Chapter Twenty-Three

Taryn

After the Tawny-related incident at Strict Nécessaire, I feel like I can barely show my face in my own damn store. It used to feel more like home than my condo. Now, I’m always on edge wondering what new ghost from the past is going to darken the door just to haunt me.

After stuffing my disguise in the trunk of my Beamer, I dash home, close the shades, and bury myself under a mountain of blankets on my couch.

I know that whatever I had going on with Reagan, whatever kind of magical thing it felt like, it has to be over by now. I’m sure he knows everything – and what wasn’t spelled out for him, he managed to guess. Pulling the covers over my head and hiding from the world for just a few blissed out moments seems like the right thing to do. Then, after a little willful self-pity, I’ll put on my big girl panties and slay the dragon.

When my phone rings, all I can do is groan and push it off the end table. I’m sure it’s Bailey, calling to tell me everything. Or worse, Reagan himself, calling to tell me that he’s got Dante tied to a chair.

But the phone keeps ringing. With a huge sigh, I grit my teeth and reach for it. Without looking at the caller ID, I swipe and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I say, not recognizing my weary voice.

“Hello, I’m calling for Taryn Mitchell,” a female says.

What next?

“This is she. Who’s calling?”

“Taryn, I’m so glad I got you,” she says. “This is Megan, from Ivory Clause.”

My heart sinks. Shit. I bet she’s calling to tell me that Ivory Clause won’t be selling in Strict Nécessaire, after all. The contract is null and void.

I clear my throat. “Hi, Megan. How can I help you today?” I try to make my voice artificially bright, but I can tell Megan isn’t buying it.

“Taryn, is everything all right? If this isn’t a good time, I can always call back,” she says.

“It’s fine,” I lie. “I’m just working hard on the fashion show. What’s up?”

“Yeah, about that. I heard something about a fashion show benefit in Vegas, is there any chance you’re helping run the designer looks for the runway?”

I swallow, trying in vain to push my panic back down. “Yes. In fact, I was actually planning to feature a few Ready to Wear gowns from Ivory’s most recent collection. As the finale.”

Megan doesn’t reply, and I feel like my heart is going to fall out of my ass.

“Taryn, here’s the thing,” Megan says, her posh British accent making the words sound dramatic. “Ivory would prefer to keep a low profile for the moment, there was some news about drama on Instagram. And a filthy bathroom accident. She’d rather keep her name out of it, of course.”

I close my eyes and sigh. Damn.

“Taryn? Are you there?”

“Yes. I’m here. And I completely understand, I would want to keep a low profile as well. We’ll pull all of her designs from the show, no problem.”

“Ah, well, I’m so glad that we’re on the same page,” Megan says. “Listen, Taryn, this isn’t a reflection of your work at all. We’re so happy to be partnered with you. Initial sales are very promising, and we’re already sending you a new shipment of designs to feature on your window mannequins.”

“That’s excellent news.”

“We’ll talk soon,” she says. “Bye, Taryn.”

“Bye.”

Before Megan can reply with more bullshit, I hang up the phone and bury my face in my hands. Somehow, in a matter of hours, I’ve managed to lose everything important to me. My dignity, Reagan, Ivory Clause’s trendy line of clothing for my finale. Hell – the way things are going, I bet I’ll be signing over Strict Nécessaire to Dante before the end of the year.

All I want to do is wallow in my negative emotions. Positivity has flown the coop.

With a sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the couch and slump into my kitchen. My freezer is nearly empty aside from a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, but I don’t care – ice cream is what I wanted, anyway. I don’t bother to grab a bowl, just a spoon, before making my way back into the living room and pulling my favorite throw over my legs. As I spoon mouthfuls of Ben & Jerry’s Urban Bourbon to my mouth, I don’t even taste the sweet cream melting over my tongue.

I sniffle and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny glass paneling that leads to my balcony. I look like hell -- my hair is a mess, I have dark circles under my eyes, and there’s some melting ice cream on my chin.

How the mighty have fallen, I think bitterly as I scrape my spoon against the bottom of the carton. This is what I get for getting too cocky and letting my guard down. This is what happens when farm girls get too big for their britches. I can almost see Dad chewing on a piece of winter wheat and shaking his meaty fist.

Before I left for college in Vegas, my father pulled me aside and warned me of the dangers of “Sin City.” He told me to come home and work on the farm after graduation, that I’d never make it on my own, that I’d come crawling back within six months for money and comfort. That was the moment when I’d vowed never to return. I’ve prided myself on keeping my word – I’ve fought to survive in Vegas, and I’ve won, knocking it straight out of the park.

But that’s all over now. I swallow an almond as I think of my father’s face, how he’s going to look when I have to leave Vegas. But I won’t go home. Never. The worst part is, I know he’s not going to be angry. He’ll be smug and satisfied. In his mind, women shouldn’t be out in the world, doing their thing. They should be at home, with a passel of brats and bad daytime television.

