by D. D. Scott
Knowing it should be about 6:02, she glanced at her watch. Perfect. Her internal clock still worked. She could still sell her Bulgari if finances got too desperate.
She limped her way through the boutique, toggling the switches on the hand-made paper lamps lighting each display. Her ankle wasn’t close to the stiff and cramped appendage it was yesterday. Ever the pessimistic optimist, Roxy charged on, hope filling her psyche’s dwindling reserve.
Maybe she would be ready to dance by Wednesday. If she weren’t, she’d lie and do it anyway. She owed Zayne at least a new bumper, so she really didn’t have much choice. Plus, she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to be held close by that hunk of a man. No matter how hard she tried to ignore his manly-man wholesomeness, his good looks, paired with his irritatingly charming personality, drew her in deeper, frying her resolve to ignore her attraction.
Once thinking serendipity was over-rated, Zayne had Roxy rethinking coincidental connections. Whether or not she liked the pattern of events leading up to their bizarre pairing, Zayne kept showing up in her life, upsetting her hormonal balance and reinforcing their karmic connection. Either way — ravish him or ignore him — Roxy made good on her commitments. And she’d committed to him…kind of. So consequently, probably should be committed.
By eight minutes after six, she’d clicked on the last lamp. Normally, she was tending to Dipstick and Darling by now. The damn fall had her two minutes off schedule.
She poured fresh water for the dogs and fluffed the pillows she’d made for them out of fabric scraps. Having them here with her in the boutique was a blessing — a benefit to being a tenant of a store selling pet food.
Some days, it was just the three of them holding down the back corner of the supply store. But the days she had customers, Dipstick and Darling were a hit. She sold more canine couture some weeks than she did human apparel. The success of her Canines with Class Collection had a lot to do with her spokes models.
She still needed a way to attractively display the ID tags, leashes and jewelry she’d created with them in mind. But she sucked at sales and marketing. Outfitting a human or canine body was easy. Encouraging someone to purchase her goods for themselves or their pampered pooch was out of her talent pool. She couldn’t do it. Her efforts wasted time she didn’t have. That part of her brain was a dismal disappointment with or without her father’s reminders she was promo-challenged.
Manhattan therapists had received a lot of her father’s cash trying to figure out why she couldn’t sell her designs. They’d told Roxy her deficiency had to do with her obsessive drive for perfection, suggesting she feared attempting anything new if success wasn’t a guarantee. Interesting. Moving 886 miles from Manhattan to Nashville to open Raeve must have been nothing more than overcompensation.
Roxy unloaded her Coach tote, careful when removing her spiral-bound sketchbook not to catch the rings on the bag’s beautiful lining.
She needed to finish the Buckles Me Baby sketches so she could order the materials to produce them. Provided, of course, she could wade through her supply room maze to discover what she already had in stock.
Organization — like marketing — wasn’t part of her world. Frankly, to maintain her massive To Do Lists, some things had to give. Disorganization provided a Romper Room for her muse, keeping the creative juices flowing amidst her eclectic clutter.
The fact the supply area in the rear of Raeve looked like the aftermath of an avalanche was part of something bigger. Her disorderly conduct drove her parents crazy —the very key to its continuance. Plus, her last au pair told her that because she usually found what she was searching for that made her a Certified Rescue Specialist. Kind of a cool designation she’d thought at age 13, and she still got a kick out of the title.
Roxy placed her empty tote in the spot reserved on the Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired chair next to her design table. Making a mess of supplies was acceptable. Haphazardly abandoning a designer bag on less of a seat would earn her a plastic folding chair in Hell. Some things in life had to be protected.
Pulling the previous week’s hand-printed receipts off the pin cushion next to the cash register, Roxy sorted the slips by date. Noticing she’d sold nothing for two days, she cringed.
Open five days a week, Raeve’s hours were technically Tuesday through Saturday from ten to six. But she worked in the boutique on her off days too, primarily to entice the farm store’s patrons who had all seven days and holidays to find what they needed. It wasn’t like she’d turn down a customer if one ventured into her retail space by mistake. Roxy had made more than a few sales on her days off to customers looking for lug nuts. Struggling designers just couldn’t afford to rest when potential customers were close by.
