Bootscootin' Blahniks

by D. D. Scott

  Scanning the image on the tablet in front of her, she absorbed the look with a critical eye, allowing the lines and colors to permeate the limits of her mind. She was trying her hand at belts for the first time, focusing on the buckles. If this collection turned out like she hoped, Nashville’s cowgirls would soon be introduced to Raeve’s “Buckles Me Baby” collection.

  Roxy liked the signature drawing and the sass it suggested. She had built her over-the-top bravado into the design. Made of a base-plate of hammered copper, she planned to cover it in handset pink topaz stones. Along with the pink and brown faux crocodile leather she’d ordered from a New York textile warehouse, she’d have a piece that hoot and hollered Raeve.

  At two hundred dollars each, she hoped her cash register screamed ‘Sold.’ She knew these buckles were way too expensive for her ultimate goal of creating accessibly-priced accessories, but her plan was to get these gems to become must-haves for country music’s female superstars. Once she’d nailed that market, the buckles would garner gotta-have-it appeal for a lower-priced version to be mass-manufactured for everyday gals. And that’s when she’d make it on a big-time scale.

  As she finished touching up one of the bezel-set stones in the sketch, her doorbell chimed. She grabbed her broom and went to the door, her stomach growling with anticipation.

  Opening the door and seeing Zayne’s expression confirmed her hunch. He’d rather be anyplace else but on her stoop. He had a look of surrender, as if silently pleading ‘sorry, mom made me do it.’

  The angst in his warm eyes hurt Roxy more than the dull ache circulating her ankle. She’d been in his shoes, or in his case boots, many times.

  “I’m not sure why you never thought to carry a broom before,” Zayne said and laughed. “It’s a natural accessory for you.”

  Roxy couldn’t keep a crooked smile from escaping. Inside, she was cackling. Zayne could be a stitch, even when she was the butt of his wisecracks.

  “Zayne McDonald, you apologize right now,” Kat piped up from behind him then elbowed his ribs.

  “Kat, he’s not a two-year-old.” Roxy stepped out of the doorway and ushered them into her foyer. “And I’m perfectly capable of demanding an apology when I feel it’s warranted.”

  Zayne turned to his mother and gave her a cocky grin.

  “Zayne, you’re an asshole. Apologize.” Roxy said, taking profound satisfaction in the disappearance of his smirk.

  “I’m liking you more every time you open your mouth.” Kat stepped around her son, carrying a heaping shopping bag and an arm full of food. “Where’s your kitchen?”

  “Upstairs,” Roxy said and motioned for Zayne to come in, moving her hand in a grand sweep she’d like to snap across his fine ass.

  Zayne crossed the threshold, each hand filled with a covered dish.

  “Interesting entryway sculpture,” Kat said passing the croc then turning back to Roxy. “Do you need help up the stairs?”

  “No, I can make it. But thank you.”

  “She can ride her broom.” Zayne ducked, but not before the broom’s bristles grazed his chest-hugging, way too sexy T-shirt then bounced off one of the back pockets of his jeans.

  “Seriously, Rox,” Zayne’s rich chocolate eyes twinkled as he spoke, “you keep on that ankle and you’ll be good to go for bootscootin’ on Wednesday.”

  He winked at her on his way to the stairs. “Wouldn’t want your bad ankle to be our deal-breaker.”

  Thinking more along the lines of ball-breakers, Roxy struggled up the stairs behind him. On account of his sweet eyes and his nice rear view, she’d let him live another day. Beyond that was questionable.

  “I know you were looking at my ass,” he whispered in her ear when they reached the landing.

  “I was not looking at your ass.” With an evil grin, she spoke loud so Kat could hear.

  “Okay, kids, I don’t really care who looked at whose ass first, but it’s time to eat,” Kat said as she took several containers out of the shopping bag and started opening lids. “Roxy, honey, tell Zayne what dishes you’d like him to set your table with. And don’t worry. He’ll clean-up when we’re done.”

  Zayne glared at his mother. Turning to Roxy, he said in a low drawl, “One of these days, I’m fixin’ to tell her…”

  Roxy, just to antagonize him, shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t see a problem. Although she secretly lived for the hour Zayne would tell Kat exactly what he wanted and not what she wanted to hear. Roxy liked that he cared enough about his mother’s happiness to indulge her whims but worried he was creating a monster by never refusing her wishes.

