by D. D. Scott
“Whatever fits your schedule, I think you should make some time to check on her.”
Damn it. Zayne didn’t have time. His mother meant well lighting a fire under his ass, but he didn’t have enough hours in his days now. How was he supposed to find more? Yes. She was right to a degree. He’d give her that. Roxy did have a lot more on her plate than most people. But she’d done that to herself, and, instead of letting Zayne help her, she’d all but pushed him out the door. He certainly had more pressing problems than butting in where he wasn’t wanted.
But what if Roxy was really asking for his help in that do-the-opposite-of-what-I-appear-to-be-implying woman’s way? No wonder he was still single. Suddenly his tomatoes didn’t seem as troublesome.
The pressure squeezing his throat increased until he wondered how air could travel through it. His palms grew damp.
“How about breakfast? You could surprise us and bring it into the boutique. Or maybe visit her after she gets done at the saloon,” his mom suggested while swiveling her wedding ring back and forth on her finger.
It meant so much to Zayne that she refused to take it off. But thinking of the match to that ring being deep in the earth with his dad’s remains, Zayne’s heart ached for their loss. He sure didn’t agree with his dad on much but he still missed the guy.
“Roxy’s been working in the back room — sometimes all night, only going home for a catnap, a quick shower and change of clothes before coming to Raeve to check my progress and show me her new designs,” his mom said.
“When I’ve stopped in for dinner and the nightly receipts, she has looked awfully beat. But I had no idea she’d been pulling all-nighters. She never told me,” Zayne said, the knots in his stomach tugging at his conscious with a force he could no longer ignore.
He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, leaving muddy prints. He felt like an asshole for not helping Roxy. But she was the one who’d shove a plate of food in front of him then hustle him out the door, almost appearing half-cocked. As if he were interrupting her progress.
“Thanks for filling me in. I’ll check on her soon. I promise.”
Thinking their conversation was over, Zayne got up and cleaned off the workbench. He had to head for the fields to consult with Cody about the mulch.
“I’m not done yet. Roxy isn’t the only person I’m worried about.”
His mom stood with him, pushed in her stool, and tugged at her jeans, messing with them until they covered her boots just the way she wanted. “I can’t get used to how form-fitting the girls wear these things. Good thing I’ve lost weight.”
“Didn’t the doctor…”
Why couldn’t she and Roxy do what they were told on the rare occasion when someone knew more than they did? Their gutsy independence made Zayne’s pride swell at the same time it brought his patience to a rolling boil.
“Oh, hush. I’m not losing any more than my cardiologist is comfortable with. I’m being good. As damn boring as that is.” She adjusted the collar of her candy apple red button-down shirt, re-establishing her authority.
“So what did you really come to tell me?” Zayne asked.
He put his arm around her and ushered her down the aisle of the greenhouse toward the door, wishing he could freeze moments like this when she was his best friend as well as his mother. A bond he’d never had with his dad.
Not giving him a clue whether she had good or bad news, she leaned her head back and kissed his cheek.
“That Deena Mettles stopped in the boutique today with her stylist.”
“That’s fantastic!” Zayne’s heart ricocheted off his chest wall like a racquetball, hitting hard with the joy of anticipating a break in fortune for Roxy’s designs. “How did it go? Did they buy anything?”
“They bought quite a few things and want to work with Roxy on signature pieces for Deena’s upcoming performances.”
“Hot damn.” Roxy was right, Zayne thought. The celebrity market could be a solid kick-off for her designs.
He opened the door and followed his mom to her SUV. “Have you told Roxy? If not, maybe I could tell her.”
Excitement whipped Zayne’s brain into action mode. That would give him a good excuse to stop by her townhouse after she closed the saloon. Maybe he could pick up a bottle of champagne. No. Wait. He’d take the ingredients for a killer Cosmopolitan. She’d love that.
“There’s more you should know,” his mom said, lowering her gaze from Zayne’s face to the ground.
That was never a good sign.
