Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

  “You two are bad. Very, very bad,” Roxy said, shaking her head and laughing all the way to the dance floor. But she liked the way their brains worked.

  Okay, Manolo, let’s do a bit of bootscootin’ in your fabulous Blahniks.

  The lights dimmed. The music started. And Roxy’s feet, soles and soul came alive to their own style and beat.

  THE END

  Stompin’ on Stetsons

  Book Two of the Bootscootin’ Series

  Chapter One

  The sweet allure of vanilla extract and cinnamon chips tickled Jules Lichtenstien’s nose.

  Inhaling with the gusto of a yoga master, she coaxed her larger-than-life-sustaining breath to steady her discombobulated nerves. The deep-breathing exercises, coupled with the glorious scents of two of her favorite ingredients, should do the trick for a bit. And short of abandoning the kitchen in favor of her yoga mat, meditative breathing was her only hope of achieving a state somewhat resembling the illusion of sanity.

  “Push. Pull. Fold.” Chanting her pastry chef mantra, Jules worked her mind in place of over-working the dough.

  Using the heel of her hand, she pushed the dough away then back, folding it over as she pulled. With each culinary-schooled choreographed motion, she envisioned her masseuse kneading her muscles with the same concentrated pressure.

  Handling the powdery ball with skilled finesse, she patted it into a ten-inch circle then reached for a cookie cutter. Pressing the cutter’s metal edges into the dough, she punched out a baker’s dozen, wishing she could separate her thoughts as easily as scones.

  As if her head were a gigantic tube of icing about to spurt into action, she closed her eyes, squeezing her warring thoughts into a tiny, icing-tube tip of reason.

  Craving nothing but culinary love in the form of a hot, gooey tea biscuit, she poured her restless energy into pastry chef mode, focusing on the confectionary magic beneath her fingertips.

  Placing the scones on an un-greased baking sheet, Jules relaxed her shoulders and settled into her routine.

  She brushed the scone tops with beaten egg whites and added a dusting of sugar. Sliding the sheet into the oven, she poked the arrows on the control-panel keypad until the numbers ticked off second-by-second.

  She didn’t have the eighteen minutes it took scones to bake. But if she didn’t feed her tormented ego, along with her work plan, she’d never psych up for her meeting with Music City socialite Sienna Cruz.

  Pressing her thumbs into the tingling flesh at the back of her neck, Jules moved her fingers in rhythmic circles, rubbing out the pings of stress hammering the base of her skull.

  The renovation of the building for her new bakery and catering company was on schedule. Sort of. Sort of being not close to acceptable, though, considering she’d landed the meeting with Sienna for Sweet Destiny’s first big catering event.

  She should feel great. Terrific, actually, considering the Cruz gig, if successful, would go a long way toward securing the CMA Fan Fest food service contract. And that job — all by its fabulous self - would be Jules’ golden, candy apple. The belle of her bakery’s dough balls.

  Hypothetically then, her double boiler should be bubbling over with good fortune.

  Apparently, however, hers was simmering with nothing but pessimism, if judging by the hissing streams of doubt gurgling in her stomach. Her normally confident exterior was overtaken by Mount Vesuvius proportioned, what-the-hell-were-you-thinking eruptions.

  She flipped on the coffee grinder, cranking the dial from medium to finely ground, counting on the robust flavor to drown out her espresso strength hesitation. With the grinder whirring down to its last, desperate chugs, she coached her inner Buddha to dig a deep refuge in the name of culinary enlightenment.

  Doing her best to keep her nerves as level as the quarter-cup into which she measured the ash-like grounds, Jules glanced at the clock on the oven.

  Quarter after nine.

  Damn.

  Before she could call an end to the latest in a string of exhausting days, she had to make the berry pudding and get it into the refrigerator.

  So where the hell was Cody with her berries?

  Trying to unload her irritation, she loaded the dishwasher, dangling the enormity of Sienna’s wedding in front of her muses and mixing bowls, hoping like hell one of ‘em would save her ass.

  Foreseeing her company’s demise at the hands of her over-zealous ambitions, Jules wandered the streets of self-pity-ville.

