Tightwad (Caldwell Brothers Book 2)

by Colleen Charles

  “Welcome to La Casa Mirabelle,” a uniformed server says, bowing low at the waist. “Something to drink?”

  After picking a bottle from the wine list, I glance around the décor of the restaurant. Nixon’s outdone himself, and I’m impressed. The place is luxurious yet understated, especially for Vegas.

  “What a lovely ambiance,” Taryn says on a giant yawn. “God, I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall asleep and face plant in the crème brulee.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, reassuring her. “Wine is great for staying awake.”

  Taryn flushes – at least, I think she does. It’s hard to tell in the dim lights of the restaurant. We hold eye contact for a long time before she pulls her menu close and starts rifling through, making small sounds under her breath.

  “So,” Taryn says. “Are you in town for long?”

  “As long as Nixon needs me.”

  She stifles a laugh, covering her mouth with a delicate hand.

  “What? What’s so funny about that? Can’t fathom the idea of a New Yorker in Vegas for more than a raucous weekend?”

  Taryn shakes her head. “No. It’s just…your names. What were your parents thinking?”

  “They were very patriotic. My mom loved America and all her presidents. So, you hate my name? Some say Ronald Reagan is the best president in recent history. I can be just as charming as my namesake.”

  Taryn shakes her head again, blushing. “No,” she says after a long pause. “No. I don’t hate your name. Your mom was certainly original.”

  We lock eyes, and a shiver of lust crawls through my body. I want her again, right on the table. I could easily pull her legs open and have her as the first course. Her green eyes are bare of makeup, and her chestnut hair is pulled back in a messy bun, but I still want to pull her close and kiss her until she stops being irritated with me.

  When the server arrives to deliver our vintage Syrah, Taryn orders a rare leg of lamb and I pick a filet. Taryn gazes at me as soon as we’re alone. Her eyes pierce through to my soul, and for a single heartbeat, I see some crazy image of a home and a family.

  My own.

  “I’d like to see you out on the town again,” I offer. “Especially if it involves more dancing. You’re really talented.”

  Taryn nibbles on her full lower lip. “I was tipsy. And before, well…” She trails off. “Never mind, it’s not really important why.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “I’m a trained dancer in spite of what anyone may say or think. Sixteen years of formal lessons. You probably don’t remember, but I was a musical theater major in college. But even though I still have a passion for it, I really just danced and sang in a sexy but classy cabaret performance at the Mona Lisa to make money to buy my shop.”

  “That must have been a sight.” I grin, not letting on that I know all about it. “And I do remember you being in plays in college. It makes me reminisce about the old days, back at UNLV.”

  Taryn sighs as she fiddles with her fork. My gaze is immediately drawn to the elegance of her fingers. God, I wish they were traveling down the expanse of my chest and then…lower.

  I wonder if she’s still angry with me from earlier – she’s incredibly hard to read. Part of me thinks she hates me. But I can’t deny the look in her eyes. It’s a look I’m not used to seeing from women, especially not from women as beautiful as Taryn. Most stunning women wear their lust or their manipulation on their sleeve but never their heart.

  “Yeah, well…” She hesitates, chewing on her lip and I see a flash of dainty, white teeth. I wish she wouldn’t keep drawing attention to her mouth. It’s got me all hot and bothered imagining the things she could do with it. Do to me. I drain the contents of my wine glass. “Things have changed a lot since then. I’m a different woman.”

  “I’d like to think I’m different, too,” I say, leaning close. For some reason, I can’t stop myself from getting physical at every opportunity. “I mean, college was years ago.”

  “Don’t say that,” Taryn snaps. Jesus, when will I stop hitting every nerve? “It makes me feel like I should be farther along in life than I am right now. Like I’m old and useless.”

  I can’t help it – I suppress a chuckle.

  Taryn glares. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I just pictured you with little old lady glasses and a bag full of knitting.”

