Tightwad (Caldwell Brothers Book 2)

by Colleen Charles

  “I think he’s just a misogynistic creep,” I say, growling as I climb down the ladder. Truth be told, he’s nicer than all of the guys I’ve dated. Combined. My man picker tends to point toward hot as opposed to nice.

  My limbs ache and little beads of sweat pop out on my forehead. Even through my frustration, I have to admit that my boutique looks amazing. The last time I had everything this polished and shiny was opening day. My mind drifts back to grand opening – and how amazing I felt – and it still gives me a rush of adrenaline. This is mine. I look around and smile. For a moment, Reagan fades from my mind, and I grin as pride swells in my chest. I almost tear up underneath the weight of my emotion.

  “How do you think it looks in here?” I ask, turning around and inspecting my shop from every possible angle. Despite the fact that Bailey and I have done this all on our own, the end result is incredible. Normally, I’d ask the other girls who work for me to help out with such a big project, but my stubborn perfectionist streak trumps my desire for help. This way, if things go south, I have only myself to blame.

  “Pretty good,” Bailey says. She yawns, covering her mouth with a pale hand. “I think a little more crepe, maybe some more balloons. Oh! And what are we doing for canapes?”

  Closing my eyes, I count on my fingers. “We have…six cases of Dom Perignon coming in tomorrow,” I say, sighing at the prospect of another long workday. “And then salmon mousse with dill in a puff pastry along with three other apps and a raspberry bombe. I feel like there was something else, don’t you? Are we forgetting something?”

  “I think so,” Bailey says, her forehead creasing as she concentrates. “Oh! We should have something else sweet. Maybe chocolatey.”

  I wipe my hands on my denim-clad thighs and shrug. “There better be time because the clock’s ticking on this event, and there’s no way I can let Nixon down. Not after he trusted me like this.”

  “Too bad you got the wrong brother,” Bailey says with an unladylike snort. “You could have had Reagan back in college, but you passed. Was Nixon ever on the table?”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted him back then,” I mutter, thinking of party animal frat-boy Nixon Caldwell. “But can you believe Reagan? He’s got balls – acting like damned Prince Charming one minute and then mocking me in front of a huge group of men the next. Insinuating I’m a floozy.”

  “Taryn, I don’t know. Don’t you think you’re being…a little too critical?” Bailey makes a face. “I mean, like I said, maybe he really does just have a weird sense of humor.”

  “If by weird, you mean cruel and unusual,” I say. “He made no fewer than four dance-related puns during the meeting. And it only lasted a couple of hours!”

  Bailey laughs, then covers her mouth and gives me a guilty look. “I’m sorry, but you have to admit, it is kind of funny. The dance references I mean. He’s clever if nothing else.”

  “I fail to see the humor in them,” I say under my breath. “If anything, I think he just wanted to watch me squirm. Why do what he did and then make me suffer for it? It’s like he’s got some kind of warped sense of giving.” I shake my head, still embarrassed, angry, and unwilling to let it go. “He made me sound like a ninny without a brain or business sense. Bails, it was so awful. Like everything I’ve worked for and achieved is totally nothing because I made my seed money dancing in a perfectly respectable cabaret, sans nudity.”

  “I doubt he meant it that way,” Bailey says, not backing down. “He was probably trying to make jokes, you know, get you to lighten up. Maybe he feels bad. Or maybe he thinks he took advantage of you, and he was trying to show you that he’s sorry. Hell, maybe he’s embarrassed by it all. Remember back in grade school when a boy pulled your pigtails or kicked rocks at you in the playground? Because he liked you, he behaved badly.”

  “That makes no sense,” I retort. “He was trying to humiliate me, plain and simple. Men. They’re always so very eager to shit all over a woman’s accomplishments.”

  “And besides, who cares if you made the money dancing,” Bailey says. “It’s Vegas, Taryn. People have done a lot worse for a lot less than you have. Besides, you kept your top on. How many people can you say that about in Sin City?”

