Dirty Money

“That’s what I thought,” Wynonna says bitterly. “Why won’t you let me help? I can get a job—”

“And what? Flip burgers all through your college years? Worry about money like I did? Worry all the good, fun years of your life away?” I snatch the stack of bills out of her hand, feeling exposed and miserable. “I want you to have everything I didn’t, Wynonna, and if that means I’m working twice as hard, then that’s what I’m doing.”

“But it’s not working,” Wynonna says as I stomp past her into the trailer. “We can’t keep the fucking lights on—”

Something inside me snaps. “The lights are on,” I yell at her. I’ve had enough. No matter how hard I work, it’s not enough for someone. “Are you hungry? Are you driving a car? Are you going to college? Then stop fucking complaining! I have given up everything—and I mean everything—for you! The least you can do is not throw it into my face!”

She goes pale, staring at me with big, wounded eyes.

Immediately, I feel remorse . . . and a stab of resentment. Here I am, the jerk in the situation. Why am I always the one doing wrong? Why is it that no matter how hard I try, I’m still not doing enough? “Look,” I say slowly, putting a hand on the chipped countertop to brace myself. “I love you, Wynonna. I want you to have all the things I didn’t. I don’t want you to work while you go to college because I want you to concentrate on your classes and I want you to have fun. I’ve got a big client lined up to close on a house this month—” Well, maybe. If Boone ever wants to speak to me again. “And until then, things will just be a little tight. I’ll manage. We always do. Okay?”

“So that’s it? You’ve got it handled, right?” Her laugh is bitter. “Heaven forbid I try to help out. Heaven forbid I worry about my sister. You do know you’re the only person I have left, right? That I need you, too? So fucking excuse me if I worry about you or whether or not we can make the bills. Excuse me for trying to ask questions. I should have guessed that you wouldn’t want that.”

“What do you mean, I wouldn’t want that?”

Wynonna gives me a hard look. “You never want anyone’s help, Reba. Oh, excuse me, Ivy.” Her voice is scathing. “You’d rather go down as a martyr than have to ask anyone for help, all because you don’t want to seem needy. Well, you know what? Being needy isn’t the worst thing in the world. Being alone is.” She storms away. “Not that you give a shit about that, because you don’t want to want anyone.”

Her bedroom door slams shut behind her, and I stare at the grainy wood. Slowly, I collapse into a chair.

Is she right? Am I pushing away everyone because I’m terrified of needing someone and having them leave me? Is that why I’m such a control freak about money and work?

If so, how do I change? Or is it too late?

Chapter Thirteen

Boone

It’s a fuckin’ quiet weekend.

Hate it.

Ivy doesn’t call me. No surprise there. She hates confrontation, and the moment someone gets in her face and asks questions, she runs away to hide.

So, I can do one of two things. I can wait for her to call me, or I can start my next round of wooing. I think back to our conversations, and decide to go a few different routes. On Monday, I send an entire fleet of roses to her office, enough to start her own flower shop. On Tuesday, I send cupcakes, because I know my baby has a sweet tooth.

On Wednesday, I send her a new Lincoln Town Car. I want to send her pink, but they won’t have one of those ready right away, so I settle for a nice sporty gray and a pink bow.

And I wait by the phone to see if she’ll call me.

No dice.

Between trips out to Big Lake and my fields in West Texas, I ply her with more presents—some big, some small. I almost send a box of kittens, except I don’t know if she’s allergic. I send more flowers, instead, and I try to think of a bigger show. I need something that’s gonna wow her, something that will blow her socks off.

The idea hits me on Wednesday afternoon, when I show up at the PBO office for the board meeting. Two of the executives are talking over their coffees about a black-tie charity dinner. The moment I hear that, I picture Ivy in a slinky, backless dress.

I’m in.

I bully my way into a pair of invitations by signing off on a few projects I’d been on the fence about, and toss in bonuses for my executives, because why the fuck not. Our new wells are gushers, the job they’re doing is solid, and business is booming. I’ve got everything I want . . . except the woman I want.

The charity dinner is Friday night. I figure I should make sure Ivy’s schedule is clear, so I show up to the Three Jacks office on Thursday afternoon with a box full of dresses under my arm. And just to sell things, I run a comb through my hair and beard, and rent a tuxedo downtown so I can look the part.

