Harmony and High Heels (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 2)

by Tracy Wolff

  And since that was the last thing either of them needed or wanted, she figured she’d better disentangle herself from him pretty damn quickly.

  Of course, she should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. The second she shrugged him off, he turned to her with a frown. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She knew she didn’t sound fine, even before his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’m just going to mingle.”

  “We are mingling.” He stopped her with a hand around her wrist.

  “Yeah, well, I need some air. Is that all right with you?”

  His eyes widened at her tone—and damn it, she really had used a tone, even though she hadn’t meant to—and he dropped her hand like she had suddenly turned radioactive.

  She started to apologize, but then the quick glance he darted around the room—like he wanted to make sure no one had heard her snap at him—set her off all over again. Suddenly, it took every ounce of willpower she had not to put her arm around the nearest man who wasn’t Dalton—a man who she was pretty sure was the NFL commissioner—and proposition him just to piss Dalton off. Just to show him that he couldn’t keep her tied down forever.

  But this was the new Harm, the one who actually thought about the consequences of her actions. The one who was trying to get her own cooking show and knew she couldn’t afford any bad press. The one who wanted Dalton to be proud to have her on his arm.

  It was that last thing that had her slipping away without causing a scene, even as she cursed herself as a fool.

  She spent the next hour dodging Dalton. She helped the servers clear dirty dishes, helped the caterer load trays, even opened a few bottles of champagne when the bartenders came under fire for being too slow.

  Through it all, she was conscious of Dalton watching her, and conscious of the clock ticking down between them. She’d figured she had until the end of the party to get her shit together, but somewhere around eleven thirty, Dalton lost his patience. And his cool.

  She’d turned her back on him for a just a minute to chat with a couple of the players—men so big they had tree trunks for necks. They were talking about why instant grits should be outlawed in every state south of the Mason-Dixon line, then suddenly he was there, his hand on the center of her back as he guided her toward the closest bank of elevators.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, trying to pull away from him. “People are going to notice—”

  “Fuck people. They can notice whatever the hell they want.”

  The anger in his voice annoyed her, considering she’d spent the last for hours doing her level best to be the best hostess he could possibly ask for. She’d been pleasant, helpful, and as nice as she could possibly be … even when several men made innuendoes to her. Even when one of the defensive linemen got grabby with her ass.

  The elevator doors slid closed behind them, and Dalton turned on her. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She took a page out of her mother’s book called ignore what you don’t want to talk about. Now wasn’t the time to have this out—she just wanted to get through the party and go home.

  “Bullshit,” he growled. When the elevator dinged at the top floor, he grabbed her elbow and started dragging her down the hallway to his office.

  That kicked her anger up another notch. And even though she bit her tongue, even though she told herself to keep her shit dialed down, the second he all but pushed her into his office, she lost her shit completely.

  “What the hell is wrong with me?” She was so damn tired of toning it down. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  She expected him to fire back—he was so pissed, his green eyes were blazing—but the second she snapped, he seemed to calm down, at least a little. He didn’t fire back. Instead, he leaned against the nearest wall, crossed his arms over his mountain of a chest, and said, “I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “Oh, don’t pull that smug male bullshit on me. Tonight isn’t my fault.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “I’ve been on my best behavior.”

  “I know you have.”

  “I’ve put up with so much shit from so many men who thought it would be funny to ask if they could see my vagina in real life since they’d already seen it on TV, when all I really wanted to do was deck them.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Of all the things he could have said, that one hadn’t occurred to her. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, why didn’t you deck them? I’d be pissed that you didn’t get me to take care of it, since most of these guys are people I work with, but I know you don’t need me for that shit. Five-Alarm Harm is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

  “Don’t stand there and pretend you’d be okay if I shoved my foot up some guy’s ass in the middle of your cocktail party.” Because that was definitely not toning it down.

  “If that guy was being an asshole to you, damn straight I would. If I’d heard someone talking to you like that I would have put my fist through his face, party be damned.”

  That gave her pause, but not for long. Because the double standard was such bullshit. “So I have to tone it down and be a good girl while you get to go all Neanderthal? In what world is that fair?”

  “First off, you can go Neanderthal too, you know. I totally believe in equal opportunity for knuckle dragging. Second of all, when have I ever told you you had to be a good girl? I would never say that to you—I value my balls way too much to ever make that mistake.”

  “You’ve been telling me some variation of that all night. All week, really. ‘Tone it down, Harmony. Maybe not so much, Harmony. Maybe if you just showed them a little less, Harmony.’ And don’t even get me started on the hideous dress you sent me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Any trace of amusement was gone, and Dalton was in full-on defense mode. “I’ve never said any of those things to you, ever. I don’t give a shit how wild you are—I like you wild, in case you haven’t figured that out by now. I thought you liked the dress. It’s fucking gorgeous on you.”