  For a moment, I think Taryn’s about to snap at me again, but to my relief, she breaks into laughter, too. She laughs so hard that tears prick her eyes, making them a deep emerald shade. I could lose myself in those eyes.

  “That’s about how I feel most days,” Taryn says, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. “At least, when I get home from Strict Nécessaire. If I thought it would be a best seller, I’d knit a dozen sweaters. I already have the cat, so I’m all set.”

  “I know how you feel,” I say, shaking my head. “When I first got out of law school, twelve-hour days were the norm for me. It was so bad, and everything was so tense that I couldn’t even sleep when I finished working for the day. So, the other junior partners and I used to go down to bars and drink until we passed out. Then we’d get home, sleep for two or three hours before getting up and going right back to the office. I’m surprised I didn’t kill myself.”

  “Damn,” Taryn says. “Actually, that sounds like my first year getting the store up and running. But I doubt that you’d be interested in that.”

  “God, I was hungry.” Taryn moans before taking another bite of French bread dipped in olive oil. “This is heaven. So, what did you want to talk about? Dante, right?”

  I can tell just from watching Taryn’s face that the mere act of saying his name brings her down. She can join the club. I can’t think of a single person on this earth who actually likes the asshole. When his mother died, he lost his only fan.

  I pull some papers from my bag and pass them over. “I’ve highlighted everything that needs a second look, so just take a moment and glance over these documents.” I hand her my card. “And call me if you need any clarification, I know that’s a lot of legal jargon.”

  Taryn nods, takes the folder, and a frown creases her forehead. “Why are you doing this, exactly?”

  As I explain about helping Nixon, the server brings our entrees. Taryn and I fall silent as we cut into our meals, chewing, sipping, and casting lingering glances at each other. It’s the best steak I’ve had in ages, but that’s because of the company, even though the food is stellar.

  “No,” Taryn says. “I didn’t mean why are you helping your brother. I meant why are you helping me?”

  Because you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t stay away from you. I’m starting to think of you in a different way. Like my wife and the mother of my children. You’re making me want to stay.

  But of course, I’d never admit to such musings. Instead, I shrug and let the question bounce off me. “Well, you’re in business with Nixon, and that obligates me to help you, too. And the others,” I add, a little too quickly.

  If Taryn caught my slip, she doesn’t show it. “That explains it. It’s really nice of you to leave everything in NYC behind to rush out here.”

  “I try to be a nice guy.” I glance at her empty plate. I love a woman who can relish a good meal instead of picking at lettuce leaves. “You want anything else?”

  Taryn grabs the dessert menu and peers down. I try to signal the server, but he merely nods before dashing off into the kitchen. So much for five-star service.

  A few seconds later, cheers and whoops fill the restaurant. Taryn’s eyes snap up, and she glances around to find the hubbub.

  “Can’t go anywhere in Vegas without some crazy bachelor party interrupting everything that’s calm and classy,” she says, sipping her wine.

  The sounds grow louder and louder, and I crane my neck, glancing about as I wonder if I should tell Nixon about it. High-end diners don’t like this kind of crap when they’re
spending a Benjamin for their meal. The servers are all in one big bunch, singing, and clapping. One of them is wheeling a big ass cake with sparklers.

  “It’s some kid’s birthday,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “God, you wouldn’t think that people would take a kid here for a celebration. This isn’t really a…child appropriate venue.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s Vegas,” Taryn says, brushing off the spectacle. “You’d be surprised what people try to get away with. I remember a couple of years ago, I was closing up shop and a bunch of people got thrown out of the Penthouse Club down the street. It was because they’d tried to bring a seven-year-old kid inside. Who does that?”

  “Lucky kid.” I grin. “I probably would have been game to see my first naked woman at seven. Well…maybe not seven, but probably by ten, I’d have been all over it. Luckily, my dad kept all of us boys on a pretty short leash after my mom died.”

