The Hideaway Inn Read online

  No one in the charming river town of New Hope, Pennsylvania, needs to know that Vince Amato plans on flipping The Hideaway Inn to the highest bidder and returning to his luxury lifestyle in New York City. He needs to make his last remaining investment turn a profit…even if that means temporarily relocating to the quirky small town where he endured growing up. He’s spent years reinventing himself and won’t let his past dictate his future.

  But on his way to New Hope, Vince gets stuck in the middle of nowhere and his past might be the only thing that can get him to his future. Specifically Tack O’Leary, the gorgeous, easygoing farm boy who broke his heart and who picks Vince up in his dilapidated truck.

  Tack comes to the rescue not only with a ride but also by signing on to be the chef at The Hideaway for the summer. As Vince and Tack open their hearts to each other again, Vince learns that being true to himself doesn’t mean shutting down a second chance with Tack—it means starting over and letting love in.

  A new Carina Adores title is available each month:

  The Girl Next Door by Chelsea M. Cameron

  Just Like That by Cole McCade

  Hairpin Curves by Elia Winters

  Better Than People by Roan Parrish

  Full Moon in Leo by Brooklyn Ray

  If You Can’t Stand the Heat by KD Fisher

  Just Like Us by Cole McCade

  Coming soon from Philip William Stover

  and Carina Press

  The Beautiful Things Shoppe

  Content Warning

  There is a word in this book that might be difficult for some readers. It’s a derogatory name for a gay man.

  I’ve had teachers, colleagues and strangers call me that name. I’m sure I heard it almost every day at school. For me and so many of the gay men I know, this word is part of the experiences that shaped who we are. We all have stories of how it was used to belittle, humiliate or torture us in one way or another. I wanted to bring my authentic self to this book in a way that answered Carina Adores’s call for authenticity. I can’t deny that this word is part of my reality as a gay man.

  In The Hideaway Inn, I wanted to write a character who is so shaped by his experience as a teen that he pushes himself in an entirely different direction—only to find out that he’s also pushing away the love of his life. That word is part of Vince’s experience and it’s part of mine. Fortunately, Vince and I have both learned to grow beyond the boxes in which we were placed early in life.

  My editor and I had multiple serious and thoughtful conversations about the word in question. She was concerned readers would have difficulty reading it in the context of an endearing romance. I was grateful to hear her thoughts but felt it was important, especially in this context, to destroy the word’s power through the story of a transformational love that makes the HEA of The Hideaway Inn that much more H. I hope you will agree.

  The Hideaway Inn

  Philip William Stover

  For my great romance, WBC.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Girl Next Door by Chelsea M. Cameron

  Chapter One

  “This isn’t New Hope,” I tell the bus driver.

  “No, it’s Pittstown. Last stop.”

  Back in Manhattan a company chauffer takes me wherever I need to go but I do pass by plenty of bus stops—little huts with glass walls and cologne ads. Those are bus stops. This isn’t a bus stop. It’s a cow pasture.

  The driver opens the door and the smell of manure is so strong I have to hold the pocket square from my suit jacket over my mouth to stop from gagging.

  “Memorial Day weekend schedule. Bus doesn’t go all the way to New Hope. Last stop is here, Pittstown.”

  I look out the window. Cows to the right, empty fields to the left and nothing ahead of me or behind. Dark clouds gather in the sky, threatening an early summer rainstorm. My first thought is to just throw some money at the guy and bark at him to do what I want but those days are on pause, at least for now.

  “Come on, man. My phone’s dead. Call an Uber for me?” At this point I’m almost whining, something I never do, but I’ve been doing a lot of things I never do lately.

  “We don’t have Uber. You aren’t from around here?” He examines me over his sunglasses.

  The truth is, I grew up about twenty miles away in a town where the Jersey suburbs rubbed up against the Garden State farmlands. Everything east of that was big box stores and gas stations, everything west was rolling farmland. I pretty much spent my childhood reading overly sentimental verse or searching online for an acne cure.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “There’s a general store about six miles ahead. They might be able to call you a cab.”

  I grab my shoulder bag, thank the guy—for what, I don’t know—and step off the bus straight into a puddle of mud. The bus releases its brakes with a hiss of air and then disappears over the hill. I’m alone on the side of the road wearing a three-thousand-dollar bespoke suit and nine-hundred-dollar shoes, covered in mud.

  After walking over a mile without passing any living thing except a number of cows who I swear give me dirty looks, a pickup truck zooms past me on a blind curve only to pump the brakes when a bale of hay falls off the back. This could be my ticket out of my misery. With any luck this hick will be a serial killer and he’ll see the word next written all over me. If that doesn’t work out I guess I could ask him to take me to the general store.