I can actually feel my anger escalating over imaginary oppression, and I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. It’s all over now. I should be proactive instead of just waiting for Dante to steamroll me. My agile mind devises a plan. Tomorrow, I’ll go into town and check the lease for Strict Nécessaire. As soon as it expires, I’ll cash in my chips, buy a one-way plane ticket to LA and never look back. I can open a high-end boutique there and never have to deal with Dante Giovanetti again.

Oddly enough, it’s not the thought of giving up my Vegas boutique that makes me feel heartbroken.

It’s the thought of Reagan. But even if I could stay in Vegas, I know he’ll never leave New York.

Another thought occurs to me before I can tamp it down since it’s raining on the pity parade. Maybe I need to be proactive with Reagan, too. Maybe I should just call him and tell him what I’m planning. Catch him before he catches me. My friends in middle school always used to joke about having to dump guys first, so they wouldn’t even have the chance to feel rejected themselves.

And here I am, a grown woman, reverting to junior high tactics.

I reach for my phone with a lump in my throat. What am I going to say? Thanks for the mind-blowing sex, the best of my life, but it’s over. We’re just too different, so I’ll see you around town.

Before I can dial, the phone starts buzzing in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I swipe open the call and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Holy shit, Taryn, I’m so glad you answered! I’ve been calling the shop for hours,” Bailey says, panic lacing her voice. What the hell is happening now? I don’t know if I can take one more problem. “Where are you?”

“Candice opened the store today. I’m at home.”

“Are you sick?”

I look down at the now-empty pint of ice cream in my lap. “Not yet, but I probably will be before too much longer. Urban Bourbon. The whole damn pint.”

Bailey sighs in exasperation. “Look, Taryn, you have to come into the city, and get to the store. It’s really important.”

I cackle out a pathetic laugh. “Why? Did you know I got a call from Ivory Clause this morning? They want to pull the outfits from the benefit show. I bet you anything I’m going to lose the contract.”

“This isn’t about Ivory Clause, but it is important. Taryn, I swear.”

I tap my bare foot in angry frustration. “Can you just tell me on the phone?”

“No, and I don’t want you sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Get dressed and meet me at the shop.”

“Why?” I groan. “It doesn’t matter. Dante’s going to steal my store from right under me, anyway.”

“Not if you hurry,” Bailey snaps. “Come on, Taryn. Get your shit together. This scared little girl routine isn’t you. You’re a bad-ass. Act like one.”

She hangs up before I can reply. Frowning, I stare down at my phone. What’s going on? What is so important that Bailey can’t even tell me over the phone?

As much as I hate to admit it, my curiosity always gets the best of me. With a sigh, I haul myself off the couch and make my way toward the bedroom. I change into a pair of Theory trousers and a Kate Spade blouse, putting my favorite Louboutins on for good luck. With a swipe of mascara and tinted lip balm, I actually look somewhat human again.

My heart pounds the whole way to Strict Nécessaire. By the time I get there, my blouse is soaked with sweat, and my hair is sticking to the back of my neck.

Bailey stands outside, like she’s guarding the Promenade, looking smug but impatient at the same time. When she sees me, she breaks into a wide grin.

“Oh my god, Taryn, you took forever!” Bailey exclaims. “Quick, quick, let’s go inside.”

I narrow my eyes at her as I follow her in the door to the familiar sound of the chime.

“What’s going on? Bails, you can’t keep me in the dark like this, it isn’t fair.”

“I knew you would say that. But Reagan and I had a perfect idea. It has to be top secret, though,” she adds in a low hiss. “So hurry up.”

My jaw drops and for a moment, all I can do is stare. “You and Reagan?”

“Yes,” Bailey says, tapping her foot. “So let’s go to the stock room.”

One of my employees looks up in surprise as she helps an attractive lady in her early fifties pick out a cocktail dress. I wave as we pass. Once Bailey and I are safely in the stock room, I sink into the leather chair sitting at my metal paperwork desk and throw my hands up.

“What the hell is going on?”

“We’re going to stay up all night and make some of your designs,” Bailey says in a rush of excitement. She holds up a leather-bound sketchbook – my leather-bound sketchbook – and grins, flipping through the pages and showing me my own work.

“Bailey, I don’t know what to say.” I’m exasperated. She’s clearly lost her mind. What she’s proposing isn’t possible. “This is insane! There’s no way we’ll have time, the benefit is tomorrow.”

“I know,” Bailey says. “That’s why we have to work fast. I already called Reagan, he’s on his way, and he’s bringing a couple of people who can help. And Nixon donated all of the Armónico’s seamstresses as well as every woman in housekeeping that knows how to wield a needle and thread. Anything’s possible if you believe, Taryn. I believe in you. Reagan does, too. The only question left is why you don’t believe in yourself?”

All I can do is stare. “Reagan’s coming and bringing helpers? He’s not…he’s not mad at me?”

Bailey laughs. “No, silly! Why would he be mad?”

“Because he knows about me dancing for Dante at the Mona Lisa.” Emotion leaks from me like water from a dam. “So why would he want anything to do with me? He’s going to consider it lying by omission and go all lawyer up in here.”

Bailey gives me a strange look, like she’s a schoolmarm peering at me over the tips of her glasses.

