Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  After Ryder finished his second beer and mopped the remains of his burrito with his fork, he clinked his empty bottle against Bree’s second glass of wine. “I really admire you.”

  Bree stopped mid-chew. “Excuse me?” She thought back on their superficial conversation about microbreweries, foreign travel, and tech blogs.

  “You’re not afraid to give love a chance.” He leaned back in his chair and stuffed the extra napkins from the table into his pants pocket, suddenly seeming less like a famous country singer and more like a confused metrosexual.

  Bree pointed. “Why do you do that? Take extra napkins, pads of paper, anything that isn’t nailed down? You’ve got more money than God.”

  The look Ryder gave her made him seem ten years younger. His lips pursed. “Wasn’t rich growing up. Learned it from my mom, I guess. Thought everybody did it.” He removed the crumpled napkins and smoothed them onto the table.

  Bree shoved the pile back at him. “The casino won’t miss them.” She used her knife to slice deliberately through her burrito, like a saw cutting down a tree. “I remember your mother. She came to the games.”

  Ryder repocketed the material. “Knew how to embarrass her son. Yelled louder than our coach.”

  Bree flashed him an angry glance. “You don’t appreciate love and enthusiasm when you see it.”

  Ryder’s gaze dropped. “I loved my mom. When I was a kid, I used to thank God she was so fat, because it gave me more to love.’

  Bree stared at him. “You call your mom fat?”

  Ryder smiled and shrugged. “She was beautiful. She was also smart, ambitious, and, yes, fat. A fantastic combination.”

  “For a linebacker.” Bree watched his face fall as though he’d lost something precious. Her toes curled under the table. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “What?” Ryder glanced at her. “Wasn’t listening.” He tilted his chin in the direction of a couple two tables over. “She looks like my ex.”

  Bree turned in her chair, grateful to change the subject. The woman Ryder indicated looked like a lingerie billboard ad. She was spilling over with B words: beauty, breasts, body-conscious, breathtaking. But, Bree thought, if she had been going out with Ryder, probably not brilliant. Still, the enormity of the disconnect between Ryder’s life and hers overwhelmed her. He was dating models and she was stuffing her face with the remains of a tortilla chip bowl with her dog-wash store owner fiancé lying upstairs. One thing was for sure: Women who looked like his mother didn’t attract him. She fumbled with her cutlery.

  Ryder rubbed his nose. “She broke up with me.”

  “You said that before.”

  Ryder drew invisible pictures on the tablecloth with his fork. “Because I told her I didn’t do messy.”

  Bree blinked. “You require cleaning people?”

  “Messy relationships. She ran hot and cold. I never knew if I was in or out.” He put down his fork. “I’m not good at complicated.”

  Bree motioned for the check, but the waitress ignored her. “I excel at complicated. Sometimes I think it’s what I live for.”

  “Because you’re good at sorting things out. I’m not.” He laid his napkin on the table and raised a finger. Two waitresses came running. He nudged away Bree’s proffered credit card. “This is on me.”

  “In your dreams.” Bree laid down cash. “Maybe I like sorting things out because I’d rather be in the background.”

  “You and me both.” Ryder seemed not to notice the increasing gaggle of waitresses standing at the periphery of the restaurant, staring at him.

  “I’m tired and my butt hurts.” Bree pushed back her chair. “And you have to get back to your lonely penthouse lifestyle.”

  Ryder insisted on taking her luggage and accompanying her to the check-in counter. He hovered in the background as the clerk handed her the key with a raised eyebrow.

  Sorry to disappoint you, Bree thought as she stuffed the plastic card into the pocket of her skirt, but he’s not as great as you think.

  Ryder took her arm. “Let’s get you to the elevator.”

  She shook herself free with enough violence to cause a wave of dizziness and had to hold onto a marble pillar to steady herself.

  They wound their way across the slick marble floor under multicolored lights that shone from high above like gentle sea anemones arching their fingers toward the earth in an upside-down universe. She walked with half-closed eyes. “I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine.”