  Finally hearing her doorbell chime, she sidestepped a deep gutter of gloom in favor of the ass chewing she’d dish Cody.

  How was she supposed to make Sweet Destiny a success if she couldn’t count on her produce man to deliver on time? Good thing he was a terrific guy and fantastic friend plus fabulous looking. Otherwise, he’d have been replaced quite awhile back.

  She opened the door, her lips set to hurl him a stern warning. But once her eyes took in his sweet as maple sugar smile, her vocal chords froze stiffer than her award-winning meringue.

  Cody Weiss, the best fruit and vegetable man in Nashville, Tennessee, stood on her porch with a basket load of gorgeous, fresh-picked raspberries, blackberries and blueberries.

  Damn his perfect fruit. And damn his dreamy, Stetson-covered head.

  • • •

  “Sorry I’m late.” Cody stepped into Jules’ entryway, tipping his hat while trying not to drop the berries.

  Seeing fire in her mocha eyes, his gut churned like the crank of his Grandma Lucy’s ice cream maker.

  The woman’s intensity and demanding demeanor were both captivating and infuriating. She was a combustible ball of beauty and energy, revving every ounce of Cody’s manhood.

  With the angry sparks lighting her glare finally burning down to smoldering embers, his hope of ending up in her good graces re-kindled.

  As he struggled to find an acceptable excuse for his late delivery, Jules perused the berries he’d busted his butt picking ‘til the night sky stopped him.

  “It’s about time you showed up.” Jules heaved a sigh lifting her ample cleavage closer to his face.

  “It sure is.” Cody took a deep breath, forcing his mind away from her bountiful breasts, fighting the surge in his groin before it sent him to his knees begging for forgiveness. “In fact, it smells like my timing is impeccable. What you got in that oven?”

  An almost invisible upturn of the corner of her mouth told him she wasn’t about to let her gorgeous smile rise above her fury. But the hint of that smile struggling to stay hidden tickled him.

  Cody followed his nose and Jules’ fine backside into the kitchen, hoping to score a bit of whatever taste of heaven she’d whipped up. She could do things with sugar, flour, and eggs he’d never seen duplicated, not even in the kitchens of Nashville’s famed Meat N’ Three diners. And being the heir apparent to his Grandma Lucy’s Lunchbox Café, voted Nashville’s best diner nineteen times, Cody considered himself an expert on all foods fried, baked, artery-clogging, sweet and delicious.

  He set the berry basket on the center island then slid onto a bar stool. He felt like he did as a boy at the Lunchbox’s counter waiting on his mom and grandma to pull out something wonderful from the deep-fat fryer.

  Jules bent over and opened the oven door giving him more than the best seat in the room.

  Damn.

  The scintillating rear-view of her perfectly proportioned, yoga-toned hind-end made a big-time mess of his testosterone level. Heat shot to his groin followed by an intense pressure building against the inside of his jeans. What he wouldn’t give to sneak up behind her and — well — he had several ideas on what he’d like to do next. None of which eased the strain on his zipper.

  “Well, don’t just sit there gawking,” Jules said, coming at him with a piping hot baking sheet. “Pour us some coffee.”

  “Sure thing, JuJu Bee,” he said, noticing the stress lines creasing her pretty forehead, goading his instincts to search and destroy whoever was responsibl
e for her upheaval. “And after we demolish these scones, I’ll help you with the berry pudding.”

  “You don’t have to help me. I can — ”

  “I know I don’t have to help you. And yes, I know you don’t need help either. But I’m not sitting here while you bust your ass.”

  As Cody retrieved the coffee pot, his arm brushed hers, sending tremors of electricity to the tips of his boots.

  “Cody, I appreciate it. Truly, I do.” Jules set butter, honey and a knife between his bar stool and hers. “But you know how I am in the kitchen and -”

  “You’re right, I do know you and your neurotic methods.” He interrupted her before she could make a decent argument. “But I survived three months with you in The Neon Cowboy’s kitchen and I’ve volunteered for another go around. Not sure what that says about my mind. But the shape you’re in tonight, I’m willing to trade my mental competency for yours.”

  “You really are nuts,” Jules said then laughed.

