, startling me back to functionality once more.

I blinked, staggering. My hand swept to my cheek but came up empty. Kyler was wiping his hand on the towel behind the counter and halfway through explaining a story I knew all too well.

After the ice cream samples, he’d gotten his first job working here, stocking shelves and hauling stuff for Jeralyn. He’d snuck me in with him that first night. As far as I knew, Jeralyn never knew I’d come along—since they hadn’t had any surveillance.

All the better, since Kyler and I had made out several times that night after he’d gotten the cereal and soups in their places.

(He left out the kissing part of the story for the camera—along with the part about how we’d knocked down several cereal boxes and an entire row of granola bars in the heat of our kisses and had to return them to their places once more, laughing the entire time.)

Kyler must have been thinking of the same thing because more pink patched over his cheeks, and his eyes caught mine for the briefest moment before he cleared his throat and strode back out to stand by Tube Top.

“You worked here?” the girlfriend said in awe.

Six years had passed since that night. Four years had passed since I’d ended our relationship. And seeing him now made breathing as difficult as inhaling dirt.

The camera angled to me, and the interviewer with jet black hair pulled back in a rigid bun stepped past the counter as well, leaving Tube Top behind.

“Is this an old friend? You look to be about the same age.
Care to tell the world an insider’s view on who Kyler Holden really is?”

She held the mic toward me, and they all looked at me as though expecting me to go along with whatever this was.
Coming home always came with the possibility of bumping into him. I knew he’d moved to Nashville, but I couldn’t help it—I’d been hoping to see him again. To tell him the truth about what had happened that day four years ago. Maybe pick up where we left off.

But I never thought our reunion would happen while he was dating someone else . . . or with a national audience.