by D. D. Scott
“I’m a new entrepreneur in town, and I’ve put all my cash into my boutique,” she said, feeling a twinge of remorse at the painful acknowledgement she was tapped out of financial resources. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Sorry if I stepped on your pretty feet, Princess,” Zayne said, finagling the straw around his tantalizingly, taught-drawn lips, “but your financial standings are a bit of a concern to me now that you’ve damn near totaled my truck.”
“I in no way totaled your piece of junk truck. And you know it. That thing is far from being a show piece.” Roxy got out of her car and shot him a warning glare to back off. The fact he had a point regarding her debt to him didn’t matter…much. She didn’t like the way his sarcasm mocked her perfectly-coordinated shoes.
She’d done her best since moving to Music City to cover up her privileged upbringing. Her shoes may be a tad fancier than seen on most Music City women’s feet, but they were at least three run-way seasons old, maybe more. She’d lost track trying to save up enough money to move down here. Looks could be deceiving, and she liked them that way.
She’d certainly adapted her wardrobe to Nashville’s bootscootin’ world. Hell…she wore jeans just about every day. No couture, private label collections either. She cut her own. But she still made sure her clothes showcased the same sexy, sassy edge as the apparel she designed for her boutique. She couldn’t afford to rent high-in-the-sky signage. Not now. She had to be her own walking billboard.
That being said, the Mercedes was a strong hint of her past. She definitely got that. But the damn thing was paid for, and if she wanted to purchase the gemstones she needed to finish her signature belt buckles, she couldn’t afford a vehicle payment. Except for the car, she’d managed fairly well to blend in, although she still preferred her stilettos — even if they were old — to cowboy boots on the dance floor. But she did have killer boots…just in case she changed her mind.
Shit. At the thought of her favorite boots being in the backseat with Darling, Roxy just about lost what little gumption she had left. “Oh, God. Not my boots too. Why couldn’t the dog have annihilated a pair of stilettos? I got plenty of those. Shit. Not my only dancing boots.”
Roxy pushed her way past Zayne and the dogs who had unwittingly gathered to sufficiently block her inside her smelly sedan. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get my checkbook, and we can work this out.”
Tears stung her eyes while she rummaged past her soiled boots and into her stained Valenciaga bag for her checkbook. But the tears weren’t from Darling’s regurgitated treats. The raw emotion and steel defiance she fought to keep in check were from the thought of having to ask her father to pad her account to cover her and Zayne’s vehicle repairs. With her miniscule balance, she couldn’t even afford to replace her boots and still make her monthly bills. So much for continuing to enjoy nights on the dance floor bootscootin’ away her worries.
She’d put everything she had into opening her boutique. Wanting to save for the kind of rainy, puking dog days she faced now hadn’t been an option. She’d gone for the gusto. And now, because of her go-for-broke choices, she’d been bitten in the ass yet again.
Before she knew why or considered the consequences of her actions, Roxy tossed her checkbook back into her ruined couture bag. “You know, I just don’t have the kind of cash to cover this. Could you just send me a bill? I’ll see that my father takes care of you. He’s more than good for the money.”
Zayne — who’d originally turned his head in a surprised tilt as if impressed by her determination to handle her debt on her own — looked just as quickly at his feet. He scuffed his boots against the dirt and gravel berm of the road.
“Okay. I know that’s a cop-out,” Roxy said, not liking his silent judgment but unequivocally agreeing with his disdain for and disrespect of her proposed solution.
“I never said that,” Zayne began what was probably supposed to be an earnest rebuttal, although without the convincing tone to back his words.
“You didn’t have to say anything, Cowboy. I’ve spent a lifetime looking at my feet when I’m not impressed by or disappointed in what or who’s in front of me,” Roxy countered, somewhat relieved Zayne shared her self-reliant values. He might be open to working with her to make things right between them. Maybe she wouldn’t have to involve her parents.
“Why don’t we turn this accident into our insurance and let them handle it?” Zayne suggested, trying to unwrap Dipstick and Darling’s leashes from the tangled mess they’d wound around and through his legs.
