Chapter Eighteen

Taryn

“I’m so tired,” Bailey groans, putting her head down on the counter and yawning. “I feel like we’ve been at this for hours.”

“We have been at this for hours,” I say, patting my mouth with my right hand. Yawns are contagious and seeing Bailey gape made me follow right along. “And we’ve got hours more to go, too. So don’t think you can start loafing around.”

Bailey gives me a hurt look and stabs herself with a fake knife to the heart. “Taryn, you know I’d never do that. But I’m sooo exhausted.”

“I know. I am, too.”

Bailey and I huddle in the back room of Strict Nécessaire, pouring over Ivory Clause samples. The fashion show benefit for Helping Hands & Hearts is right around the corner, and I want everything to be perfect. This is my chance to show Dante how serious I am about succeeding – and hopefully scare him off my back and far away from my pocketbook.

“This is nice,” Bailey says, holding up a slinky cocktail dress. “Maybe we could feature this last.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know, it’s pretty basic. It just doesn’t have that wow factor. We should do something more original.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure,” I say, reaching into the shipping box and pulling out a few colorful blouses. “These will be good.” I close my eyes and imagine slender, sensual models prancing around the outdoor amphitheater that Reagan and I found. “I think the color will really pop. You should see the place, it’s perfect. Not that I’m wearing rose-colored glasses or anything, but I think it might be even better than having it here.”

“Good,” Bailey says. “Because I’m still a little salty about not being able to have it at Velvet.”

“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But it’s better to just roll with life’s punches.”

She raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Really? Isn’t that what I’m always saying Miss Control Freak? It’s you who’s late to the party on that philosophy.”

“You said it.”

Reagan’s bright blue eyes pop into my mind, and I shiver, recalling our steamy night of passion in the High Roller. I still wish that we’d talked about it afterward – but then again, what is there to say? We live on opposite sides of the country.

Ugh.

“So, tell me more about your night with Reagan,” Bailey teases, her eyes flashing fire. I don’t want to divulge any intimate details, but I know her. She’ll ride me until I give her something. Bailey hasn’t had a date in months. “How much did he spend in the High Roller, just to be alone with you?”

“He’s loaded,” I say, hedging. “It’s a moot point. The money he dropped is just like one of us bending over to pick up a quarter on the street.”

“Um, I bet he spent a couple thousand dollars,” Bailey says, seeking an answer she already knows. “I think he must like you – an awful lot, wouldn’t you agree?”

I like him even more. Too much for my own comfort. Because all I can think about is begging him to stay.

“Who knows,” I say, eager to move past the subject. She’s poking me in a sore spot with her words. I don’t want to even think about Reagan leaving and my newly found love life imploding at the sight of his retreating back.

“Taryn, come on – don’t be so dense!” Bailey says, waving her hand through the air. “He totally likes you, but he’s shy.”

I think of Reagan pinning my hands to the floor of the High Roller car and fucking me breathless.

“He’s not that shy,” I say. “And besides, he’s rich. And he’s very generous. He’d probably give that money away to anyone who needed it.”

“Well, if you don’t want him, you should pass him my way,” Bailey says with a smirk. “Because I know exactly what I’d do to that man. I swear, I never thought anyone could be hotter than Nixon Caldwell. But his brother…wow.”

I frown and purse my lips. Something about the idea of Bailey and Reagan sleeping together makes my stomach flip over and threaten to upchuck my breakfast. I sweep the thoughts away. Reagan doesn’t belong to me. Two hot sexual encounters does not make a commitment.

“Let’s focus on this,” I say, pushing the box of couture to Bailey. “We really need to find a solid first look.”

“You’re so boring,” she teases. “Just when I was getting involved in the conversation.”

“I’m not boring. I’m just focused on work – and you should be, too.” I narrow my eyes. “I sign your paycheck. Didn’t you just tell me you need money for that new Michael Kors dress you have your eye on?”

“Whatever,” Bailey says. She gets to her feet and stretches like a cat that’s been napping in the warm sun. “I’m starving, wanna order a pizza or something?”