Joy left his court fast. He didn’t like the hesitant tone she’d taken on. But he really didn’t like her tucking her hair behind her ears. She only did that before saying something she didn’t want to say but knew she had to.
A million thoughts plowed through his head, anxiety overtaking his excitement, clouding his excitement. Was it his mom’s health? Was Roxy’s big break too late to save Raeve’s plunging financials? Was Roxy not handling the Neon Cowboy to his mom’s specifications?
Kat gave her hair an extra tug, pulling it tighter behind her ear. “Deena wasn’t alone when she came into Raeve. Jack Baudlin accompanied her.”
“Yeah. Okay. I told you that’s how we met Deena. She and Jack were having breakfast at the Pancake Pantry.”
This additional news, on its own, didn’t bother Zayne. But there had to be more or his mom wouldn’t be treading water as if she were afraid of catching the next wave. Something had rattled her pretty good to have her coming all the way out to the farm mid-day, leaving Raeve and her opinions at the supply store, plus the double tucking of her hair. Zayne’s stomach bucked, apprehension twisting each muscle.
“Jack said something that at first I thought was just a little bizarre. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more it hasn’t settled on a deeper level.”
As she leaned against the door of her SUV, his mom pushed dirt around with the toe of her red suede boot. “He asked how you were doing preparing for the contest. I said you were working your ass off and making tremendous progress.”
“Well thanks for the brave front.” A damn lie at this point, but Zayne still hoped to make good on it.
“Then what did he say?” Zayne didn’t like where this was heading. The guy had way too much interest in the contest.
“He asked me if you got to the saloon much on account of working late in the fields. He thought it was a shame that a fine girl like Roxy was closing up the place alone.”
“How would he know she’s alone? And what about Jules and Cody? They’re back in the kitchen cleaning up, aren’t they?”
Zayne fumed. Unable to uncoil the knots in his stomach, they migrated to his clenched fists. “I told Roxy to stay away from Jack.
“I also told Cody, Damian, and Roxy they were full of shit that Jack was gay. He’s not gay. He’s after Roxy. That son of a bitch.” Zayne practically spit the words into the dirt.
“Calm down a minute. Let me finish.”
His mom wrapped her hands around his forearm and squeezed.
“There’s more?”
Nothing she did or said would reassure Zayne that only the tomato competition was at stake. The thought of losing Roxy sent spears of furry and pain hurtling against his chest.
“Jack also indicated he and his dad were about to make a major break through with the Brandywine. Something about learning the lessons of their past errors.”
She swatted at a fly buzzing her face. “Oh, hell. You know my tomato knowledge is el zilcho. It may be nothing. But I thought you should know. The important thing is that you keep tabs on Roxy. I really took a dislikin’ to that part of Jack’s conversation. To hell with our tomatoes.”
Zayne couldn’t respond. His mom had thwacked him hard with her information. His breathing was coming out in rough spasms. His lungs felt like they were either weighted down with water or deprived of oxygen and shriveling up. He wanted to kick a tire or punch something. Neither of which she’d approve.
Misplaced aggression wasn
’t Kat McDonald’s thing. Going straight to the source of irritation and giving it a good butt chewing was.
“I think it’s about time I paid our neighbors a visit,” Zayne said. His jaw clenched so tight he could hardly force the air through his teeth to formulate words.
“Probably not a bad idea. But remember to use your mother’s wits and not your father’s temper.”
His mom kissed his cheek then pulled him toward her, holding him like she’d done when he was a boy in need of a hug before tackling the world.
“You know me, Mom. Nothing but sweet talk.”
If his wily smile didn’t give him away, Zayne thought, then his full-of-shit tone probably did.
“Oh I know you, son. That’s why I’m warning you. Think before you do something you’re not proud of later.”
She got into her truck and started the engine. Lowering her window, she said, “And don’t forget our priorities. Roxy first. Then the Baudlins. Try to fit the tomatoes in there somewhere.”
“Our priorities…that was real subtle, Mom.”
“I thought so,” she said followed by a yeah-whatever you-know-I-got-ya laugh. “I love that girl too, you know.”