  “I’m having a hard time imagining you at ten,” she says, swirling her wine around in her glass. “What type of woman were you looking to see…naked?”

  “Oh, you know – blonde, fake tan, big tits.” I shake my head. “Not my type at all anymore. That’s strictly the stuff of schoolboy fantasies before a man discovers that it’s what’s underneath all that skin that really matters.”

  She looks pleased. I’ve finally said something that doesn’t piss her off.

  It’s my first win, and I’ll take it.

  Relish it.

  I finish my wine off. “Want another bottle?” I’d do anything to keep her here longer.

  “I should really get back to the store,” Taryn says. “We’re not quite–”

  The commotion with the servers and cake escalates to epic proportions, and I feel like I’m smack dab in the middle of one of those huge Broadway musical numbers that Taryn lusts after, and I’m feeling irritated.

  For once, Taryn and I are connecting in a special way. She’s letting her guard down, allowing me more intimate access to her soul, and this spectacle kills the ambiance. I hadn’t pegged my brother as the flaming birthday cake kind of guy.

  “Happy, happy birthday! From all of us to you! We wish it was our birthday so we could party, too! Hey!”

  I look up and groan. The servers stride closer and closer. To my surprise, they stop right at the side of our table, singing at the top of their lungs.

  “May all of your happy, happy birthday dreams come true, happy, happy day!”

  Looking up at Taryn, I see her stare at the servers in utter shock. Oblivious to her discomfort, one of the servers reaches for the cake and slides it in front of Taryn.

  “Happy birthday! Make a wish, young lady!”

  The whole restaurant claps as the servers fall into a blessed silence. Now, the only thing I can hear is the sparkler on top of Taryn’s cake crackling and fizzing.

  Taryn looks up at the server and frowns, her lovely forehead creasing with the effort. When she speaks, her deadpan voice takes all the wind out of everyone’s sails.

  “It’s not my birthday.”

  Chapter Eight

  Taryn

  Reagan bursts out laughing, while the servers look like I just told them to fuck their birthday celebration.

  “Sorry.” I look down at the cake again, searching for a name. “Did you mix me up with someone else?”

  The servers look at each other, clearly dumbfounded.

  “We’re so sorry, miss,” one of them says, stepping forward and bowing his head. He looks at the others. “Is it…Tara?”

  “It’s Taryn.” I’m tired and annoyed and embarrassed. Every diner in this high-class restaurant stares, but I plaster on a smile. “But thanks for the cake.”

  The servers glance at each other. Before they can wheel the tray away, I reach for the sweet goodness and plop it in front of me.

  “Uh, yeah,” a server says. “Enjoy that. It’s on the house.”

  “It better be,” Reagan growls. “Another bottle of wine, please.” He gestures to our empty bottle, and they skitter away in a group. The silent restaurant slowly comes back to life, and soon my ears are filled with the sounds of chatter and gossip.

  “Want some cake?” I hold the cake out to Reagan and smile. “This place is known for their desserts. I’m sure it’s handcrafted by the pastry chef. Moist and delicious.”

  God, did I really just say that?

  He seems not to notice as he stares at the intricate icing. “You take it.” He leans back in his chair and rubs his stomach. “But I’ll tell you, after that faux pas, I really need another drink.”

  “Lawyers.” I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky. You can probably keep a bottle of bourbon in your desk for when things get tough, but I’m facing clients most of the day. There’s never time for a nip of the liquid courage.”

  “I did notice a few bottles of champagne in your boutique,” Reagan says with a smirk. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never sampled the goods after a particularly bad customer interaction? I can’t imagine all of your rich and entitled customers are easy to deal with.”

  Busted.

  “Those are for customers only,” I argue. He’s hitting too close to home, and I’m wondering how he understands me so well after only a few hours spent getting to know each other.

  “I bet,” Reagan says, chuckling. I admire the way his blue eyes sparkle when he laughs. I’d love to see more of it. I’d love to see more of him. “I bet you never tap into that, not at all.”