  At the sound of her laughter, Cody’s heart tightened against his chest. Even if her joy was at his expense, he was glad to see and hear it. He liked that for a woman in her mid thirties, she laughed like a little girl watching her favorite cartoon. Spontaneous giggles. Untouched by inhibitions. But giggles further and further apart, now that she was consumed by the bakery and Fan Fest.

  “Okay, Stud, as you wish. But you know the rules. Don’t do anything until I tell you how and when.”

  She plunked a dessert plate onto each of their placemats, the swift clunk of the plate matching the swift and sure, strong-armed tone of her voice.

  “Yes, I’m well aware of the rules. Your diva-hood in the kitchen is no secret of the South.” Cody poured her coffee, stirring in the natural, raw sugar she preferred. “So why the need for the cinnamon scones? That ain’t a good sign.”

  “I make scones all the time.”

  Jules scrunched-up her too-cute nose like she did whenever she was trying to deny a well-known fact. Sighing, she grabbed a paper towel and wiped a small bead of sweat from her brow.

  “I am a pastry chef or did you forget?”

  She sliced through the scone she’d placed on his plate. Drawing the knife away from the scone, a tiny trail of melted cinnamon chip clung to the steaming silver edge.

  “No, smart ass, I didn’t forget.” Cody licked his lips as Jules dipped the knife into the butter tub then slathered the inside of his scone. “But you don’t make your aunt’s sacred cinnamon chip scones, at home, after nine p.m., when you have other stuff that must be made before hanging it up for the night.”

  Topping the scone with drizzles of honey, Jules made him salivate like Pavlov’s dog.

  “I could have had the other stuff done if you’d gotten your ass here on time with my berries,” she said then took a healthy bite of his scone, catching one drop of honey with her tongue but losing another drop down the dangerously scooped neckline of her strawberry red tank top.

  “Hey, you know there aren’t enough hours for what crazy people like us dish onto our plates. I’m sorry I’m late, but I had to help Grams and Mom finish up tomorrow’s menu prep before I headed out into the fields to pick your berries.”

  “I know. I know. And I’m sorry for being so impatient. Shit. I am losing it, aren’t I?” Jules licked her fingers then tugged at her bra as if coercing her double bounty back into place.

  Fixated on cleavage management like any loyal, concerned male friend should be, Cody couldn’t help but concentrate on the honey, wet and sticky, smack dab across one of her nipples.

  “Need help corralling the twins?” he asked, not able to suppress the ornery grin spreading across his mouth. “There’s some honey — ”

  He reached his hand toward her chest, his fingertips fueled by a desire he fought to contain with every ounce of chivalry he had left.

  “I got it.” She swatted his hand while biting back a smile then took a napkin to the honey. “I look like a complete wreck.”

  “No you don’t. A bit tired and anxious, but not a wreck.” Cody sat next to her and reached for a second scone, dead-set on finding the reason for her panic. “So why is this pudding such a big deal?”

  Jules swiveled her stool to face him, her drama-wielding, large, browner-than-brown eyes begging for sympathy like a puppy at the pound. She sighed, yet again, for about the third time since he’d arrived, as if finally ready to unload a Titanic-sized sinking ship.

  Heeding her mayday call, a gargantuan wave of concern crashed against Cody’s chest. Unlike her staunch, independent style, a fierce determination Cody struggled to adjust to, this time Jules didn’t appear to want to go it alone in her life raft. Determined to keep her afloat, his stomach tightened then tumbled into a swelling abyss. Who or what could have her so off-balance?

  Jules drummed her manicured nails against the countertop which meant a tsunami-sized wave was just about to reach shore.

  “Well — like the idyllic idiot Aunt Tulip raised me to be, and as if the stress of getting Sweet Destiny open wasn’t mind numbing enough, I thought I’d jump start the bakery and better my shot at the Fan Fest gig by booking a big-time catering event.”

  “Nothing I’d consider obscenely grandiose for your normal M.O.,” Cody said. “You’re always biting off, pun-intended, more than you can handle. So what’s the problem?”

  Jules moved her mouth as if simply exercising her jaw would exorcise her troubles, perhaps searching for words she was even more uncomfortable spilling.