  Part of her, though, coveted Zayne for having a mom who fussed over him like Kat did. Why did it bother him so much? Unlike her parents, Kat seemed to only want the best for her child.

  Roxy’s stomach contracted and not from hunger. She certainly knew what it was like to choose between a parents’ ways or the highway. Even though Kat seemed a tad controlling, Zayne was fortunate to have a mother who loved him enough to butt-in where she didn’t belong. At least she did wrong by him for all the right reasons.

  With Kat and Zayne now on either side of her, Roxy sat down at her bistro set in the alcove off the kitchen. A tremor slid through her, her senses hyper-responsive to what felt like a normal family enjoying a meal together. She’d never pictured herself as part of that Hallmark Family Movie image.

  Warming her heart further, her table was covered with nothing but fiery red dishes. Good thing she liked the color and tomatoes too. The luscious color variations and aroma made her long to be back in a Tuscan villa, reaching for a bottle of Chianti. But she’d always take the McDonald’s companionship over the vineyard-fresh, Italian wine and a table for one.

  Kat passed her a plate of fresh sliced tomatoes, perfectly arranged among slices of mozzarella cheese. The serving dish was drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with oregano. Bellissimo.

  “Isn’t the growing season just starting?” Roxy’s mouth watered as she slipped several slices of both the tomatoes and cheese onto her plate. “Which grocery did you go to for these beauties?”

  Kat coughed and cleared her throat, motioning with her hands for Zayne to answer Roxy’s question.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Roxy couldn’t imagine what, but both her guests seemed mildly offended.

  “Around here, you use grocery-bought tomatoes if no one likes you enough to give you their homegrown varieties.” Zayne emptied pretty much the rest of the appetizer platter onto his plate. “Serious growers are measured by their tomatoes alone. We grow them in greenhouses during the off season, so they’re always fresh.”

  “I’m sorry for my ignorance.” Roxy felt awful for insulting them but was thrilled to be liked enough not to have to succumb to the grocery bins.

  She sure didn’t think, though, that Kat could be measured by tomatoes alone. Totally not her style. This was a woman wearing linen, crushed silk, and fabulous boots, not Carharts. Looking at Kat’s smart style, Roxy could very easily and with good reason label Kat a Manhattanite. A woman bred for Tiffany’s, not beefsteaks. Not until Kat opened her mouth, speaking with her southern sweet tea voice, did Roxy know different.

  “Try some of this, dear,” Kat said, handing her what looked like some sort of tomato quiche as she suppressed another cough.

  “Is it quiche?” Roxy said, taking the dish and hoping Kat wasn’t coming down with a cold. She seemed a bit flushed too.

  “Down here we call it tomato pie,” Kat corrected her.

  Whatever it was, Roxy thought, it looked delicious. Putting a forkful in her mouth, she concluded it tasted even better. The homemade comfort warmed her stomach and her soul, a comfort foreign to her.

  “Wow. This is great.” Roxy took another bite. “Thank you both so much. I was hungrier than I thought.”

  “You could use some more meat on those bones of yours,” Kat said even though she had barely touched the food on her own plate.

  “Mom, Roxy cl
eaned-up her plate better than you,” Zayne cut in.

  “I’m fixin’ to get to it.” Stirring the air between them with her fork, Kat brushed-off Zayne. She played some more with her pie, spearing the crust until it broke into a zillion crumbs.

  Zayne leaned-in across the table toward his mom, evidently thinking his close proximity would have a larger impact. “What’s up with your eating? I know you’ve lost weight.”

  “Oh, hogwash. Why don’t you mind your own business?” Kat leaned into him and popped a piece of pie into her mouth.

  “Yeah, like you mind yours?” Zayne harrumphed. “If you keep cutting sizes, Roxy’s going to have to make you an entire new wardrobe.”

  At first appearing more-than-uncomfortable when Zayne questioned her weight, Kat’s demeanor lifted once he’d offered her Raeve apparel. “Well, maybe that’s what I had in mind. I just can’t wait to get busy in that shop.”