  “Yeah, and if my family knew about that, they’d still shit enough bricks to build a new casino,” I say, thinking of my family back in South Dakota. As much as I love them, they’re all conservative. If anyone ever found out that I’d danced and sang in a corset and hose all over the cabaret stage at the Mona Lisa, they’d never look at me the same way again. Especially, my dad. I still can’t believe Father O’Hara never called me out when he slunk back home. I’d sweated over that for months.

  “Taryn, you should be very proud of yourself and what you’ve accomplished all on your own,” Bailey says softly. “Not every woman can start a new life in a strange city and make it for herself. You’re an inspiration. And not just to me.”

  I snort as I walk into my tiny office and grab the phone, not willing to let go of my self-righteous indignation just yet. Dialing the caterer, I lean against my desk and reach for a bottle of water. I’m so exhausted that I feel like collapsing to the floor. The marble floors of my boutique start to look more comfortable than Sleeping Beauty’s feather mattress.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Taryn Mitchell,” I say into the phone. “I’m calling to ask about adding more food to my order.”

  Just as the caterer is about to reply, the door chime dings.

  “We’re closed to prepare for a special event,” Bailey calls out. “We won’t be open until tomorrow.”

  A masculine chuckle is the only response. It better not be Dante, I think, ready to spit tacks at his head. If he has the nerve to step inside my shop one more time, I’m going to punch his lights out.

  After ordering a chocolate dessert from the caterer, I hang up and take another drink. All’s quiet out front. Too quiet.

  “Bailey,” I call again. “What is it?”

  “Uh, Taryn?” Bailey answers, her voice shaking with nerves… or maybe laughter? “I think you’re going to want to handle this yourself.”

  As I step through my door, I gasp and wobble a bit. Reagan stands there in all his designer suit clad, cocky lawyer glory. He steps closer, smirking. Looming.

  Annoying the ever-loving fuck out of me with just his mere existence.

  “You need any help with the decorations?” Reagan looks around and nods his approval. As if I need it. What the hell is he doing here? Does he need to debase me some more? “Looks good.”

  “No,” I snap. “We’re about done. If you’d shown up about three hours earlier, that would have been good.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know that I was needed.” Reagan grins, and I feel my resolve weaken. He really is gorgeous – like a male model with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a tall, lean figure. I’d love to see if he’s as chiseled underneath his suit as he is outside of it.

  “Forget it,” I mumble. “I’m just exhausted. I’ve had a really long day.”

  “I hope you’re not too tired because I was hoping you’d do me the honor of joining me for dinner.”

  I narrow my eyes, sensing a trick. “Why?”

  Bailey covers her mouth, but she’s not able to hide the sound of her giggle. I shoot her a death glare. Even if I asked her for it, she’d deny me any help getting out of this situation. She’s always chiding me that I don’t get out enough.

  Reagan chuckles at Bailey’s obvious glee. The sound grates on my nerves. “I don’t see what’s so funny about asking you to dinner. After all, we’re doing business together. And I don’t know how things are done in Vegas, but in New York, I’ve found that legalese is best discussed over a few glasses of wine and a nice steak. Helps everyone understand the common strategy.”

  “You don’t need my help,” I say, wiping my damp forehead with the back of my hand. I know I shouldn’t care, but it kills me that Reagan came striding into my boutique when I look like crap. I
haven’t looked in a mirror, but I can tell that my sweaty hair and grimy face aren’t exactly showing me off to any advantage.

  “You’re right, I don’t need your help,” Reagan says. “But I was hoping you’d take an active interest in this case. I know it’s very high stakes for you. And sometimes, I’ve found that becoming familiar with the material helps my clients feel more comfortable when the time comes when and if we’re forced to go to court.” He raises an anticipatory eyebrow. I should have known he’s only here on business, not pleasure.

  “I guess.” Every word that comes out of my mouth sounds lamer than I intend. Frowning, I turn around and bend over. There’s still crepe and tissue and deflated balloons everywhere, and I want to get all of this cleaned up before tomorrow.

  “You guess?” Reagan asks and a hot burst of anger flares in my chest. “Nixon told me you were very devoted to this boutique. Was he wrong?”