Ever since he’d hooked the dogs to their leashes, they’d been doing their own dance around Zayne, trying to escape his dog who’d kept occupied by sniffing their butts. Roxy should actually thank and praise the dogs for keeping Zayne as her captive audience. It didn’t look like he’d be leaving her any time soon.
“How about we just get estimates for now so we know what all this will come to? We can discuss our options after that.” Roxy knew the damage wouldn’t amount to any less later but postponing the reality would buy time to re-evaluate her finances. She had to find another way to make things right with Zayne. Being barely in the black wouldn’t amount to an unexpected windfall any day soon, but at this point, time could only help her adjust to the pain.
“We can do that. Sure. But how are you going to get your car home?” Zayne asked, shoving his large, sun-kissed hands into the pockets of his body-hugging blue jeans. “I’ve got a buddy that can tow it if you’d like. For nothing.”
Roxy didn’t like how quickly Zayne added the ‘for nothing’. She already felt like a fool for hinting at her cash-strapped duress. But she shouldn’t, she silently harrumphed, attempting to bolster her bruised ego. She’d never been afraid of the truth, and being on a dangerously thin financial tightrope was her truth. For now. If Zayne didn’t like it or at least appreciate her for leveling with him, then he wasn’t worth getting to know.
“If you could arrange for a tow, I’d be grateful. I’m already way late for work, and I certainly can’t afford to lose customers,” Roxy said, looking at her watch.
Now there’s an idea, she thought, studying the fine Swiss Quartz Movement of her diamond-studded Movado. She congratulated herself for her quick-thinking prowess. She could sell her watch on e-Bay. That just might pay for the vehicle damage. She made a mental note to research what the watch was worth. A firm believer in where there’s a will there’s some slightly off way to make it happen, she could now relax a bit.
“Let me get my phone from the truck, and I’ll make a quick call. Then I’ll get you to work,” Zayne said, beginning to untangle Dipstick and Darling from between his long, lean, muscle-sculpted legs.
“I can wait on your friend to take me,” Roxy offered, although the idea of sitting alone along the side of the road in Hurlville waiting on another stranger didn’t sound real appealing.
“Nonsense. I’m on my way to my saloon anyway, so I’ll take you. Where’s your boutique?” He asked, handing her the dogs and their leashes.
Roxy’s throat constricted. She still had trouble admitting the location she’d found for Raeve. But Zayne already knew she was going for broke so probably wouldn’t think anything of the fact that she was also a bit real estate-challenged.
“Well…the temporary home for Raeve, and I emphasize temporary, is in the rear corner of the tractor supply store on the west end of town,” she said, not feeling an ounce of the relief she thought she should for being honest about the current status of her affairs.
Zayne, to his credit, took a moment before responding, although Roxy caught the smallest of smiles trying its best to remain hidden beneath his all-too-apparent amusement. As he seemed to struggle to find an appropriate response, his steadfast but sincere gaze never left her eyes.
“Raeve, huh? I know the place well. Boy will Mom get a kick out of this,” he said, the huge grin he’d been hiding now out in all its hot glory.
“Your Mom?” How had his mom en
tered the conversation, Roxy mused, although she did love a man who openly adored his Mom. That is, if the mom was far, far different than hers.
“Does the name Kat ring a bell?”
“Kat? Well…yes. As in Kat McDonald? Of course. Your last names. McDonald and McDonald. So Kat’s your mom, huh?” Roxy couldn’t believe the beyond stylish woman who frequented Raeve could have a child Zayne’s age. He had to be close to her soon-to-be thirty-five. And Kat didn’t look much over forty-five to fifty on a bad day. Not that she really seemed to have any bad days either. She was a hoot. Always fun and filled with more energy than Roxy had ever witnessed in constant motion.
“Yep, she’s my mom and probably one of your best customers,” Zayne said, the love and pride he felt for Kat lighting his face.
Roxy’s chest filled with a warm spirit. Must be such a treat to have a parent like that, she thought. Her soul then twisted into a strong knot knowing she’d never know.
“Kat — I mean your mom — is a great customer. A designer’s dream client really.”