  “It’s a ‘boutique.’ Not a shop,” Roxy said, not able to refrain from commenting on one of her pet peeves. She hadn’t gone to one of the top design schools in the world to own a shop. She pushed her plate away and took a drink of water, washing down the raw nerves pinching her throat. “Let’s talk about this arrangement.”

  Kat sat up straighter in her chair, her eyes wide with hurt and confusion from Roxy’s snarky retort.

  Humbled, the cement barrier around her heart cracking, Roxy sighed, struggling to find a way to apologize. Used to defending her talent to her own heartless family, she’d forgotten she wasn’t dealing with a Steve or Lily Vaughn. Kat wasn’t talking-down Raeve’s designs. She supported Roxy’s talent more than anyone ever had.

  “I’m sorry, Kat. I didn’t mean to snap like that. I just don’t do well working with a partner. Ask my dad.” Roxy slouched in her chair, wishing it would swallow her. She scooted her chair away from the table to put distance between herself and the person she’d unintentionally hurt. “Frankly, I’m lousy at it.”

  “Mom is too. Aren’t you, Mom?” Zayne threw his napkin onto his plate, a wicked grin spreading with the blazing fury of a wildfire.

  “Zayne, I resent that,” Kat said, but not in the way of a woman insulted, rather in a tone almost representative of a hidden sense of pride.

  “Whatever makes you feel better, Mom. But I doubt Roxy’s going to take too kindly to you bossing her around like you do me.” Zayne rose from his chair and took his plate to the sink.

  Damn. She wasn’t used to a man rushing to defend her bullheadedness. The man kindled more flames in Roxy than she was ready for. Could she handle the heat? Did she even want to?

  “Zayne, I’m capable of telling your mother what I will and won’t take kindly too,” she said, swiveling her chair back toward Kat so as not to be fazed by how perfect Zayne looked standing at her sink.

  “Just so we’re straight on this, Kat —”

  But before she could finish, pain seared Kat’s eyes and she placed her hand over her chest.

  “Are you okay?” Roxy whispered, instinctively reaching out her hand, wrapping it gently around Kat’s wrist.

  Kat anxiously looked over at Zayne who was scraping his plate. Roxy followed Kat’s concern, noting Zayne wasn’t paying any attention to them as he concentrated on his work at the sink.

  Kat then looked at Roxy and nodded her head she was fine, beseeching Roxy with her desperate eyes not to make a fuss. Pockets of troubled air expanded inside Roxy’s chest then pressed against her ribcage.

  “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” Roxy said in a hushed voice, “and that’s a promise.”

  Before Roxy could say anything else, Zayne was back at the table, scooping up their dishes.

  “I’ll help you with that.” Kat sprang up from her chair and hustled away from the table. “Roxy, honey, where’s your dish soap?”

  “Under the sink,” Roxy said to the woman who now wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  Roxy’s chest tightened with each avoidance maneuver Kat employed. “But there’s really no need for both of you to clean-up too. I can do it later. It’s enough that you cooked.”

  Kat laughed. “Honey, I didn’t cook a damn thing. In fact, I don’t cook at all.”

  “Then who did?” Roxy glanced at Zayne. The hunk in her kitchen cooked too? If she had time for a man, he’d definitely be at the top of her list.

  “Don’t look at me,” Zayne said and laughed along with his mother. “If Mom or I made dinner, I would have refused to come over. A man can only take so much.”

  “So who made it? And do they deliver?”

  Roxy got up and dragged herself to the sink, taking Zayne a glass he’d missed.

  “Zayne’s fortunate to have a good friend, Cody, who cooks a mean streak. He keeps us fed when we’re not at the Neon Cowboy.” Kat rinsed off the last dish and placed it in the dishwasher. “I’m not sure about the delivery thing. But I’m sure his arm could be twisted occasionally. Or, for that matter, Cody could cook at his family’s diner, and Zayne would deliver it to you.”

  “Why that’s just what I was going to say, Mom.” Zayne rolled his eyes at Roxy. “You just beat me to it.”

  Roxy laughed. She enjoyed their easy banter. Nothing like this ever occurred in her family. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten a meal at home, around a dining room table, with her family. Until she’d left home, her meals consisted of reheats from the family’s chef, eaten on her bed while watching CMT. If not that, then reserved tables in posh restaurants with her girlfriends.

