Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

  “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 help 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.

  Knowing it should be about 6:02, she glanced at her watch. Perfect. Her internal clock still worked. She could still sell her Bulgari if finances got too desperate.

  She limped her way through the boutique, toggling the switches on the hand-made paper lamps lighting each display. Her ankle wasn’t close to the stiff and cramped appendage it was yesterday. Ever the pessimistic optimist, Roxy charged on, hope filling her psyche’s dwindling reserve.

  Maybe she would be ready to dance by Wednesday. If she weren’t, she’d lie and do it anyway. She owed Zayne at least a new bumper, so she really didn’t have much choice. Plus, she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to be held close by that hunk of a man. No matter how hard she tried to ignore his manly-man wholesomeness, his good looks, paired with his irritatingly charming personality, drew her in deeper, frying her resolve to ignore her attraction.

  Once thinking serendipity was over-rated, Zayne had Roxy rethinking coincidental connections. Whether or not she liked the pattern of events leading up to their bizarre pairing, Zayne kept showing up in her life, upsetting her hormonal balance and reinforcing their karmic connection. Either way — ravish him or ignore him — Roxy made good on her commitments. And she’d committed to him…kind of. So consequently, probably should be committed.

  By eight minutes after six, she’d clicked on the last lamp. Normally, she was tending to Dipstick and Darling by now. The damn fall had her two minutes off schedule.

  She poured fresh water for the dogs and fluffed the pillows she’d made for them out of fabric scraps. Having them here with her in the boutique was a blessing — a benefit to being a tenant of a store selling pet food.

  Some days, it was just the three of them holding down the back corner of the supply store. But the days she had customers, Dipstick and Darling were a hit. She sold more canine couture some weeks than she did human apparel. The success of her Canines with Class Collection had a lot to do with her spokes models.

  She still needed a way to attractively display the ID tags, leashes and jewelry she’d created with them in mind. But she sucked at sales and marketing. Outfitting a human or canine body was easy. Encouraging someone to purchase her goods for themselves or their pampered pooch was out of her talent pool. She couldn’t do it. Her efforts wasted time she didn’t have. That part of her brain was a dismal disappointment with or without her father’s reminders she was promo-challenged.

  Manhattan therapists had received a lot of her father’s cash trying to figure out why she couldn’t sell her designs. They’d told Roxy her deficiency had to do with her obsessive drive for perfection, suggesting she feared attempting anything new if success wasn’t a guarantee. Interesting. Moving 886 miles from Manhattan to Nashville to open Raeve must have been nothing more than overcompensation.

  Roxy unloaded her Coach tote, careful when removing her spiral-bound sketchbook not to catch the rings on the bag’s beautiful lining.

  She needed to finish the Buckles Me Baby sketches so she could order the materials to produce them. Provided, of course, she could wade through her supply room maze to discover what she already had in stock.

  Organization — like marketing — wasn’t part of her world. Frankly, to maintain her massive To Do Lists, some things had to give. Disorganization provided a Romper Room for her muse, keeping the creative juices flowing amidst her eclectic clutter.

  The fact the supply area in the rear of Raeve looked like the aftermath of an avalanche was part of something bigger. Her disorderly conduct drove her parents crazy —the very key to its continuance. Plus, her last au pair told her that because she usually found what she was searching for that made her a Certified Rescue Specialist. Kind of a cool designation she’d thought at age 13, and she still got a kick out of the title.

  Roxy placed her empty tote in the spot reserved on the Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired chair next to her design table. Making a mess of supplies was acceptable. Haphazardly abandoning a designer bag on less of a seat would earn her a plastic folding chair in Hell. Some things in life had to be protected.

  Pulling the previous week’s hand-printed receipts off the pin cushion next to the cash register, Roxy sorted the slips by date. Noticing she’d sold nothing for two days, she cringed.