  “Not very often,” I say in a rush to defend myself and my boutique-owning honor. “And in my defense – never when a customer is around.”

  The sommelier brings the second bottle of wine to the table and Reagan makes a show of accepting it. The deep, fruity flavor of the wine doesn’t mix with the cake, so I wind up setting my fork down and swirling my glass in my hand.

  “On second thought, this might be a better dessert.” As I take another sip, I feel some of the exhaustion drip away from my body. It’s amazing how a little good quality wine can be a salve for almost anything. “God, I can’t wait to get home and fall into bed.”

  Reagan raises an eyebrow. “Lucky bed.”

  I bite my lip and take a long swallow. “Not so lucky. I can’t even remember the last time I remembered to wash my face before crashing. I’m lucky my skin is very forgiving.”

  He smiles. “Ah, the struggles of working in Las Vegas. Trust me, some of the women in New York are workaholics as well. They even get their makeup tattooed on their faces just so they can save time in the mornings. We had an entire water cooler discussion about it one day with the female attorneys at my firm.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I’m sure that’s a thing here, too. As long as I look professional, I don’t really care. I’ve never been one for a full face of heavy makeup. I had to do that every single time I performed, and when you count up all my shows over the years, it’s a pretty large number. I felt like I had to invest in cold cream to scrape it all off.”

  We fall into a comfortable silence. It makes me think…is Reagan really the man I saw in the meeting? Is he like a well-dressed Jekyll and Hyde? Or is the wine just making me feel much more forgiving?

  I can’t deny that Reagan looks even better than usual in the dim lights of La Casa Mirabelle. But what’s his endgame? Despite what he’s told me, I know that he’s not just helping me because of Nixon. And if he was, then he certainly wouldn’t be taking me out to dinner at one of the Strip’s most expensive restaurants. This reads more like…a date.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I should really get back to work. I’ve still got a couple of hours ahead of me, and it’s getting late. I do want to get some sleep.”

  He looks worried. “Taryn, you’ve been at it all day. Would it kill you to cut yourself some slack?”

  “I know,” I say with a sigh. He’s already got me pegged as an overachieving perfectionist. He’s right. But I also can see he’s not that far behind me. “But everything has to be perfect. I
really like working with your brother, but this has been a little stressful.”

  “Want me to tell Nix to cool it?”

  I hold up a hand. “No, definitely not. I wouldn’t want him to think I can’t handle the responsibility on my own. I can handle anything he throws at me plus a little more.”

  “I get that. I’m a control freak, too.”

  “I’m not really a control freak,” I shoot back. “I just…I like things the way I like them.”

  “You should hire more people to help you. I know you can afford it. Or are you one of those people who think that no one, no matter how competent, will be able to do the job the way you could do it yourself?”

  “Probably. I don’t want to have to direct. I’m a go-getter. I’d have to tell them what to do, and how to do it…and they’d probably screw it up, and then I’d be pissed. It’s just easier to do things all by myself. That way, they’re done right the first time. I hate double work.”

  Reagan shakes his head and smiles, but I sense the smile isn’t entirely a happy one. Something’s missing. Something’s lacking. In that moment, I realize that I want all his smiles directed at me to reach those hypnotic eyes.

  “You’re going to burn out if you don’t start taking care of yourself,” he says. “Trust me on that.”

  I sip my wine, draining the glass before setting it down on the table. “I think I can take care of myself. I’ve been on my own since I went to college, and I’ve done just fine.”

  “You’ve done better than fine – you’ve done incredibly well,” Reagan says. “You’re a woman to admire. Nixon’s a fan. So is Marcella. But sometimes, Taryn, you need to let other people be there for you.”

  I lift a shoulder. “I have Bailey.”

  He shakes his head. “Not just a friend.”

  “What exactly are you talking about?”