  “Now it is. After a friend of mine deconstructed the whole thing and came up with this out of that high-necked, overly frilly potato sack you sent me. Why would you do that, anyway? If you weren’t interested in changing me, why the hell would you send me the ugliest, most modest, most ridiculous dress on the fucking planet?”

  “I never saw the dress.” He blurted the words out in a rush.

  “What do you mean you never saw the dress?”

  “When we were having dinner at Heath’s house, you told me that shade of purplish blue was your favorite. So when I called Roberto Modesto and asked them to send you over a dress, I told them I wanted it to be that color. I never saw it.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “If you didn’t like the damn thing, why the hell didn’t you pick up the phone and tell me? We could have gotten you something else.”

  “Yeah, because that’s what any normal woman does after her boyfriend sends her a present. She calls him up to complain about it. Especially after he’s just asked her to tone down her personality to make life easier for him.”

  Dalton shoved his hands into his hair and pulled so hard she was afraid he was actually going to yank some hair out. “Since when have you been normal, Harm? I met you when you were standing in the middle of a bar wielding a pool stick like a weapon, and nothing in my life has been normal since then. So why the hell are you hiding behind what is right and normal when you never seemed to give a shit about either before?”

  “Since you asked me to be someone I’m not.” This was on him. Why was he mad at her?

  “I never asked you for that. I would never ask you for that.”

  “You did ask me for that.” She wanted to punch someone—namely him. “Otherwise, what was with all the tone-it-downs and the warnings about the press and the implication that you d
idn’t want me to embarrass you?”

  “Is that what you thought? That I was worried about you embarrassing me? Harmony, you’re the one who said you really wanted to do this cooking show. I was just warning you about the press or whatever because I figured you’d want to know they were around. The last thing I want is to put you in some kind of awkward position where you end up losing the cooking show you’ve been dreaming about.”

  “Bullshit.” The last of her defenses dropped. “You can’t tell me you’re okay with a woman who flashes her vagina on TV—even accidentally. You can’t tell me you want a girlfriend who’s first instinct it is to destroy your office when you lock her in for her own good. You sure as hell can’t tell me that you want someone who starts brawls wherever she goes. I know you, Dalton. I know how much you value peace. I know how hard you’ve worked to make a normal life for yourself away from that ridiculous biker gang.”

  “Really? Because it seems to me that you don’t know shit, Harmony.” His anger had turned to a sad resignation.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She still couldn’t figure out what he was upset about. She’d done everything he’d asked and more.

  “It means that you’re the one who’s worried about all that stuff, not me.”

  “No—”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I let you talk, now you are damn well going to do the same for me. I love who you are. I love everything about you, including your ability to get into the most ridiculous situations. I also love how you brazen your way out of those situations. And how you have this great big heart that you hide behind a tough-girl bitchiness. And I absolutely adore the need you have to take care of everyone in your life, especially me. Thank God.”

  He raked his hands through his hair again. “So if you can’t see that, if you can’t see all of the wonderful things that make you who you are, then that’s not on me. That’s on you.”

  “You’re just saying that because—”

  “Why? Why would I just be saying anything like this if it wasn’t true?” He wanted to touch her but shoved his hands in his pockets. “I love you, Harmony. I’ve told you that numerous times over the last few days, but you don’t seem to believe me, and I can’t quite figure out why that is.” He thought about it for a second. “It occurs to me that you’ve never said it back. Not once have you given me any indication that you are actually in love with me.”

  “Don’t you dare change the subject here—“

  Dalton looked like he’d just lost a battle with himself. He moved closer, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her into the circle of his arms. “I’m not changing the subject. I’m broadening it, trying to get the big picture of what exactly is going on in your head.”

  “I do …”

  “What?”

  “I do, l …” She froze, unable to get the words out that she’d been planning on saying to him just that morning. It wasn’t because she didn’t love him—because she did. So much. Even more so after he’d just said all those things about her.

  Something was holding her back. Something was making it impossible to say the three little words she could see he was so clearly dying to hear. The three little words she’d never said to a man that wasn’t her father.

  When they didn’t come, he stepped back, the devastation on his face heartbreaking. “Is this going to be my fault too?” he wondered. “The fact that you don’t love me? Or the fact that you can’t trust me enough to say that you love me even though we both know it already?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t … know?” Clearly, it wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting to hear.

  “I don’t know why I can’t say it. I just know that I can’t.” Even as she said the words, she could feel adrenaline hitting her system, and not in a good way. It was panic because this was the end. This whole conversation sounded final, when that was the last thing she’d expected—or wanted—it to be.

  “Harmony.” Dalton’s voice dropped, became the low, soothing murmur that she loved so much. But it was too late. She was already freaking out. Already backpedaling across the carpet as fast as her Louboutins would carry her.