“There is no way I’m letting pizza within twenty feet of this stuff,” I say, gesturing to the clothes. “Do you have any idea how much shit I’d be in if a grease stain appeared on one of these dresses? You go out and grab something. I’m not hungry, I’ll just eat later.”

No need to tell her that my lack of hunger is courtesy of Reagan Caldwell. She’d just get herself worked up again, and I’d have to deflect a bunch of questions I’m not ready to answer.

“Suit yourself,” Bailey says. She stifles another yawn, but as she walks out of Strict Nécessaire, I can tell she’s feeling perkier than before.

All it took was a break, I think in mild irritation as I watch her leave. Not so tired anymore, are we?

I know I should be working my ass off, but Bailey’s comment really stings. Does she think I’m boring? And if so, does anyone else?

Like Reagan?

Stop obsessing over him, I chide myself as I get to my feet and wipe my hands on my denim-clad thighs. Since I’ve started spending more time with Reagan, I’ve opened up. Never in a million years did I think Reagan Caldwell would be the type to joke around at an open mic, or seduce me in the High Roller.

As if by magic, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Reagan’s name flashes across the screen. Biting my lip, I swipe to accept the call and hold it to my ear.

“Hey, Taryn – you busy right now?”

I glance down at the array of colorful silk dresses and tops.

“No,” I lie, hoping I can see him again to get my daily fix. “Why?”

“Nixon wanted me to ask if you wouldn’t mind swinging by the Armónico in a few hours, there’s a meeting with the casino operators about some bands Nixon is trying to book for the benefit.”

Shit. At this rate, I’ll be here all night.

“Taryn?”

“Oh, yeah, no problem. Who all is going to be there?”

“No idea,” Reagan says. “Nixon asked me to sit in, and I know our favorite person is going to be there as well. That’s why Nixon wants you there – he wants to make sure Dante can’t steamroll you behind your back. It’s a bitch that he’s involved in the benefit at all, but if we locked him out at a charitable function, we’d be viewed as the bad people.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right but not liking it one bit. A bully at a charity benefit just doesn’t pass the smell test. But all we can do now is make the best of it. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Great.”

There’s a pause, and I wonder if Reagan is about to say something else. Something important. But then I realize that’s ridiculous. We’ve barely spent any time together, and he’s not the candid type. I feel like an idiot for even craving the words.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll see you later.”

“Sounds good, Taryn.”

I frown as I stare at the screen of my phone, so mad at myself for wanting something ridiculous that I have to tamp down the itch to tremble underneath the weight of the emotion. I feel compelled to do something since I’ve always been a woman of action – maybe show Reagan that I’m not a complete Type A control freak. As I think of the perfect prank, my lips curl into a smile. As quickly as I can, I dial the number of a local bakery.

“Neon Lights, how may I help you?”

“Hi,” I say, my mind racing with pleasure over what I’m about to do. “I know this is short notice, but could I get a sponge cake with the center hollowed out?”

The guy on the other end of the phone laughs. “Lemme guess – you want to set up an exploding balloon cake? That’s our specialty. Do ‘em for bachelor parties all the time. What do you want in the center? Condoms or lube?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just the cake. And could you send it to the Doobie Brothers conference room at the Armónico?”

“Holy shit, lady, you aren’t kidding around,” the guy says. “Sure thing. But I’ll have to charge you double for the rush order and the delivery.”

“No problem.”

I pass over my credit card information and give a fake name, then hang up and grin as my wicked plan sprints into motion. Let’s see how you like your own birthday prank, Reagan Caldwell.

I bundle up the rest of the sample clothing, then rush home and take a quick shower. By the time I’m dressed in a flowing sundress with kitten heels, it’s time to leave for the Armónico. I can hardly keep myself from grinning the whole walk from the parking garage – this is the first time I’ll have ever played a prank on someone, and I have to resist the urge to rub my hands together in glee. I can see why he likes doing it now. The adrenaline rush is sublime. Maybe there really is something to being a jokester – if nothing else, I feel the least amount of stress I’ve felt in months.

By the time I arrive at the Doobie Brothers room, the meeting has already begun. I slip inside and stand at the door, glaring at the back of Dante’s greasy head. His hair has been coifed into such a severe style he resembles one of those Duracell battery people. As usual, he’s a boorish asshole – trying to maneuver the whole meeting around to his benefit.