  I start jogging toward the truck but as the guy steps out, I stop immediately. He’s far away but I can see that he is no stranger to hard labor. He’s wearing jeans so tight even from this distance I can see that each cheek of his bubble butt is a perfectly proportioned independent entity. Even though it’s a chilly sunless day he has his flannel shirt tied around his waist so his tank top reveals sun kissed arms that are thick from what I imagine to be hours of work in the fields. A trucker hat and sunglasses cover his face but that body is enough to turn this whole day around.

  I pick up my pace and walk toward the truck. The guy throws a rope around the hay bales in the cargo bed and moves to the other side to secure them.

  “Excuse me,” I say, and my deep voice booms across the field. I know the effect it usually has on people. At the firm, it made people follow my orders and in bed it does the same thing. It may be a polished performance, but it has great effect.

  “Hold up,” he says from the
other side of the truck. His voice is deep but not as heavy as mine and with less gravel. I hear him fiddling with the rope and can see the hair on his toned arms glisten in the late morning sunlight. I’m already picturing a handsome boyish face with a wide confident smile. I hear the ground crunch under his feet as he walks toward my side of the truck.

  He takes one look at me and stops. “No way!” he says. He pulls off his hay-dusted sunglasses. “Skinny Vinny. What the hell are you doing here?”

  My body freezes. I can’t believe who I’m seeing. It’s been over fifteen years, but the sight of him has me feeling like the skinny geeky kid with the impossible crush.

  I quickly gather myself and immediately correct him. “It’s Vince now. Vince,” I say, my lips vibrating against my teeth firmly as I make sure my voice is deeper and stronger than it is in even my most alpha moments. The shock of seeing him has my heart racing, but I’m an expert at covering weak emotions—on the rare occasions that I have them.

  I can’t believe this guy recognized me?

  I spent the decade and a half that I’ve been away from this area working on the transformation. I put on at least twenty pounds of pure muscle, my beard has grown to a controlled scruff, and daily-wear contacts mean my dark-brown eyes don’t hide behind lenses thicker than hickory bacon. Not to mention that every breath I take is a controlled study in hyper-masculinity, from my voice to how I hold my body to my lack of overly expressive emotion. This is Vince. I’m Vince. I’ll never be Skinny Vinny again.

  “Do I know you?” I ask. He looks exactly the same, maybe even hotter, but I don’t want him to think he was ever significant to me. Even though he has had more than an occasional role in my jerk-off fantasies since I was a teenager.

  “Come on, it hasn’t been that long. It’s me, Tack. Tack O’Leary. And, ah, yeah, I’m still Tack,” he says. Of course, Tack hasn’t had to change a thing about himself since high school including being named after the equipment used on his beloved horses. He was voted Most Popular, Most Athletic and Nicest Eyes. Usually they only let you win in one category but Tack’s year was such a landslide they bent the rules. I would have been voted Most Likely to Not be Voted Anything if that was a category since the only people who really knew me were the boys who teased me relentlessly for being a “girly-boy.” No one would call me that now.

  “Oh, right. I remember now. Your family had a farm,” I say, keeping up my charade by pretending to piece the details together in my head and trying not to look at the outline of his dick in his pants. I respect having a great dick or a great ass but having both is really just obnoxious.

  “Still do. I’ve got a load of fresh eggs and some produce under all that hay. I’m taking it to the farmers market in New Hope. But what the hell are you doing in the middle of Route 513 in Pittstown?”

  Tack looks me up and down and I can’t tell if he is examining my hard-earned muscular body or the fact that I’m dressed for a board meeting, not the side of a country road. I got on the bus right after signing the summer rental agreement with the tenants for my penthouse. I wanted to give them the impression that I was still a powerful master of the universe so they wouldn’t balk at the incredibly high monthly charge. They didn’t need to know that without the rent money, I would default on the apartment’s second mortgage that I’m using to renovate the place in New Hope. A buddy gave me an inside tip about an investment opportunity and I wasn’t in a position to be picky about the location.

  “I’m actually headed to New Hope,” I say, but as soon as the words come out of my mouth I realize I should have given a different answer. Now it sounds like I want a ride, which I do but not with him. I’d rather crawl to New Hope on my hands and knees. But first, I would change my pants because they cost more than his beat-up truck.

  “Looks like you need a ride,” he says. His mouth closes and one side of his smile tightens to show off a sexy grin.

  No. There is no way I am getting in that truck with Tack. He is the very last person I wanted to see here. Does Tack know he broke my heart? Does he even remember what he did to me? Inside I’m an almost uncontrollable storm of lust, regret, fear and desire but I take every last feeling and stuff it deep beneath my exterior. Vinny might babble a string of needy requests but Vince knows how to focus and turn the tables.

  “Question is,” I say, making sure my face remains without expression, “why is Tack O’Leary going to New Hope? Didn’t your buddies always say that place was full of queers?”

  “Still is,” he says without missing a beat. “Some things are still the same but a lot of things aren’t.” Tack always spoke in riddles. It’s just as annoying as ever. “New Hope has the most popular farmers market in all of Bucks County. I’m there helping sell my dad’s produce when I have time.”