  I sigh and whirl around, putting my hands on my hips. “Look, I’m exhausted right now,” I say, pointing a finger at his chest and wishing I could push it into his skin hard enough to leave a mark. “I’ve been here for almost twelve hours, with no break, getting things ready for a benefit. You know, the one for your brother,” I rail at him, each syllable increasing in tone and pitch. “So, excuse me if I’m not exactly at my most charming. I guess I can’t turn it off and on like some other people I know.”

  Reagan grins at my obvious ire, and I want to snake my hand out and slap it right off his smug face. There’s nothing worse than letting a man know he’s just gotten the upper hand with you by snapping at him. “I believe I have seen you at your most charming, and yes, you’re correct – this is not it.”

  Bailey gasps, and I turn on her, glaring daggers.

  “Bailey, why don’t you start cleaning some of this up,” I say, gesturing toward the leftover decorations on the ground. “I could really use your help.”

  She scampers off, probably worried about the fallout of this explosive conversation.

  “So, you want me to come to dinner to talk about the case? Have there been any developments? Anything I should know about?”

  “Yes, we should discuss the Dante problem,” Reagan says. “No offense intended, but there’s a lot of small print in that contract. You’re definitely going to want a second pair of eyes. I’ve asked my team in New York to send over a briefing document for all of Nixon’s business partners, but it might be a little difficult to understand for someone with limited experience in the finer points of the law.”

  I hate to admit it, but he’s right. And something about the way he’s talking makes me think that maybe he feels a tiny bit of guilt for what happened at the meeting. Even though he’s still cocksure and arrogant, he’s not talking down to me right now. He’s talking to me like an equal, like someone he respects.

  “If we’re going to find any legal recourse against Dante, now would be the time,” Reagan says. “And this gives us the option of going over things together and deciding the best plan. As a team.”

  I narrow my eyes. My stomach seems to say yes before I can even find the words – it grumbles because it’s late in the day, and I’ve only eaten a small salad. Besides, what harm can one little dinner do in the grander scheme of my life? It’s just one meal…and we’ll be in public, so there’s no chance of me jumping his bones. I blush, willing the heat to stand down, thinking of Reagan sucking on my clit until I come so hard stars erupt before my eyes.

  Even in Vegas, I wouldn’t be able to get away with touching him at the table. I bite my lip. At least, not when it’s still light outside.

  And if he starts to act condescending again, he can go fuck himself.

  I can afford my own damn lawyer.

  “Well?” Reagan raises an eyebrow, waiting for my answer like he doesn’t care which way it falls. I hate how he already knows I’ve decided to go.

  “Yes,” I say. Behind Reagan’s back, Bailey gives me a surprised look and then a thumbs up.

  “Excellent,” Reagan says as his face spreads into a devastating grin. I’ll have to watch myself with him. He could become an addiction that I don’t want or need. “Well, then. Shall we?”

  “Yes,” I mutter, hoping I can hold it together. “Yes, we shall.”

  Chapter Seven

  Reagan

  I can’t believe Taryn agrees to dinner, but she does. I feel like I’m floating as I walk out of Strict Nécessaire, this beautiful woman at my side. My hand itches to grab hers, but with the way she’s been so pissy at my sense of humor, I know she’d just snatch it away. The sunny Las Vegas weather lifts my spirits, and soon, Taryn and I reach La Casa Mirabelle, one of the most exclusive restaurants in town, courtesy of my overachieving brother.

  “So…” I glance sidelong at my gorgeous companion. I can’t believe how good it feels having her next to me. How right. “How are you feeling?”

  She shoots me a look, like she’s trying to gauge if I actually care or not. “Not great,” she says. “I mean, I feel good about the benefit show. How much did Nixon tell you?”

  “Not much.”

  “I bet you didn’t even ask,” she says, grinning in a way that makes me feel both guilty and aroused. It’s the first real smile I’ve pulled out of her today, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “I didn’t,” I admit. “But you can tell me all about it. Let’s make sure we have appetizers and dessert so we have enough time.”

  “I thought this dinner was needed to talk about Dante?” Taryn shoots back, losing her happy look. “Or did you have ulterior motives?” She looks away, her cheeks beginning to burn red.