Roxy still couldn’t believe the connection she’d accidentally made. She believed in fate but this was a little too surreal for even her open-to-the-possibility mind-set. ‘Course now she felt even worse for smashing Zayne’s truck. She cursed her misfortune then threw a quick shout-out to the universe not to make the fiasco a cause, though a just-cause it would be, to lose her one, loyal patron.
“I see the angst brewing across your pretty little face. So why are you being so hard on yourself, Roxy? All this was just an accident. And at least you’re living your dreams — tractor store or not. Roxy what, by the way?” Zayne asked bringing her out of her mental flogging routine.
“Roxy Rae Vaughn,” she answered with none of the elitist snobbery her parents used when announcing their identity.
Having said her name, she struggled against the urge to hang her head. At least in Nashville, though, no one recognized her name for the beyond privileged upbringing it symbolized. And because of that unknown tidbit, there was no understood demand for unprecedented access and entitlement. Thank the powers at be for small triumphs.
“Granted, I can see where the supply store might not match your sexy style. But we all gotta start somewhere. And you must be good. Darn good according to Mom. Maybe you should lighten up and just accept your situation for what it is. A stepping stone to your future success.”
“Thanks for the confidence boost. But I haven’t gotten where I am by lightening up. I take my goals very seriously, and I mean serious,” Roxy stated, overstating her resolve much more than Zayne’s kindness required just to reinforce her own will.
The initial shock of her latest farce was fading fast, and the biting witch of reality was chasing her once again with a mighty big broom.
“I appreciate and respect your determination. I’m hell bent on seeing through one of my goals too,” Zayne said heading for his truck with Dipstick and Darling, his mutt and Roxy at his heels.
He draped one arm around Roxy’s shoulders, sending tiny forks of unexpected pleasure surging from her neck to her dust-covered feet peeking out from her peep-toed shoes. His fingers gently kneaded her skin, massaging her restless soul along with her aching muscles.
“What goal are you wrestling?” She asked, thinking of something to say before she lost herself underneath his warm touch, although she was interested in his answer.
As soon as the words left her mouth, his impromptu massage ended, and he bee-lined to the bed of his truck. He anxiously perused the baskets of tomatoes, talking and muttering profanities under his breath but well within decibel levels Roxy could make out.
Roxy ground the spiked heel of her shoe into the dirt, hoping beyond hope she hadn’t damaged his dreams along with his truck. Judging by the crinkled set of his brow line, his tomatoes were obviously of high importance. “So what happened to your advice about lightening up, Cowboy? Do you simply dispense your logic but not buy into its crap either?”
“Well put, Princess. Touché,” Zayne said grinding his teeth against the straw now held firm in his clenched jaw.
Instead of the casual, relaxed way he’d maneuvered the waxed filament when Roxy had first noticed his chewing preference, he’d now barricaded the sucker in tight.
“These tomatoes here are what I’ve got to perfect for this year’s Tomato Festival contest.” He moved the toe of his boot through the circle of dirt Roxy had punched through with the heel of her shoe. “It’s what my Dad wanted most. To win this year’s contest.”
Seeing pain etched in bitterness wind its way across Zayne’s ruggedly handsome face, Roxy’s heart muscles twisted into tight threads of dread. Trying to soothe his hurt, she tugged on the piece of straw wedged tight between his lips and changed the subject. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to chew on that stuff? It’s bad for your teeth.”
“Yes, thanks Doc. My mom gets on me regularly about my nasty little habit.” Part of his delicious smile returned to tickle his lips. He winked, but left the straw exactly where it was.
Roxy hated to take the light moment they shared back into the dark, but she wanted to know what made this complex cowboy tick. “I’m sorry if I brought up bad memories. I take it you lost your father?”
Zayne sighed then squeezed Roxy’s hand, his smile once again fading.
At his unexpected touch Roxy’s tummy flutter-kicked. Tucked into the warmth of his work-calloused hands, she basked in the comfort his strong grip gave her.
“Dad had a heart attack and died this past year working on these tomatoes. These babies were his life. I plan to make good on his dreams.”