  “Almost there.” He jogged ahead and pushed the elevator button.

  The soft classical music in the background and the clicking of their heels on the floor reminded her of dances and weddings, of friends and champagne, of feeling giddy and grown up and in love. It reminded her of Mal. When the elevator door opened, she almost fell inside. She patted her cheeks, hoping to rouse herself.

  “What floor?” Ryder leaned over the display.

  She handed him the card with its envelope.

  After pushing a button, he slipped it back into her hand, draped the garment bag over her shoulder, and propped the suitcase next to her. “You know,” he leaned toward her, “today reminded me of going to the beach when I was in high school.”

  The alcohol instantaneously evaporated from her bloodstream. She froze and faced him with stone cold sober eyes. “I never went with you to the beach.” Her finger punched a button. “And I never will.” She glared at his shocked face until the doors closed.

  The elevator rose so quickly that it almost knocked her off her feet. She gripped the railing behind her tightly, her mind spinning with rage. Just when she thought he wasn’t the lowest scum at the bottom of the deepest ocean, he reminded her of how much lower he could go. I hope you drown at your beach.

  On the twenty-sixth floor, she tugged her luggage down the endless hallway, squinting periodically at the small envelope containing her key. When she found it, the door clicked open and she pushed it with her knee, fumbling on the wall for a switch. A recessed string of lights ran along the edge of the ceiling and gradually illuminated the room in a gentle glow. Bree stared across a wide living room, beyond a sofa and chairs, at a set of floor to ceiling windows that showcased the sparkling city far below.

  “Wow.” She stumbled across the carpet and stood with her feet at the edge where marble met glass, where floor met sky. She felt as though she could jump out and fly over the scene before her, as though the soft desert air would carry her across the shining buildings, pulsing lights, and buzzing Strip, ferry her over the highway, to the mountains beyond. She put her hands against the glass and leaned one cheek on the smooth, cold surface. This is what flying feels like, she thought. It’s not so scary.

  She entered the dark bedroom and pulled off her clothing piece by piece as she made her way to the rectangle that beckoned her. This was the bed she had been dreaming of for hours. The fluffy pillows. The sateen sheets. The down comforter. She flopped into them with a sigh. And then she screamed.

  The hand that touched her arm withdrew quickly and a second later a light on the far nightstand snapped on.

  “What?” Mal stared at her, his eyes bleary but showing concern.

  Bree blinked. “Sorry. I was somewhere else.”

  Mal laughed and kissed her nose. “Somewhere other than in bed with me?” He lay back down and held open his arms.

  Bree lay beside him. He switched off the light and snuggled into her back. His arms felt comfortingly familiar as he held her close and nuzzled her ear.

  “Welcome to Vegas, Bree.”

  Chapter 7

  Bree awoke the next morning thinking of a puppy chewing toes. She giggled and yanked her foot away. The nibbling continued, working its way up her ankle.

  “You little shit.” She sat up in bed, smacked the blanket, and stared straight into the eyes of her future mother-in-law.

  Faye took a step back, her hands trailing from beneath the covers. The slender woman gave her a smile even thinner than she was
herself. “I was trying to remove your pantyhose.”

  Bree felt around her stomach and realized with dismay that Faye had lowered stockings from around her middle without waking her up. She sat up and clutched the blankets high around her neck. “What on earth…?”

  Faye picked up a pile of Bree’s clothing and held it in her arms. “I’m doing laundry.”

  Bree yanked the sheets higher. “Not with my pantyhose you’re not.” She looked around the room. “Where’s Mal?”

  “Our room. Everyone gathered there after breakfast.”

  Bree struggled to push the morning fog from her brain. Her gaze searched in vain for a clock. The long drapes over the window in the room gave no indication of the color of sky outside. She felt on the dresser for her cell phone. It wasn’t there. Had she left it in her purse in her rush to fall into bed? “What time is it?”

  Faye glanced at her watch. “Quarter of ten.”