  “The event I signed to do is the wedding of Sienna Cruz. Although ‘event’, in its singular form, is a misnomer.”

  Cody damn near choked on his scone. He gulped, forcing the hot biscuit to descend his throat, swallowing it along with his raw nerves. Though a year and a half had passed, hearing Sienna’s name twisted his gut into cantaloupe-sized knots.

  “She’s marrying that country music up-and-comer Evan Granger, right?” Cody hoped his nonchalant voice betrayed his depth of knowledge about Sienna.

  The sting of her name still fired-up his gut like an ulcer that couldn’t be pacified.

  “Smart move, JuJu Bee. That event will be fantastic press for Sweet Destiny.”

  Potential disaster for him to be in any way associated with, but he should be focusing on Jules’ needs now, right? Not consumed by his deep-rooted despise for all-things-Cruz.

  Imploring his ego and instincts to take second seat to Jules’ chance to make a great start for Sweet Destiny, Cody buried his desire to warn her about getting mixed up in Sienna’s world.

  Sienna and Company loathed him, he reminded himself, not Jules. How could they not adore her? He’d never seen anyone, including himself, not be immediately drawn into her high-energy escapades.

  “You won’t be touting my brilliance for long.” Jules opened and closed her fingers as if she were squeezing the juice out of an imaginary orange. “The booking includes not just Sienna and Evan’s six hundred-guest, wedding day-slash-night gala, but also her bridal shower and bachelorette party — ”

  “Ouch. You’ve certainly taken on quite the monster — I mean monster events,” Cody said, catching the sharpened edge tingeing his sarcasm.

  “And I’m not done yet.”

  “There’s more?” He knew his voice came out way too horrific-sounding for no apparent reason, but he was unable to hide his impending dread that there was much more to Jules’ story that he wasn’t going to like.

  Jules nodded her head, affirming she hadn’t reached the end of the nightmare. “I’m also doing the rehearsal dinner, which is where you come in.”

  “Where I what?” Cody turned his head away from Jules’ reality busting bravado and sucked in a much-needed gulp of air.

  “You heard me. So here’s the kicker.” Jules crossed to the recessed nook she used as a mobile command center when baking from home.

  She flipped through her planner, turning the book sideways and upside down.

  Why the hell she still used the prehistoric,
non-earth friendly paper version was beyond him. He’d tried to convince her to trade the beast in for an electronic PDA but had failed. How she read the damn thing with scribbles scratched on every page was a mystery. But he wasn’t about to find out anything more ‘til she read that frickin’ planner, so all he could do was sit there and drown in silent apprehension.

  Skimming pages like a champion speed reader, she slammed shut the book’s cover.

  “We have one month until I’ll be hocking pastries seven days a week at Sweet Destiny. And exactly three months and one week, after our meeting tomorrow with Sienna and her family, to pull-off Nashville’s premier event of the holiday season.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” Cody moved his hat lower on his head, trying to shadow the horror he knew pierced through his eyes.

  “I want you and Grandma Lucy’s Lunchbox Café to help me with the rehearsal dinner as well as anything else out of my comfort level. Kind of a Fan Fest practice gig. I’m the pastry chef. You’re the Meat N’ Three Diner King,” Jules said, her eyes wide with desperation, cautioning him not to even think about letting her down. “Together, we can’t lose.”

  Sad, he’d spent countless hours reaching the same conclusion. Together, as a couple, they would be dynamite. But unsure she’d feel the same if he ever got the balls to bring up the topic, Cody had shoved the thought to a mental shelf he rarely used. Now, the idea had manifested itself in a frightening and unintended direction.

  “I think I need something stronger than coffee,” he said.

  “Good idea. We should toast our partnership and develop a plan for the meeting.” Jules gave him another scone out of the basket then headed to her liquid courage stash in the turntable next to the frig.

  He’d be toast all right, Cody thought, picturing he and Cruz and Company at their first face-to-face since all hell arrived with wedding bells eighteen months prior.

  Watching Jules’ body relax while she mixed their drinks made Cody’s head and heart spin. His brain prepared for battle, favoring the flight response instead of fighting the Cruz’s on their turf. His heart, however, charged on, fueled by Jules’ need for him and his diner.