  “How is your dad?” I ask just to be polite. Mr. O’Leary was an asshole of major proportions. I’m sure as he has gotten older, he’s gotten even more zealous.

  “He’s the same,” Tack says without emotion. “I gotta get going. You in or not?” The tone of Tack’s voice either shows he’s in a hurry or that asking about his dad hit a raw spot.

  “I’ll just walk to the general store up ahead and call a cab. Good luck with your hay, Tack,” I say, hoping my tone conveys fuck off.

  Tack steps toward me and I can smell the potent mix of sweat and hay on his skin. Reminds me of visits to his farm in high school and waiting for him to finish his chores so we could... I get an immediate semi that I reposition as best I can down the side of my leg so it isn’t too obvious.

  He walks closer to the truck, stretches his arm in front of me and then opens the passenger side door.

  “Get in,” he says.

  “Like I said, I’m just going to...”

  “The general store is closed for renovations and there hasn’t been a pay phone there for like ten years.” He looks me up and down again. I’m sure he can see my pulsing erection and this time I don’t care. Let him see how big it is. Let him see the man I’ve become. I know he doesn’t want to be with me. He made that very clear many years ago. But I don’t care. Let him see what he’s been missing.

  “Get in,” he says again, but this time his voice doesn’t have any edge.

  Against my better judgment, I jump in his vintage pickup truck without saying a word. Once I’m in, he slams the door, and lets that sexy smile linger.

  “Next stop, New Hope.”

  Chapter Two

  As soon as we make it over the hill, the expansive countryside opens before me like an antique quilt unfolding at a county fair. Recently mowed fields make perfectly parallel lines that bend with the shape of the land; yellow grassy patches are contained by split rail fences so farm animals can freely graze; newly green trees create small clusters of forest. I never appreciated the beauty of the countryside as a kid.

  It would almost feel calm and peaceful if riding in Tack’s pickup didn’t feel like being put in a cardboard box and kicked across a field. We bump and bounce over every pothole. I’m a few inches taller than Tack and I think he’s enjoying making sure my head hits the roof of the cab whenever he can make it happen.

  “Do you have to hit every pothole in the road?” I ask.

  “It was a rough winter. Roads are still torn up,” he says. He glances over at me for a second but I spot a huge ditch ahead.

  “Watch out!” I shout with more inflection than I would like. Tack suddenly swerves to avoid the crater and the momentum makes me slide across the bench and right into Tack. For just a second my face brushes against his shoulder. The feel of his body is exhilarating and awkward all at once. I immediately push myself back to the passenger side and fasten my seat belt so it won’t happen again. He doesn’t say anything but I think I see a smile approach his lips. Tack stares straight ahead; his focus is on the road.

  We ride in silence which I am sure surprises him. In high school, I’d bla
ther on about some random poem I loved or a character in a book I was reading. As an adult I learned the power of silence. It can make people uncomfortable and you can use that to your advantage.

  I keep my eyes forward without saying a word. I force Tack to make the first move to start a conversation. Let him understand who is in control now. We travel through the countryside and down to the road that hugs the river. It’s early summer so the trees are bare enough that I can see the small currents and rapids that punctuate the glassy surface of the Delaware.

  “So, you going to New Hope for the weekend or something?” Tack says, caving to the silence.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, the radio is broke and we got a slow ten miles until we get there. Maybe you can tell me what the hell you’re doing here after, what, more than fifteen years?” I look over at him and I can’t tell if he is angry or teasing. Since he’s focused on the road I can take a longer look than before. His dirty blond hair has darkened just a bit and his face has filled out so that his chin is even stronger and his jawline even sharper. He looks like he should be on a calendar featuring super-hot farmers.

  “So, are you gonna tell me?” he asks.

  I snap out of my fantasy and refocus. “Oh, yeah, sure. I mean, I can. No problem.” I’m all stumbles and hesitation. That’s not Vince, that’s Vinny. This guy’s got me losing my edge in less than five minutes in his presence. I order myself to pull it together.

  “There was an investment opportunity right on the river. Great little inn that fell on hard times. Owners couldn’t keep it going so when the deal came across my desk, I realized it had a great ROI.” I look at him and jump on this opportunity to show off who I am now. “That’s return on investment,” I say slowly but he doesn’t take the bait.

  “Got it,” he says, staring straight ahead.

  Most of what I’ve told him is true. Not that I’m worried about lying to Tack—he never did place a whole lot of emphasis on telling the truth. I don’t tell him that I lost my fortune in a deal that went south after the firm found out I had been fucking one of the biggest investors. I don’t tell him my buddy pointed me in the direction of this deal because he knew a hospitality chain was developing a plan to buy a bunch of charming inns and make a conglomerate. I don’t tell him how desperate I am to make sure this one shows a profit so that by the end of the summer FunTyme Inc. will want to add this inn their portfolio and I’ll be able to cash out and get back to New York.