  And Roxy’s mom sure didn’t know which of her daughter’s friends could cook, a task she’d find way too menial to consider talent unless it rivaled the skills of an Iron Chef.

  “Got any friends who can build things?” It didn’t hurt to ask, Roxy figured. She had some shelving and display ideas for Raeve.

  “Yeah, actually I do. My friend Damian can make just about anything. What do you need?” Zayne asked, while packing the last of the empty containers into the shopping bag.

  If there was one thing positive Roxy’s parents had shown her, it was how to network. Although, she certainly didn’t schmooze like they did, sucking up to whoever was necessary to get what they wanted then talking about them behind their backs.

  “I have a couple of projects at the boutique I need help with. You know I can’t pay much. So I need to learn how to make them myself.”

  It was hell being this strapped for cash. But Roxy refused to ask her parents for more money. It was bad enough she’d accepted the family’s realtor to find her townhouse then caved to their decorator — although she had no idea they’d go to such pricy extremes in the renovations.

  But she wasn’t stupid. The Vaughn entourage only did so much to the house to max-out her dad’s resale value after Roxy failed and bailed. Too bad for her dad’s investment, she wasn’t going down if she could at all prevent her financial annihilation.

  She’d used her money for Raeve and all but wiped-out her savings. All she had left were her mind, muscles and borderline maniacal determination. She’d have to rely on those to succeed.

  “Let that be one of my first responsibilities,” Kat broke into the conversation. “I’ll have Damian there tomorrow afternoon to talk to you.”

  “Okay. Fine.” Maybe with Kat concentrating on construction, she’d leave Roxy alone to finish designing the buckle collection. Maybe there were some things Roxy could delegate. She’d have to give this co-worker idea additional thought.

  “Okay. Fine,” Kat repeated and picked up the bag to leave. “C’mon, Zayne, let’s not make a nuisance of ourselves. It’s getting late.

  “Roxy, dear, I put plenty of leftovers in your frig, which should get you by for a few days,” Kat headed for the stairs.

  She turned back and wrapped Roxy in a huge hug. “Or maybe I’ll just go to the store for you tomorrow.

  “Thank you, Roxy.” Kat hugged her again. “For everything.”

  According to Roxy’s recollection, she’d only agreed to Kat’s hel
p at Raeve. Not taking her on as a personal assistant.

  Roxy, without thinking, returned Kat’s hug, allowing the woman’s kindness to smother her like a blanket. Even though she was unprepared for the affection, it was sort of nice. “Okay, Kat…we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  The shock on Zayne’s face must have mirrored hers, but it just felt like the natural thing to do. And Roxy really didn’t owe herself or Zayne any explanation. That’s what her new life was about — doing what she wanted when she wanted.

  Kat winked at her then headed down the stairs.

  “You women amaze me,” Zayne said. “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you go and do something sweet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d just witnessed you two bonding.”

  Roxy reached for her broom. “How’d you like to bond with my broomstick, Beefsteak?”

  That got him moving.

  But it also got other combustible chemicals stirring inside Roxy too — a cowboy concoction she didn’t have time to experiment with. Or should she make time?

  Chapter Nine

  At precisely six Monday morning, Roxy dragged herself, her bum ankle, and Dipstick and Darling across the parking lot behind Raeve. She wasn’t about to allow the inconvenience or achy irritation of her weekend injury to vary her work habits. Rushing through the tractor supply store’s employee entrance, she congratulated herself on rising above her handicap.

  Punctual…that was her in a gigantic nutshell. A self-diagnosed nut in an at-times shell-shocking new culture. But one thing about her hadn’t changed. She was hell-bent on punctuality.

  The time zone change between Manhattan and Nashville hadn’t been a problem. She’d simply set her anal-tivity an hour back. The land of Jack Daniel’s, however, operated on its own sweet schedule, without the need for an instrument of time. Life here happened whenever people got around to it. On the —ish clock. Seven-ish. Eight-ish. Nine-ish. Nobody used the minute hand. And Southerners were suspicious of Yankees who did.

  Flipping the appropriate switch in the farm store’s breaker box, Roxy waited while the overhead lighting in her corner of the building hummed and buzzed to life. She was convinced sound engineers for Star Wars mimicked the same auditory patterns to produce the film’s light saber battles.