“I hope I didn’t damage those too,” Roxy said, afraid to know if that’s what she’d done but preferring to deal with reality rather than wonder later ‘what if’.
“No worries. They look like they escaped unscathed from the sole of your deadly shoes. And don’t worry about your dancing boots. I’ve got the perfect fix for your predicament,” he said then let go of her hand.
Probably a good thing. She was way too comfortable in it.
“What kind of fix?” The man was getting more intriguing by the second, Roxy thought, while climbing into the cab of his truck and settling in beside Dipstick and Darling.
“My mom and I own The Neon Cowboy Saloon. You heard of it?” Zayne asked and shut Roxy’s door then yelled by name for his own dog to take his place in the bed of the truck.
“Yes, of course I’ve heard of it. I’ve only been there once ‘cause it’s a bit over my budget, but talk about a great place to dance, that’s it. I can’t believe Kat didn’t tell me the Neon Cowboy was her business.”
“Mom doesn’t talk much about business, especially when she’s away from it. She prefers to leave it inside the saloon’s doors. That’s what she always says anyway,” Zayne said not appearing surprised at all by his mom’s approach.
So different from Roxy’s past where business was all people talked about along with the riches their success afforded them.
Roxy could have talked forever about the saloon’s fabulous dance floor but after hearing the name of Zayne’s dog, she couldn’t keep her giggles at bay any longer and laughed out loud. “Studley Pete. Now there’s a great name. So does he take after his master?”
After her tease, Roxy swallowed. She wasn’t quite sure where her tenacity came from. Bantering with him just felt nice — kind of natural really.
“Of course Studley Pete is named in my image,” Zayne said, moving the straw around his cocky grin. “So which one is most like you, Dipstick or Darling?”
“Well done, Asshole,” Roxy said unable to suppress the smile she attempted to bite back between her lips and teeth.
Zayne inhaled with gusto then exhaled with the same mighty brawn. “Ahhhh. That’s much better. Thank you for the compliment. Now back to the saloon and fixin’ your boot hang up.”
“I know you have great boots. I took a walk through your gift corral, which isn’t bad by the way,” Roxy said
, thinking how terrific her new buckle designs would look inside the fancy display cases underneath the premium lighting system. “But there’s no way I can afford a pair right now. Thanks anyway.”
“Who said anything about you buying a pair?” Zayne took one arm off the steering wheel so Dipstick could wiggle his way onto his lap. “This one isn’t the sick one is it?”
“Not that I know of,” Roxy said, knowing she’d just die if Dipstick decided otherwise. “But I don’t seem to have luck on my side today. So proceed at your own risk, Cowboy.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Princess. I’m feeling quite fortunate over the day’s events thus far.”
Catching Keith Urban’s voice playing the air waves, Zayne cranked up the volume on the radio, apparently liking Keith’s take on a new day as much as Roxy did. Another plus on his Darwinian-worthiness meter.
Slipping into the comfort of the song’s rhythm, Roxy tapped her foot to the beat while Zayne’s thumbs kept perfect time on the steering wheel.
“What do you say I hook you up with a pair of boots?” Zayne inquired during an instrumental portion of the song.
“I don’t accept charity,” Roxy said, realizing as soon as the snotty reply left her mouth that she’d answered way too quickly, forsaking politeness — considering his kind offer — with her Vaughn-style, knee-jerk, defensive bravado.
She sighed deeper-than-soul-level, unable to block out the irony that she herself had given to charity for years — without her parent’s knowledge. As if she could ever spend the enormous wads of cash they lavished on her to buy-off her love and happiness. And now, well, now she’d been asked to accept that same kind of help from a stranger.
“I’m soooo sorry how that sounded. I do really appreciate your gesture. But as soon as I have a couple days of good sales at the boutique, I’ll be able to afford a pair,” Roxy said, trying to explain her unintentional cattiness and wishing she could kick herself for sometimes coming off as quite the bitch when trying to just be gutsy girl strong.
“Whatever makes you happy. But just so you know, I didn’t say anything about giving you the boots,” Zayne said, taking the straw out of his mouth and twirling it between his fingers.