  “I have to go.” The walls were closing in on her. She had to get out … she had to get away.

  “You have to go,” he repeated blindly.

  “I do. I have to—” She didn’t have it in her to make up an excuse. All she knew was that she couldn’t be there. She couldn’t look him in the eye when her heart was breaking wide open and her whole world was collapsing in on itself.

  He went to take her hand, made a gesture like he was going to pull her into his arms. But she yanked back as hard as she could, and then she was running out of his office, running down the corridor, running as far from Dalton Mane as she could get.

  Not because she didn’t love him, but because she did. No matter what he’d said about loving her for who she was, he deserved so much more than a woman who was going to constantly put him—and his job—right in the middle of one disaster after another.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  Harmony’s big TV show day was finally here. And somehow, it didn’t seem to matter to her at all.

  It had been two days since she and Heath had had their fight. Two days since he had sent her reeling by saying she didn’t trust him. And two days since she hadn’t been able to tell him she loved him.

  She felt like shit. Her head hurt, her body ached, and her heart—her heart felt like it had gone fifteen rounds in Cupcake Cage Match and had lost every single one. And she didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  She was about to do a television pilot—one that would make or break her professional dream—and she was so broken up, she could barely remember her own name let alone her famous brownie recipe.

  But the show must go on. If she couldn’t have Dalton, then maybe she could have this. It was a poor second place, but her life couldn’t just stop because she had messed up the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  Or at least, that was what she told herself as she sat in a makeup chair while Tre oversaw her hair and makeup. She’d chosen classic desserts with a twist, like carrot bread, cheesecake brownies, and coconut cream pie. She knew the recipes inside and out. She was ready for this. She could do this.

  Tre leaned over and whispered, “Which of the outfits do you want to wear?”

  She glanced at the bed and her heart sank. Nothing he’d chosen would work. She’d taken risks time after time since getting to Fort Worth, and what had it gotten her? Not a damn thing. In fact, it had cost her everything, had even paralyzed her when she needed to be most able to take a risk.

  No, this was it. She was done trying to be herself, done trying to be anyone or anything but the woman her mother had raised. She needed to play it safe, take the path of least resistance. Dalton was wrong about that. The times she hadn’t taken the path of least resistance were the only times when she’d screwed up. She was Ann Taylor and Talbots and pearl chokers. Hiding from it didn’t change that fact. Admitting it to herself burned a hole in her soul, but if she’d learned anything in the last couple of days, it was that she couldn’t run from who she was, because it always caught up to her.

  “I’d like to go with the black Chanel suit.” It had been her mother’s and it cost her to admit that Livinia was right. Tasteful beat stylish every single day.

  “Are you sure?” Tre glanced at the closet. “I thought you only kept that around to remind you of why you hate your mother.”

  As if she needed a reminder.

  “Yes, I’m going with the suit.” If she weren’t all cried out, she’d weep for the stiff, hollow suit she was about to wear to make the world fall in love with her. That was all she had left. “The recipes I’ve decided on are all classics with a twist. I was hoping to do the same with the suit.”

  “Okay.” Tre drew out the last syllable like he really didn’t believe there was any twist that could make
that suit anything but awful.

  She could make this work. She had to.

  Ten minutes later, she was dressed in the suit, her hair and makeup were flawless, and she couldn’t have felt more empty.

  Walking into the kitchen was like walking into a whole new world. Six giant Clegg lights spotlit the stove with its side-by-side double ovens. They also raised the temperature in the room a good five degrees. What seemed like miles and miles of black electrical wiring snaked over the floor. She barely made it into the kitchen on her floral Loubies without tripping. Even those, with their cheery neon flowers, couldn’t cheer her up.

  A production assistant named Annie had explained the process. It was much like Cupcake Cage Match. They would set up the shot, give her the five count, and click the clapperboard. After that it was go time. She was prepared to take several shots.

  “There’s our star.” Holly picked her way over the wires to Harmony. She eyed the black suit and pearl choker but didn’t say a word. “We’re almost ready to start. You look like you’re ready to take on the world.”

  Harmony faked a smile and nodded a little too manically. “I can’t wait.”

  If only Dalton was here, but she knew better than to look around for him. It was over. He’d been very clear on that.

  “Break a leg.” Holly clapped her on the shoulder and then moved out of the shot.

  “All quiet on set please,” someone called.

  Annie stepped in front of the camera. “In five, four, three …” She used her fingers for the two and one.

  Harmony’s mind went completely blank. She stood there for a full minute just staring into the camera. Finally, her voice came back to her. “Are we rolling?”

  “Yes,” the director bit out.

  Harmony plastered a smile on her face and announced in an overly loud and sticky-sweet voice, “I’m Harmony Wright and welcome to Badass Baker.”