Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I’m absolutely using sex and wine to avoid her. She just won’t leave me alone about the money we were supposed to have by now, but don’t. I don’t blame her.
But even if that stupid stipulation didn’t exist, it would take time—several months at least—for the money to actually hit my bank account. I would be able to borrow against my inheritance so we’d have enough cash on hand to get our collection off the ground, however.
I just don’t think either of us expected to burn through so much cash so quickly. Spending like we have—neglecting our budgets—has turned into our largest rookie mistake to date.
My gut seizes when I read the texts she sent while I was in bed with Palmer.
Wheeler Rankin
We really need to follow up with Barb. I’m worried we’ll lose our spot in production if we don’t get the first payment to her ASAP.
You think you should follow up with your dad’s lawyer too? I’m sorry to keep bugging you, but I feel like we’re losing valuable time.
Are you okay? I know you’re going through a lot right now. I’m sorry. We’ll figure this out together, I promise. Just let me know where your head’s at.
I wish I knew.
My lawyers—really, Mom’s—have instructed me not to contact Goody, as they’ve been working with her to come up with a solution. So far, no dice.
Meanwhile, I’m sweating bullets.
Usually, sex with Palmer soothes my frayed nerves. But this stomachache will not quit. Setting down my laptop, I grab my phone and stand in front of the windows. Dallas is many things in September, but beautiful isn’t one of them.
The whine of the air-conditioning is loud in the otherwise silent room. My laptop screen goes blank.
I head for the condo’s spare bedroom, which has become Bellamy Brooks’s de facto headquarters. Wheeler affectionately dubbed it “the closet,” mostly because it’s a tiny jewel box, dedicated to fashion. It’s stuffed to the gills with cowgirl boots in a rainbow of colors, patterns, and textures—mostly samples from our first collection and a few prototypes from our second. We hung inspiration boards on one wall, and they’re covered in leather swatches, magazine clippings, Pantone color cards, stencils, and more. A tiny desk is squeezed between two boot racks on another wall. It’s topped with a jar of Reese’s Pieces—Wheeler’s favorite—and a box of my favorite sweet treat, chocolate-covered espresso beans.
My heart hurts in the best way, taking it all in. I’m so, so proud of the work we’ve done. Running a hand over a pair of brown-and-cream boots, I marvel at the leather’s buttery softness. The perfectly executed Western pattern, done in coral embroidery on the boot’s vamp, still makes my pulse literally skip a beat, months after I sketched the initial design.
I’ll never forget the first email we received from a customer, telling us how beautiful she felt in the pair of Bellamy Brooks boots she wore on her wedding day.
I’m in love with our boots. And it kills me to think we may never make another pair.
Heading back to my couch, I try calling Mom. She doesn’t pick up.
I find myself scrolling to Dad’s number. My eyes burn. I’m haunted by our last conversation, which happened over text several months before he died. I’d asked him for money to help fix my car.
Sure, he texted back. The next morning, I had the cash in my account.
I didn’t thank him, and he didn’t follow up. Now, I’m so ashamed of how it all went down.
Without thinking, I hit his number and bring the phone to my ear. It rings and rings, until, finally, his voice mail picks up.
Goose bumps break out on my arms at the sound of his gravelly timbre.
“You’ve reached Garrett Luck. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a good one, y’all.”
My face crumples. His voice mail beeps.
If I’m still so angry, why can’t I stop fucking crying? Anger means yelling. It means frosty silences and heated exchanges. It does not mean crying your eyes out every time you think about the person you loved but hated, too.
I hang up, wishing all the while I could ask him why he put that stipulation in his will. Maybe I wouldn’t hate the idea of living in Hartsville so much if I understood why he wanted me there. He had his chance to bring me back to the ranch—many chances, in fact, over the course of many years—but he never did. Why insist on it now?
The thought comes out of nowhere: Cash might have the answer to that question. He said he was close with Dad. Who better to ask than the man who apparently worked side by side with Dad for over a decade?
Too bad Cash is a jackass. I’d rather pry my eyeballs out of my head with a rusty spoon than talk to him again.