His mom rolled up her window and drove away, leaving Zayne in a cloud of dust and pent up frustration. Thank God he had her straightforward shooting and insatiable curiosity. He’d spent so much time with his nose buried in his tomatoes, the rest of his world was growing without him and not in the direction he hoped.
He kicked his boots against the ground, his gut about to bust at the seams like an overripe tomato.
It would be most interesting to see how the Baudlins handled losing. And they were going to lose. Zayne might not know enough to beat them at tomatoes, but he knew exactly what he had to do to make sure they didn’t win Roxy.
Just like they’d more than likely learned from his father’s errors how to score big with the Brandywines, the Baudlins were about to learn the errors they’d made by stepping-in on what was Zayne’s.
Maybe Zayne hadn’t lost that blasted tomato card. Maybe it had been taken from him. Realization kicked Zayne hard. Anger coursed through his veins.
His mom was right. He could kill with kindness. But at times, he preferred his dad’s method of calculated, strategic force.
Roxy was worth the risks.
Chapter Twenty-One
Who the hell would be ringing her doorbell at this hour? In the middle of the work week?
Roxy sat up in her bed. Using the back of her hands, she shielded her eyes from the way-too-cheery sunlight streaming through the French doors of her balcony.
She rubbed away the fog of her dreams. Damn if it wasn’t a good one too, cut short at a point where Zayne was about to show her an alternative use for a hayloft.
She reached for her clock. Holding its cool crystal edges against the tip of her nose, she tried to read the numbers without her glasses. Finally able to match the short hand with the long one, she blinked back disbelief. Seven A.M.
Where were Jules and Audrey when she needed them most? Oh, yeah. Somewhere in their late twenties, they’d jumped on the cardio bandwagon and started jogging four mornings a week.
Despite the insane reality she’d be turning thirty-five the end of October, Roxy, on the other hand, wasn’t too worried about cardio fitness. To remain healthy, she stayed covered-up under her down comforter the entire hour it took Jules and Audrey to run three miles. Taking occasional sips from the water bottle on her nightstand, Roxy also stayed well-hydrated during her work-in.
Besides, her heart had been pumping at full capacity for years, pushed to its max to find its own self-worth. Instead of her parents showing her the ropes and being her anchor, she’d relied on her nannies as personal life trainers. She’d never had a high enough priority code to make it into her parent’s day-planners, except for show and tell at their high-society soirees.
Hearing the doorbell chime again, Roxy pushed back her covers, shoved her feet into her slippers and reached for her robe draped across the end of the bed.
Dipstick and Darling were at her heels, yawning and stretching their pudgy bodies, still too relaxed to bark. They trotted behind her, pawing at her feet then rolling over begging her to rub their bellies. Stopping twice to give-in to their requests, she made her way across the room to the intercom.
“Good morning,” she spoke into the speaker, deciding to be polite, despite her guttural desire to snap at the idiot pushing the bell. It had to be someone she didn’t know. Anyone she cared about knew her current schedule and wouldn’t dare wake her after she’d been in bed a measly three hours.
“Roxy? Is that you, darling?”
It couldn’t be. No. Roxy had to be dreaming. Talk about recurring nightmares. Mom? Surely not. Had she mistaken Roxy’s townhouse for a day-spa?
“Mom?”
Roxy knew she should have gotten the total home security package with the video monitors as well as the intercom and keyless entry features. Not that she’d have believed the picture screen if it showed her Bergdorf-blonde mother’s silicone silhouette.
“Could you come down right away, Sweetie? The driver’s ready to bring-in my luggage.”
Her luggage? How much luggage? Although Roxy wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Her mother never traveled light. Even if she had fifteen bags, probably the new Hermes line since it was the most recent out, the number of pieces wouldn’t tell Roxy the duration of her mother’s stay.
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Breathe, Roxy coaxed herself. It’s easy. You can do it. Inhale. That’s it. Nice and easy. Count to three. Slowly. Ahhh. Now exhale. You got it. Let it all out. Feel the stress leaving your body.