  I know what she’s thinking, and I might as well address the elephant in the room.

  “No ulterior motives, Taryn. Last night was beautiful and I don’t regret it, but I don’t expect anything from you.”

  That seems to both set her mind at ease and disappoint her at the same time. Interesting. But for now, it feels safer to stay on a neutral topic.

  “Now tell me about this benefit.”

  She sighs. “It’s for Helping Hands & Hearts. It’s the first time Nixon’s done something like this before, but he’s really excited. He put me in charge of designing Strict Nécessaire for a fashion show preview, and it’s been a ton of fun. Bailey and I have been working all day, but I think it looks good. I should go back after dinner, though. I need to make sure everything is perfect. I don’t want any detail overlooked. It’s just how I roll.”

  As Taryn talks, it strikes me how beautiful she looks when she’s feeling so passionate about something. As much as it kills me to admit it, I’m reminded of how she escaped the town car last night – there was that same flash and spark in her eyes.

  “I can tell you’re really excited,” I say as we approach the hostess stand. Normally, you need a reservation weeks in advance, but it helps when your brother owns the casino. “Your store looked great, by the way.”

  Taryn yawns, barely concealing her wide mouth behind her hand. “Sorry,” she says, giving me a guilty look. “I’m exhausted. I think I got like, four hours of sleep last night. And I don’t see much more in my future. At least not until the benefit’s over.”

  “Yeah. Staying out dancing all night really does that to a person?”

  “You’re the worst,” Taryn groans before gently swatting me on the arm. “I did no such thing. I was up all night in my condo, planning for the benefit.”

  I give her a shoulder check. “I’m kidding. I know it wasn’t even midnight when Cruz dropped you off at your condo. I wish you would have waited so I could see you safely inside.”

  Taryn doesn’t reply.

  “Hey…” I stop dead in my tracks. “Taryn, come on. I’m only joking. I know I have a strange sense of humor, but that’s always been my thing. When Nixon Caldwell is your older brother, you have to struggle for face time with your parents. I learned to compensate by cracking jokes all the time. At least my dad appreciated it.”

  Taryn narrows her green eyes
as if she thinks I’m blowing smoke straight up her ass. “You do have an odd sense of humor.” Tapping her chin with one finger, she gives me a curious look. “You know, I think some people would interpret your sense of humor as a little over the top. Like teasing crossing the line into offensive.”

  “I didn’t mean it in that way,” I say, wanting nothing more than to defend myself. I want that censuring expression off her face. More than that, I want her to truly understand me. As a man. What makes me tick. I wonder if she even wants to know. “Really, I was just trying to make you laugh.”

  “Hmm.” She clearly doesn’t believe me.

  “Hey. Come on, I was kidding.”

  “Okay.” She draws out the syllables and plants her hands on her hips like she really means business. “Sorry to have it confused.”

  I force a shrug, willing away the feeling that I’ve fucked it all up before it even really began. It’s strange. I’ve never had a problem with people finding me distasteful before. I wouldn’t have climbed to the top of the legal ladder in NYC if I was an equal opportunity offender.

  I can’t stand the fact that Taryn doesn’t understand my sense of humor, one of the qualities people usually admire most about me. Her nostrils flare, and I think she’s about to lash into me again, but instead, she sighs and rubs her stomach.

  “I’m weak with hunger,” she teases as her belly rumbles again.

  I laugh at her, but I’m becoming even more determined to feed her before she falls down. In distressed jeans and a black top, she looks none the worse for wear. She’s still gorgeous, still makes my heart skip a beat. But I can tell she’s exhausted. There are panda circles under her eyes, and those green orbs don’t flash as much fire as they normally do.

  “This way, please,” the hostess says, grabbing leather bound menus, and leading the way.

  “Thanks,” Taryn says as she’s seated and a napkin is dropped into her lap. I’m almost surprised she let me get away with this. She seems like the kind of woman who’d be offended by the gesture of an expensive meal. Like she wants to be the one in charge and not the one receiving the attention of others. At least that was my impression last night. But then again, I’m starting to realize that there’s a lot about Taryn that I assumed but really don’t know.