Not due for her coffee fix and breakfast until 6:42, she had roughly twenty-two minutes to straighten up the shelves ransacked by Saturday’s customers. She should have done it Saturday night before going home, but by the end of the week she’d been too depressed by the hemorrhaging numbers in Raeve’s budget.
Starting with the T-shirt collection, she picked up her favorite beaded design. The morning sun, filtered through the buildings plate-glass windows, skipped across the tiny crystal facets. She checked a large, hot pink sequin, making sure it remained secure, then refolded the shirt to reveal the torn-out neck she’d scooped dangerously low.
Manolo Blahnik believed the secret to design was in the cleavage. Granted he referred to toe cleavage. But Roxy had proven it worked as well with the kind she exploited.
So had all the men she’d dated. Used to talking to the tops of their heads, making her stomach curl, Roxy had decided early in her career to give them something else to focus on while they ogled her and her clients’ D-cups. Proud she filled her own cups instead of relying on silicone, her designs tended to be top heavy. And she liked them that way. Slightly out of whack. Slightly unbalanced. Slightly imperfect.
Grabbing the next size shirt, she tucked and fussed each piece in the stack until they formed an artistic leaning tower on the display table. They may be a bitch to reassemble, but Roxy refused to use folding boards. She didn’t want military perfection. There was that perfection thing again. She wanted her own flounce and flare, that anything goes, Holly GoLightly attitude. She hoped her customers felt that freedom too when wearing her designs.
If she only had the cash, she’d shelve the shirts in art deco cubbies. But that seemed to be a ways from reality, unless this Damian friend of Zayne’s knew how to help her build them.
Asking for help made her queasy, putting the squeeze on her pride. But as she reasoned out her actions, her muscles loosened under her ego’s grip. At least she wasn’t seeking her parent’s philanthropy. Instead, she relied on her own intuition and work ethic.
She straightened up the next sequined pile of baby T’s along with the glitter-dusted variety. Except for her reworked classics’ palette of browns, blacks, grays and white, she’d stuck with just three new color-combos for the summer season.
At the drawing table, she’d visualized sherbet, dished up in metallic metal bowls. The result — three delicious shades of raspberry, orange and lime — her favorite flavors.
With twelve minutes left before breakfast, Roxy visualized more than sherbet. The image of a grande, cinnabon-flavored coffee and a recycled paper bag containing scrambled eggs, hash browns, toast and bacon danced in her head. Salivating like Pavlov’s dog, she checked her coat pocket for cash. Cutting breakfast out of her budget was unthinkable, although both her waistline and her wallet would benefit if she’d at least skip the hash browns and bacon.
After massaging the hunger pangs out of her stomach, she color-coordinated the crushed silk and velvet camis, resorted the skinny jeans by size, and reconnected the satin peasant skirts precariously dangling from their hangers. Why couldn’t people put things back in the same place on the rack or shelf they’d taken them from? Better yet, why couldn’t they purchase what they picked up, making the issue a non-issue?
She changed the jewelry on the mannequins posed on the tops of the carousel racks, giving her repeat customers — both of them, Kat and one of her friends — a hint at the versatility in her pieces. Moving a gorgeous citrine and turquoise necklace to the only mannequin it hadn’t been on sent a shockwave rippling across Roxy’s reality pool.
She had to think of something to push her designs out the door. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have the cash to transform her drawings into the fall collections. She needed help. As much as it contradicted her staunch independence, she wasn’t naïve regarding her future without a rocket booster of some sort.
She’d been hoping to hold off for the rest of May until Jules and Audrey came to visit. Looking for a break from the City, her favorite gal pals since prep school had decided to join her and go Dixie for the summer. They’d know what Raeve needed to get off the ground.