She snagged a quick peak at herself in her wardrobe mirror. Ouch. The stress was still there. To push that much anxiety out of her system, she’d have to hyperventilate.
This See Jane Stressed look wasn’t working for Roxy at all. Puffy eyes, accented by bags the size of Bloomingdale’s large brown shopping sacks, squinted back at her. She’d been too tired after closing the saloon and finishing her sketches to figure out where she’d left her cucumber sleep mask. Since she couldn’t afford the peels her mother de-toxed with as a professional vocation, an uneven skin tone complimented the dark circles. To accessorize the ensemble, Roxy had hair in desperate need of a color and cut.
The intercom’s insistent buzz sounded again. “Honey, I hope you’re not wearing that hideous pink robe. It’s sooo not becoming on you.”
Roxy wasn’t. But rebellion wouldn’t take a full thirty seconds. She grabbed the fuzzy, pilled beast out of her closet and exchanged it for the lilac satin one she’d had on.
“C’mere, Babies. I know you’re frightened of the Wicked Witch of the West.” Taking her time, Roxy loved on Dipstick and Darling, petting their wiggling fannies. She pitied them for the trauma they were about to endure for God knew how many days. “Mommy’s so sorry to have to do this to you. Maybe I can find a good pet therapist when the witch is gone, one that treats owners too.”
On their way down the stairs, the intercom went off two additional times. Knowing that no matter what she said it wouldn’t be right, Roxy ignored the calls, slowing her pace with each obnoxious buzz.
She prayed Jules and Audrey wouldn’t be back from their run until after she got her mother and half her closet into the townhouse. If her friends saw Lily Vaughn on the front porch, they’d keep running, pulling their ball caps low over their foreheads to keep from being recognized. Then they’d book a hotel and hire Roxy’s mom’s driver to go back to fetch their clothes.
Taking one more deep breath, Roxy smoothed her bed-head locks into a casually screwed-up up-do. She dug around in the pockets of her robe until she found a clip to secure the tangles to her head. Maybe with her hair up, her mom wouldn’t notice the split ends and fading color.
Who was she kidding? Her mother would instantaneously spot her external travesties. It was her daughter’s life struggles Lily Vaughn missed. Roxy
had never been important enough to warrant internal scrutiny.
Why me? Why now?
Dipping from the bottom of her well of tolerance, Roxy stood tall and opened the door. She wasn’t sure if the sun or the canary yellow jewels dripping from her mother’s neck blinded her.
“Mom. What a surprise.”
She couldn’t get a good look at her because of the glare. Shit. She’d forgotten to grab a pair of sunglasses.
“You should have told me you were fixin’ to visit.”
“I knew it.” Her mother fanned herself with a Chanel scarf. “I told the girls Monday at Tavern on the Green I’d be mortified if you had so much as a hint of a southern drawl. And I am, darling, mortified.”
She placed one, high-carat clad hand across her forehead as if she were about to faint. “Just give me a second to release these negative feelings.”
Oh. There’d be plenty of time for negative feelings release, Roxy thought. She could bet her uptight Yankee ass on it.
“All right. I think I’ve reached a happier place now. Shall we have the driver get my things? Just show him to my suite, please. You’ve exhausted me.” With a tsk tsk of her hands, her mother excused herself past Roxy and into her home.
The driver, surrounded by piles of bags, looked at Roxy, waiting for direction. He had more empathy etched into the age lines of his face than Roxy had money in her wallet for the tip he deserved.
“I’ll help you,” Roxy said, taking a large, white, ostrich leather duffel and matching garment bag.
Why in the hell would you buy white luggage? Only if you had more money than God and nobody to spend it on but yourself, Roxy reasoned.
She set the bags she’d grabbed in the entryway hall, then motioned the driver to do the same with the rest of the collection. “Thank you. I’m sure that was a long trip.”
Thinking he’d be on his way after depositing the last bag at her feet, probably running instead of walking back to his limousine, Roxy found herself in an awkward silence as they each looked at the other for guidance.