  “Shi…I overslept.” She was about to swing her legs out of the bed when she remembered the pantyhose dangling inelegantly around her ankles.

  Faye folded one of Mal’s polo shirts and replaced it in the dresser. “We knew we couldn’t count on you this morning, dear.”

  Bree still pulled the covers over her chin, wondering when Faye would get the message that her help was not required. Her future mother-in-law was invasive, dictatorial, and strong-willed. But Bree also knew her soft spots. “I bet the hotel breakfast wasn’t as good as yours.”

  Faye beamed. “You are correct. The eggs were overcooked and the bacon was rubbery.”

  Bree nodded. “So I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Mal said you got an SUV. It must use a lot of gasoline. Soumil increased the numbers in his spreadsheet.”

  At the mention of her future father-in-law’s spreadsheet, Bree suppressed a groan. Nothing about the engagement celebration or wedding plans escaped entry into a row or column of a mammoth Excel workbook with the accurate but slightly ominous title of “Mal’s Future.” Even things Bree insisted on paying for herself were listed, conspicuously highlighted in yellow as “donated.” Soumil managed the spreadsheet, like he managed the accounts for the family hotel business. But Faye provided the data that populated it, determined price cutoffs, and scrutinized the bottom line. Early on, Bree asked Mal about talking to his parents openly regarding her financial situation, about her willingness to shoulder some of the expenses in lieu of her absent family, and about her eagerness to adopt a more flexible approach to the costs surrounding both the engagement and wedding. But each conversation lasted only a few sentences. With the mention of the spreadsheet, Mal’s eyes iced over, and as Bree outlined techniques for broaching the matter, he stopped breathing. The spreadsheet, Bree realized, was there to stay. Her only hope was that his parents’ meddling in their lives would end with the wedding.

  “Mark it as donated.” Bree used one hand to wriggle out of the remainder of her pantyhose. “And now, Faye, I could really use a shower.”

  The thin smile returned to Faye’s lips. “I will unpack your belongings while you shower.” She held up the pile of clothes in her arms. “Then I’ll wash your clothes in the sink.”

  Bree shook her head. She had traveled enough with Mal’s family to know to set boundaries or Faye would roam through Bree’s life like a bloodhound on a scent. On the first trip, Bree was shocked and indignant upon returning from a hike in Yosemite National Park to find Faye not only in her bedroom but in her closet, rearranging her clothes. She protested, politely but firmly. Faye shrugged off Bree’s distress, explaining that she had raised four children, understood how things should be organized, and knew Bree didn’t have parents looking out for her. In the face of those arguments, Bree’s resistance gradually crumbled. What did it matter, she told herself, how her clothes were arranged? If her boyfriend’s mother wasn’t embarrassed to go through a hotel nightstand and find condoms and other personal paraphernalia, then Bree wasn’t going to be ashamed on her behalf.

  On family vacations, her main battlefield lay elsewhere. She wanted Mal to stand up to his parents and get an official blessing to sleep in the same room. She was too old to tiptoe half naked through a hotel corridor twice a night. But getting Mal to stand up to his parents took time.

  Bree yanked the top sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her like a toga. With her free hand she took the pile of clothes from Faye’s arms. “Most of this is dry clean only. I’ll grab some hangers and let the steam take the wrinkles out.” She waddled across the large room with five feet of sheet trailing behind her like a walrus tail. Hangers in hand, she smiled at Faye and closed the bathroom door.

  ***

  Faye sang quietly to herself as she emptied Bree’s suitcase and hung the clothing in the bedroom closet, smoothing folds, positioning collars symmetrically, and aligning shoes neatly under skirts. She hefted Bree’s suitcase onto a luggage stand, biceps bulging on lean arms like a geriatric weightlifter. Mal’s empty bag already stood in a corner of the room. Faye pushed his underwear to the side as she deposited Bree’s bras and panties in the dresser. At one point, she lay a pair of Mal’s briefs on top of Bree’s. Bree’s stuck out on all sides. Faye sighed as she folded both pairs and returned them to the drawer, then raised clasped hands to the ceiling.