Roxy may have a sixth sense enabling her to pinpoint which designs would drive demand. But Audrey, a management guru, planned to take Raeve online and launch a web store, limiting the boutique’s reliance on farm store traffic. And Jules, a culinary schooled chef, would feed them while they worked to save Raeve.
Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, Roxy gathered the dismal pile of receipts then hauled out the folder holding her accounts payable. After reconciling her sales with what she owed her suppliers, she’d know if she could survive the three weeks ’til Jules and Audrey arrived.
Hoping the Bongo Bean’s caffeine would give her a bigger jolt than her cash flow analysis, Roxy headed next door to the coffee shop a full minute ahead of schedule.
Pushing in the Bean’s door, Roxy breathed in the rich aromas of roasted-on-site coffee mixed with a confectionary cloud of sinful pastries. Luckily, she didn’t do sugar. A recovering sucrose addict, she was perfectly satisfied riding the low carb train. But coffee and eggs were part of her budget and an accountant’s dream compared to the price of a scone.
Seeing her order on the counter, she sashayed through the customers waiting to be seated. Maneuvering the morning rush, she whizzed past the dramatic, dark red drapes dividing the café from the dining room. It wasn’t just the curtains that looked as if they were about to reveal the next act in life. The place had an ambiance fit for an artist. From the special treatments restoring the original brick walls to the repaired tin ceiling, the café’s character offered respite to Roxy’s muses. The rest of the day, her creative divas competed with wheelbarrows and Allen wrenches.
Roxy felt more at home in the unique charm of the cafe than in her brownstone. Creative synergy was blended not only in the lattes, but in the convergence of the patrons as they sipped mochas and nibbled on cinnamon buns.
Roxy left her money on the counter and smiled at Marcus, a barista who appeared to have stepped behind the Bongo Bean’s counter straight off a Caribbean island paradise. While firing up the espresso machine, he blew her a kiss then flashed his Taye Diggs smile.
Taking her breakfast with her, Roxy hobbled back out the door onto the sun-dappled sidewalk, planning to get her groove back just like Stella. After waiting on a delivery truck to pass, she stepped off the curb and into the alley behind the plaza, surprised to see a black Hummer parked in front of the supply store’s rear entrance. No one came in this early, unless they worked…
What? She checked her watch. Three hours early?! A horn blew her a blatant warning that time was irrelevant in the middle of a loading zone. She jumped back onto the safety of the curb. Getting run over by the chicken feed supplier — that’s all she needed.
She focused her shook-up nerves on the Hummer in time to see Zayne lower the driver’s side window. “Whoa, Princess. You’d better watch where you’re going before your need a body cast instead of a couple of bandages.”
“It’s your fault, Beefsteak,” Roxy screamed, willing her heart to drop back into her chest.
Her index finger, once wrapped around her coffee cup, now pointed at Zayne, shaking a mean jig as she desperately tried to regain her composure.
“Every time you’re around, something horrible happens to me,” she said, glad to feel her pulse winding down to a much more manageable rhythm.
Even though Zayne hadn’t thought of it like that, Roxy might have a point. Both of their universes took tailspins when they inhabited the same space.
“Well, now you’re making me feel bad,” he said and meant it.
He opened his door and started towards her as she remained frozen on the curb, staring at his mom’s SUV. He wasn’t sure how to explain why they were three hours early. Technically, it was the only time he’d be out of the fields for the rest of the day. But yeah, he was also anxious to check-in on his favorite diva. She didn’t need to be privy to his personal motivation, however, so he’d best stick to business.
As if that was possible with her walking towards him. The gentle sway of her hips hypnotized him. Her almond eyes, narrowed into spirited slits, hooked him, reaching into his soul, refusing to let go until he’d softened them with happiness or laughter.
Zayne had first noticed Roxy after New Years in the Bongo Bean. He used to eat breakfast there when he had clients to meet either at Vanderbilt or a Music Row recording studio. He sure missed the creative vibes of the advertising world. He missed the café. And he definitely missed seeing Roxy come into The Bean to pick up the same-sized bag and the same-sized cup of coffee she now carried.