As usual, Ivy won’t see me. Actually, I can’t even get past the front desk to know that she’s even there. The receptionist just gives me a snooty look. “Ms. Smithfield is very, very busy.” There’s no pleasing this woman. I ain’t even dirty this time and she’s looking at me like I’m garbage.

“I’ve got a present for her, and one for you if you get her out here in the next five minutes,” I tell the woman, opening my wallet and pulling out a few hundred-dollar bills and sliding them over the counter.

The receptionist gives me a shocked look. She pushes the money back toward me. “Sir, I will not take your drug money!”

Drug money? I laugh. “Do I look like I deal weed?” I’m in a fucking tuxedo, for fuck’s sake.

“You look like a meth-head,” she hisses. “I don’t know what setup you have with Ivy to find some cheap housing, but I am not in on your games.” She picks up the phone, indignant. “Showing up in some rental tux doesn’t make you legit.”

All right, now I’m just pissed. “So that’s what you think this is about?” I drawl. “That I’m having Ivy find me meth houses? Did she not get the flowers I sent? ’Cause I sent a lot of them.”

The woman sniffs haughtily.

“Or the car?”

“Probably stolen.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I head to the magazine rack in the lobby and flip through until I find the Forbes with my brothers on the cover. I head back to the reception desk and slap it down on the counter. “Those look like meth-heads to you?”

Her eyes narrow and she studies the magazine, then me. After a moment, recognition dawns. “M-M-Mr. Price?”

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “That’s me. Now, do I get to see Ivy?”

She nods, eyes wide, and dials. “Ivy, there’s a client up in the front office for you.” She puts the phone down without waiting for an answer and gives me a dazzling smile. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Price? Perrier? A soda? Wine?”

Oh, so we’re fancy enough for her now, are we? “I’m good.”

The receptionist gives me another bright smile and continues typing.

I hear the sound of high heels clicking on the tile floors and turn around to see Ivy heading in my direction. Her lips part at the sight of me and her gaze sweeps over me, up and down. “Oh. Boone. What is this . . . ?”

“Surprise,” I drawl, heading toward her with the box. “I wasn’t sure if you were gonna call me, so I thought I’d stop by.”

Ivy moves toward me as if drawn, and the look on her face isn’t angry, just sad. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.” Her hands go to my chest and she smooths the lapels of my tux. “You look amazing.”

“I do, don’t I?” I’m pretty pleased with how the suit fits, even if it’s just a rental. Plus, the sight of me in the tux is probably making her panties all wet, which is a bonus. “I missed you, baby girl.”

The look on her face is all soft and wistful. Her hand strokes my beard. “I missed you, too.”

“I don’t like it when we fight,” I murmur. ’Specially when I don’t know what the fuck we’re fighting over. “Thought I’d come say I’m sorry in person since the car and the flowers didn’t work.”

Her cheeks color. “You spend too much money, Boone.”

“Can’t take it with me. Might as well spend it on my lady.” I take her hand in mine and rub her knuckles before lifting her hand to my mouth and kissing it. “So are you mad at me still?”

She shakes her head, distracted, her gaze on my lips. “I was never mad at you. Well,” she amends a scarce second later, “I did get pretty frustrated when you started sending presents. I can’t take them, Boone. You’re going to have to send them back.”

“Nonsense.”

“You’re so stubborn and pigheaded,” she says, but the words sound like a caress instead of a lecture. “I should be glad it’s not a golf course, I suppose.”

I snort, amused. “I got one too many of those, already. Besides, what am I gonna do with a bunch of flowers?” I hold out the box I have tucked under my arm. “Or a bunch of dresses?”

She looks at me with a mixture of surprise and worry as she takes the box. “Dresses?”

“Yup. There’s a big fancy charity dinner tomorrow night, and I’m taking you. We’re gonna helicopter in just to make a grand entrance.” I push the box toward her. “I didn’t know what size you wore, so I got the same dress in every size.”

“You bought me a dress?” She gives me a curious look. “I didn’t say I’d go.”

“Yeah, but you know how pigheaded I am.” I shrug. “It was either a fancy dinner party or I’d try and rent out the Alamo for dinner.”

Both of her brows go up. “Rent out the Alamo? You can do that?”

“Turns out you can’t, actually.” I shrug my shoulders and give her a sheepish grin. “But can’t blame a guy for trying.” When she laughs, I feel better. Warmer. Like the entire world is fuckin’ better when she’s happy. “Besides. I figured a fancy dress party would be the best place to show off my gorgeous, elegant woman.”