  Open five days a week, Raeve’s hours were technically Tuesday through Saturday from ten to six. But she worked in the boutique on her off days too, primarily to entice the farm store’s patrons who had all seven days and holidays to find what they needed. It wasn’t like she’d turn down a customer if one ventured into her retail space by mistake. Roxy had made more than a few sales on her days off to customers looking for lug nuts. Struggling designers just couldn’t afford to rest when potential customers were close by.

  Not due for her coffee fix and breakfast until 6:42, she had roughly twenty-two minutes to straighten up the shelves ransacked by Saturday’s customers. She should have done it Saturday night before going home, but by the end of the week she’d been too depressed by the hemorrhaging numbers in Raeve’s budget.

  Starting with the T-shirt collection, she picked up her favorite beaded design. The morning sun, filtered through the buildings plate-glass windows, skipped across the tiny crystal facets. She checked a large, hot pink sequin, making sure it remained secure, then refolded the shirt to reveal the torn-out neck she’d scooped dangerously low.

  Manolo Blahnik believed the secret to design was in the cleavage. Granted he referred to toe cleavage. But Roxy had proven it worked as well with the kind she exploited.

  So had all the men she’d dated. Used to talking to the tops of their heads, making her stomach curl, Roxy had decided early in her career to give them something else to focus on while they ogled her and her clients’ D-cups. Proud she filled her own cups instead of relying on silicone, her designs tended to be top heavy. And she liked them that way. Slightly out of whack. Slightly unbalanced. Slightly imperfect.

  Grabbing the next size shirt, she tucked and fussed each piece in the stack until they formed an artistic leaning tower on the display table. They may be a bitch to reassemble, but Roxy refused to use folding boards. She didn’t want military perfection. There was that perfection thing again. She wanted her own flounce and flare, that anything goes, Holly GoLightly attitude. She hoped her customers felt that freedom too when wearing her designs.

  If she only had the cash, she’d shelve the shirts in art deco cubbies. But that seemed to be a ways from reality, unless this Damian friend of Zayne’s knew how to help her build them.

  Asking for help made her queasy, putting the squeeze on her pride. But as she reasoned out her actions, her muscles loos
ened under her ego’s grip. At least she wasn’t seeking her parent’s philanthropy. Instead, she relied on her own intuition and work ethic.

  She straightened up the next sequined pile of baby T’s along with the glitter-dusted variety. Except for her reworked classics’ palette of browns, blacks, grays and white, she’d stuck with just three new color-combos for the summer season.

  At the drawing table, she’d visualized sherbet, dished up in metallic metal bowls. The result — three delicious shades of raspberry, orange and lime — her favorite flavors.

  With twelve minutes left before breakfast, Roxy visualized more than sherbet. The image of a grande, cinnabon-flavored coffee and a recycled paper bag containing scrambled eggs, hash browns, toast and bacon danced in her head. Salivating like Pavlov’s dog, she checked her coat pocket for cash. Cutting breakfast out of her budget was unthinkable, although both her waistline and her wallet would benefit if she’d at least skip the hash browns and bacon.

  After massaging the hunger pangs out of her stomach, she color-coordinated the crushed silk and velvet camis, resorted the skinny jeans by size, and reconnected the satin peasant skirts precariously dangling from their hangers. Why couldn’t people put things back in the same place on the rack or shelf they’d taken them from? Better yet, why couldn’t they purchase what they picked up, making the issue a non-issue?

  She changed the jewelry on the mannequins posed on the tops of the carousel racks, giving her repeat customers — both of them, Kat and one of her friends — a hint at the versatility in her pieces. Moving a gorgeous citrine and turquoise necklace to the only mannequin it hadn’t been on sent a shockwave rippling across Roxy’s reality pool.

  She had to think of something to push her designs out the door. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have the cash to transform her drawings into the fall collections. She needed help. As much as it contradicted her staunch independence, she wasn’t naïve regarding her future without a rocket booster of some sort.

  She’d been hoping to hold off for the rest of May until Jules and Audrey came to visit. Looking for a break from the City, her favorite gal pals since prep school had decided to join her and go Dixie for the summer. They’d know what Raeve needed to get off the ground.