“Taryn, I haven’t talked to him about it, but that doesn’t matter. He’s obviously crazy about you. So, you danced at the Mona Lisa wearing a corset, hose, and garters? Who the hell cares? You’re a wonderful singer and dancer and earned your wages honestly. You should be proud of yourself.”

I remember my old priest’s look of censure. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, you can figure it out later,” Bailey says, grabbing my arm and tugging. “Right now, we’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.”

The day passes in a blur. Sure enough, Reagan shows up with Marcella, at least fifteen women from the Armónico, and a jumbo box of doughnuts from my favorite place on the strip. Every single one of them comes bearing high-end fabric in every color. I’m aching to talk to Reagan alone and figure out what’s going on with us, but there’s no time.

Bailey and I cut and sew until our fingers are raw, and I spend a half-hour teaching Reagan how to sew seed pearls on the front of a sheer silk blouse I designed in an homage to Dior. I can’t believe he’s willing to help, but he grits his teeth and gets to work like a younger, hotter, straighter Karl Lagerfeld.

Seeing him bent over a needle melts my body into crevices I didn’t even know existed.

We spend twenty hours sweating and slaving over silk and cotton and delicate beads. Day turns into night, and just as I’m finishing up the last touches on a fifties-inspired sundress, the Vegas sky is streaked with purple and pink and orange.

“Wow,” Bailey says, flopping down on the floor and yawning. “I’m beat.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I warn her.

Reagan nods as he gently lays a garment down on top of the boxes we’ve been using as makeshift sewing tables.

“The show must go on,” Reagan says. “How are you feeling?”

I nod and swallow my exhaustion. In our desperate bid for pulling everything together at the last minute, I’ve almost forgotten about Dante. But seeing Reagan’s deep blue eyes focusing on me brings it all back.

“I’m okay. I think I’m just tired, but I don’t even feel like it. I feel like I’m flying.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the way I feel when I’m wrapping up a big case, and I’ve spent forty hours in the office.”

“I bet you weren’t sewing on seed pearls before.” I glance down at his work. To my relief – and surprise – the blouse Reagan worked on looks incredible.

“You don’t know that,” Reagan says, raising an eyebrow and smirking at me. “Maybe I’ve got a whole closet full of my own designs.”

I roll my eyes. “Then you should’ve had the idea sooner. Although you would look pretty hot in that blouse.”

Reagan gives me a smoldering look that sends a shiver racing down my spine. For a moment, I forget we’re in the same room as Bailey.

Bailey coughs and gets to her feet. “I’m going to order some breakfast,” she says, eyeing Regan and myself. “Marcella, you want to come?”

“Sure,” Marcella says, rising to her feet with a yawn. She rubs her temples with both hands.

When the troops leave, an awkward silence descends over us. I don’t know what to say first – should I bring up my past? Or should I wait for him to bring it up first?

Just as I’m about to speak, my phone buzzes. I look down and see Nixon’s name scrolling on the caller ID.

Dammit, Nixon. Nice timing!

“I have to take this,” I say apologetically to Reagan. “It’s your brother.”

“Okay.”

“Hello?”

“Hey, Taryn,” Nixon says. “I wanted to check in – how did things go?” His voice is full of obvious hope, and a cool wave of relief washes over me. I don’t know what’s happening with Reagan, and my personal life is a disaster, but at least I know I won’t be letting Nixon down. Bailey’s right. All I need to do is believe in myself and my skills, and I can save my own store.

“Everything went really well,” I say, looking around the messy room. “We’ve got fifteen outfits to show, I’m really proud of them.”

When he replies, the relief in Nixon’s voice is palpable. “Thank god. Okay, I’ll let you go.”

“Sure,” I say.

“And Taryn?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he says. “Without you and Bailey, I’m not sure where we’d be.”

“Thank you.” His praise makes me feel a bit awkward. I’m just doing my job. “I’m glad everything’s going to work out for the benefit.”

“I really think it is. I’ve got to run. See you later.”

We hang up, and I turn to Reagan with a triumphant smile on my face.

“Looks like the day might be saved.” A rush of exhaustion comes over me, and I yawn, closing my eyes. When I open them, Reagan stares at me with tender concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You just look exhausted, that’s all.”

“I’m so tired. An all-nighter will do that to a person. I haven’t done something like this since college. I guess I should be happy that I haven’t needed to.”

Reagan walks closer to me, and I feel a spark leap from his body to mine. Just as he’s about to reach out and pull me close, the door bursts open.

“We’re back!” Bailey’s sing-song voice echoes through the store. When she sees Reagan and me, her face turns scarlet. “Sorry. Is this a bad time?”

I shake my head. As much as I want to address my personal life with Reagan, I know now isn’t the right time.

“No,” I say as I force a smile. “We’ve got a show to pull off. I want everyone to go home, shower, and take a cat nap. Then we’ll meet at the venue.”

Reagan eyes me, nodding in admiration. I want him to kiss me, and I’m disappointed that Bailey’s arrival made him step back.

But we can worry about that later. Right now, I need to make sure I’ve still got Ivory Clause on my side.

Not to mention Dante. If anyone can still ruin the show, it’s him. But somehow, I’ve got a feeling that everything is going to be just fine.