“Dante,” Nixon says through gritted teeth. “The focus is on indie bands – I don’t want a big headliner taking attention away from the charity. It’s about raising money for a good cause and not about getting drunk and smoking weed.”

Dante laughs in disgust as if Nixon’s a dipshit whose opinion matters not one whit. “Yeah, okay. You want some small band that nobody gives a rat’s ass about? Real smart, whelp. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have. Why don’t you step aside and leave these plans to someone with more experience?”

I can tell Nixon is seething, but somehow, he manages to keep his cool.

“I was thinking someone like Lord Huron,” Nixon says. “He’s huge right now, and he’s got a handful of really solid songs. Maybe him, and have Beach House open.” Nixon turns to me. “Taryn, what do you think? You’re the demographic.”

Dante swivels in his chair and turns to me with an expression of smug superiority.

“Nixon, why are you asking a woman for an opinion?” Dante growls. “If they even have one, it’s never relevant.”

My temper flares, and for a moment, I itch to go off on him. I fist my hand to keep from slapping the back of his helmet hair. Ignore him, and let your cooler head prevail.

I force a smile. “I think Lord Huron and Beach House are solid choices. Very likely to attract a younger crowd, which is what we want.”

“Exactly,” Nixon says. “Thanks, Taryn.”

Dante glares. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he growls. “If you can’t get Mariah Carey, the whole event is going to turn into an epic failure.”

Behind Dante’s back, Nixon rolls his eyes and mouths ignore him.

Just as I’m about to reply, a knock rings out. Two men enter the room, wheeling a large cake. My heart races in anticipation.

“We’ve got a delivery for a Reagan Caldwell,” one of them calls. “Reagan, you here?”

I bite the inside of my mouth so I won’t smirk as Reagan gets up and strides across the room. He narrows his eyes, spears me with a flashing blue stare and holds my gaze for much longer than necessary. This is so much fun.

“That’s me,” Reagan says. “But it’s not my birthday.”

“Oh, how special,” Dante grunts. “Someone ordered a snack that looks far more appetizing than Caldwell’s catered swill. Bring it over here, won’t you, my friend.”

Dante stabs a thumb in his direction and the serving staff wheel the cake toward the older man. Reagan lifts his eyebrows at me and smirks. Shitballs. I’m being sabotaged at my own game. Of course, Reagan doesn’t know that the cake is booby-trapped. I imagine Dante choking me with his evil fingers until I pass out and slink to the floor. My mind races in a blind panic. What the hell am I supposed to do now? This was such a dumb idea. I never should have tried to beat the master at his own game.

“That’s mine,” Reagan says, rescuing me. I’ve never wanted him more than I do in this moment. “I’ll save it for later, Dante.”

Dante rolls his eyes and reaches for the long knife that came alongside the cake, clearly telling Reagan to go fuck himself with his typical superior expression. He picks it up with his chubby fingers and before anyone can stop him, slices right into the cake.

Pop!

The cake explodes like an overactive volcano, covering Dante from head to toe in frosting, chunks of sponge cake, and what looks like chocolate syrup. For a moment, the room is silent. Then everyone starts choking with laughter just as Dante stands up and starts to yell.

“What in the hell? Caldwell, what is wrong with your fucking worthless employees? This is custom Armani!” His face turns red with anger as he makes a fist and slams it down onto the table. The table bounces and more cake flies into the air, covering Dante’s double-breasted pinstriped suit.

I throw a hand up over my mouth to hold in my giggles. Because if I don’t, I’m going to get blamed for this. Right now, he has no clue who’s responsible, and I have to keep my hilarious but epic fail on the down low. But I can’t resist just one tiny jab.

“Dante,” I say, keeping my voice low and calm. His greasy head turns to look at me, all flaring nostrils and dripping frosting. Before I can go further, a large clump falls off his nose to land on his lip. “Maybe this is a sign – bad things happen when you try to take things that don’t belong to you.”

Dante glares at me, and I shiver from the obvious evil radiating from his eyes.

“I need to visit the restroom,” Dante hisses. He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, leaving a trail of chocolate syrup.