Not able to get her out of his head, Zayne hoped to at least obtain a new image to replace the Sleeping Beauty he’d left on the couch Saturday night. The watching-her-sleep-like-an-angel replay had him in knots. But judging by the ferocious scowl he’d just witnessed on her face, he had another mental picture of her to add to his dreamscape. And this latest vision really tickled him. Even when she was mad as hell, she was one hot vixen.
“Yoohoo,” Roxy cooed, “I’m talking to you.”
She passed her cup of coffee under his nose, teasing him out of his stupor. The inviting smell of cinnamon rolls and cocoa mixed with her lilting voice got Zayne’s attention.
“I said, I agreed to your little deal, expecting you to repair your truck, not buy a new one. If you think I’m going to be tied to you until that beast is paid for, you’re nuts.”
“No, you’re the nut,” Zayne said then rolled his eyes as his mother opened her door. “And so’s she. Sorry we’re early. For the record, this is Mom’s truck. She wanted to come to town early in case you needed her. Now about you being tied to me…”
“Good morning, dear,” his mom said, stepping down onto the running board of her truck, her tote bag stuffed to the max, her timing effectively squelching Zayne’s bondage concerns. “Hope I’m not too early. Just thought you might need the extra help. Zayne was on a break from the fields, so I asked him to go ahead and drive me into town.”
Zayne knew from Roxy’s eyes once again narrowing into those challenging slits that she wasn’t buying their crap, but she kept her mouth shut. Too bad. He’d liked to have heard what she was thinking inside that tart head of sexy curls.
“Zayne, honey, get the box out of the back for me, would you?” his mom ordered while she took in the store’s back entrance. “It’s too bad they won’t let you do a window display out front. But, oh my, the wisteria back here. What an eye catcher. That had to be your idea, Dear. Whatever made you think of that?”
“Why, I’m sure it has something to do with Manolo Blahnik,” Zayne said, struggling to keep the lid of the box from blowing away in the breeze.
“Right you are, smart ass,” Roxy said then laughed, more than likely fighting his attempt to humor her, judging by the set of her jaw.
“Wisteria covers the entrance to one of Manolo’s homes,” Roxy told her protégé as they started for the door together.
“How did you know about the Manolo connection?” Zayne’s mom questioned him while he closed the truck’s rear cargo hatch.
“Roxy and I do have some civilized, meaningful conversations,” he said, enjoying sparrin
g with his two favorite women. It beat propagating tomato seeds.
“I was drugged when I told you that,” Roxy reminded him.
“I know. That happens to be when you’re the most civilized. In pain and on medication,” Zayne said, smiling as Roxy held the door for him, although fearful she’d let the thing bang shut on his ass.
Before he’d gotten six feet inside the farm store, Dipstick and Darling were all over him, pawing at his jeans and sniffing his boots. Shit. Now he’d never get out of buying his mom one of these yappy lapfuls. Although they were cute little squirts.
“Oh, Zayne. Look. They’re Puggles.” His mom dropped to her knees, diverting the dogs’ attention away from Zayne as she let them pounce all over her, licking her ears and nuzzling her neck. “You didn’t tell me Roxy had Puggles. Where were they during dinner last night?”
“I’d already tucked them in for the night. Kat, meet Dipstick and Darling.”
“What cute names. Oh, I’m in heaven.”
His mom stood up, reaching for a rack to steady her. Her balance was off, he surmised, for a reason he’d be finding out about real soon after a call to her doctor.
“Do the dogs come with you to the shop…I mean boutique…every day?” His mom asked followed by a deep, measured breath.
Was she nervous? Zayne banished that reasoning almost as soon as he’d produced it. She never showed insecurities. And why would she be on edge with Roxy? The two were probably best friends in a past life.
Roxy set her coffee and sack on the checkout counter. “Yep, they’re here about every day. I can’t stand leaving them at home. They keep me company along with the other barnyard animals.”
“Oh, I love the idea.” His mom brushed a few short pieces of hair off her pants and let her eyes wonder the premises. “Now where shall I put my things?”