  “Lord, grant her the strength to get her appetite under control.”

  After she disposed of all the clothing, she rummaged through the outside pockets of the suitcase, transferring a laptop and endless tangles of computer cords and other electronics to the floor.

  She shook her head. “This can’t stay in the bedroom.” She returned all the items to the suitcase and rolled it to the living room’s office area, where she spread the paraphernalia on the desk. She examined the devices, determining which plugs fit into which receptacles. As she picked up a silver cell phone, it rang, and she dropped it on the desk with a clatter.

  Her eyes scowled at the screen, which displayed a woman’s name with the subtitle “legal department.”

  Faye shook her head again. “Bree Acosta, you are not taking work calls on this trip.” Faye looked around the room, walked to the sofa, and put the phone between the cushions. She bit her lip and stood back, hands on hips, gazing at the bulge. She sat near it, and the phone’s corner popped out. She cocked her head in the direction of the bedroom, where noise from the shower was still audible. Faye picked up the phone and scooted silently across to the bedroom, where she opened a dresser drawer, wrapped the phone tightly in a pair of Bree’s underwear, covered it with a T-shirt, and shoved the bundle to the back. The drawer rolled shut and she nodded.

  “That’s better.”

  “What’s better?” Bree stood at the bathroom door, head wrapped in a towel, another around her torso, the shower still running in the background.

  Faye turned slowly and eyed the steam billowing from behind Bree. “Shouldn’t you shut off the water? We are in a desert.”

  Bree smiled. “Have you seen how they use water around here? There’s an actual pirate ship show.” She laughed. “My shower isn’t going to make any difference.”

  Faye tilted her head. “It’s never bad to set a good example.”

  Bree leered back with an impish grin. “Unless nobody is watching.”

  Faye stood at the door. “I put everything away.” Her eyes flashed from the dresser to the desk in the living room. “Bree, dear, I see you brought your computer.”

  Bree strolled to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and removed a pair of panties and a bra. “Don’t worry. This trip is all about Mal and me.”

  Faye sighed and nodded. “We leave for Uncle Frank’s for lunch in,” she looked at her watch, “fifty minutes.”

  After escorting Faye to the door, Bree donned the underclothes and walked to the living room’s window, comfortably certain that the glass was tinted and she wouldn’t be visible from the outside. She stared at daytime Vegas, shimmering in the desert heat. Her feet skipped to the wet bar, where she found her purse.
She fished out her pink cell phone and, back at the window, took a selfie of her head in the towel and the city in the background. After texting it to Stephanie, she got dressed, glad that Faye arranged shoes with outfits, so she wouldn’t have to guess what would make her future mother-in-law happiest.

  ***

  By the time Bree and the Patel family had walked the five blocks to Uncle Frank’s restaurant for lunch, the underarms of Bree’s sleeveless blouse were soaked in sweat and Mal’s hand stuck to hers like a wet suction cup. A double set of electric glass sliding doors whooshed open and let them into the cool, darkened interior. The air smelled of turmeric, clove, cumin, and cardamom. Bree closed her eyes and inhaled it with a sense of relief after the stale and vaguely putrid odors of Vegas’s side streets.

  She whispered into Mal’s ear as she tugged at her sticky blouse. “Remind me again why we didn’t drive?”

  “Decadence not allowed.” He nudged her with his elbow and she giggled.

  In front of them, an immense archway behind a hostess podium opened into the largest Indian restaurant Bree had ever seen. Colorful illuminated fabrics hung from the ceiling, lending depth to the light in the room. Torches flickered from holders on the walls and from strategically placed posts on the floor. Though cavernous, the room was inviting, with countless planters of tropical foliage creating separate sitting areas from which candles glowed on red tablecloths. A thick carpet patterned to mimic grass mats muffled the wait staff’s movements and the chatter from the hundreds of customers.

  Bree squeezed Mal’s hand. “Absolutely perfect.”