Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
TIGHTWAD
By
Colleen Charles
Table of Contents
TIGHTWAD
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
BONUS STORY - WASTED LOVE
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Foreword
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Prologue
Taryn
“Your father’s never going to forgive you. You shame him this day, young lady.”
My stomach flips over. I don’t know what’s worse, his words or his expression. Like he can’t stand the sight of me. Like he doesn’t even know me.
“I–”
“You’re wearing your unmentionables in public,” he says, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “Only floozies and harlots dance in their underwear. This isn’t a performance. It’s lewd. Why, I can’t even stand the sight of you.”
“I–”
He held out a hand, stopping my words in their tracks. “I’m leaving. As soon as I’m back home, I’m calling your father. When I offered to check on you after my conference, I never thought I’d find…this.” He shook his head and mumbled, “Sin city indeed.”
“No!” The word is a breath and a prayer, but Father O’Hara just turns his back on me. He’s hard of hearing and my voice just floats away, adrift on the river of noise inside the club.
A fellow dancer puts a supportive arm around my shoulders and gives them a squeeze, but Tawny could never truly understand. She’s not from a conservative Catholic family in South Dakota. She’s a California girl through and through, and her hippie parents support her in anything she chooses to do. I barely got my parents to agree to let me attend UNLV. The only reason they finally gave in is because they’re farmers of meager means and UNLV offered a full-ride theater arts scholarship, meaning no cash out of pocket for my folks.
“He’s a crabby old man,” Tawny says, hugging me even tighter.
“He’s my parish priest,” I correct, although she wasn’t exactly wrong. “He baptized me.”
I glance at my friend, but she grimaces, and the light of understanding isn’t in her eyes. She could never realize the implications resulting from Father O’Hara tattling to my dad. The news of my shame will travel through Milton, South Dakota faster than a Colorado wildfire or a teenage game of telephone. My mom will lock herself in the bathroom to pray the rosary until her fingers are raw as Dad polishes his shotgun and shakes his meaty fist.
And I’ll be disowned.
Not that there’s much to pass down to me, and besides, I’ve never considered going back. I love it here. I love singing and dancing, and I’ve been doing it since I could walk upright and twirl. I made all my own dance costumes out of fabric I confiscated from our turn of the century attic, and that is where my other passion is… fashion. And if I need to bump and grind a little bit to reach my goal, so be it.
I took ballet at the local YMCA, then graduated to tap, jazz, and ballet at the only qualified dance school within an hour of my family farm. And my mom, bless her heart, still drove me to classes right up until the time I could drive the beat-up Ford F150. My fellow dancers made fun of my cow-pie infested mud flaps and rusted out fenders, but none of that mattered. When I danced, I felt like I was flying. And I don’t want to stop. Even if my father, a virgin traveler, boards the next plane to Vegas, I’m not going back to my one stoplight town.
No. Way. In. Hell.
“Who cares, Taryn,” Tawny says, clucking her tongue. She’s still wearing a corset, garters, and barely-there panties, just like I am. No robe or cover-up shields her killer curves. Our burlesque show at the Mona Lisa is the top rated sexy but non-nude show in Vegas. We opened to rave reviews, and dancers from all over the world auditioned. I should be proud. I should have stood up for myself to stern Father O’Hara.
Instead, I’m mired in shame and regret over my new adult life choices. I will not cry. I will not cry. In spite of my best efforts to tamp down my emotion over a man of the cloth’s harsh upbr
aiding, a tear escapes my eyelids and runs down my cheek. I brush it away before Tawny can see it and comfort me even more.
I don’t want comfort right now.
All I want is to live my own life without regret or judgment.
Is that too much to ask?
Chapter One
Taryn
I pace from one end of Strict Nécessaire to the other, my heels clicking on the mauve and liver marble floor. Everything looks pristine – a rack of Alice + Olivia dresses here, rag & bone designer denim there. A mix of boutique perfection all the result of my hard work and dedication. If only my folks back on the farm could see me now. Delicate crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings and the coats of dusty rose and ivory paint gleam with a polished sheen, free of even one speck of dust.
My heart thumps and squeezes as I stride toward the complementary display of drinks and pour myself a miniature bottle of champagne. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s barely noon, and it could look bad if a rich customer wanders in. But I don’t care. I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life, so today calls for a little pre-meal liquid lunch.
My cell jangles and lights up with a 323 area code, causing my heart to lurch to the side. This is it. I pick up the receiver with a sweaty hand. This is the call that will make or break me. God, I hope it’s laced with the words I’ve wanted to hear my entire life. The ones I’ve been dreaming of ever since I was ten and made an Oscar night gown out of my mom’s chintz curtains.
“Hello,” I chirp, not recognizing my own nervous voice. I swear it’s climbed at least an octave. My moist palm can barely clutch the phone. “Thank you for calling Strict Nécessaire. This is Taryn, how may I help you?”
“Hi Taryn, this is Megan Stillman. I’m with Ivory Clause Ready to Wear. I hope you’re having a great day. I just wanted to let you know that the contract has been approved. We are so excited to begin working with you. We’re sure your boutique is the perfect fit for us there in Vegas. The pictures you posted on Instagram…well, they’re just divine.”
For a moment, I forget to breathe. This is the answer I’ve been hoping and praying for, and it feels almost too good to be true. My fingers trail down to my stomach and pinch just to be sure. Something wonderful is finally happening to me. And I so deserve it. I’ve had enough negative in my world to last for at least three lifetimes. Things are finally headed in the right direction without me needing to worry about my father raiding the strip with his pitchfork in hand.
“Hello? Taryn?” Megan pauses, and I realize that with my mind galloping out of control, I haven’t answered. “Are you still there?”
Flushing, I grip the phone harder. “Yes, I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush to correct my awkward impoliteness. “I’m very excited, too. This is a great opportunity for both Strict Nécessaire and Ivory Clause. And Las Vegas. Don’t worry. We won’t let you down. Your idea to keep your ready to wear line exclusive here is brilliant. And that you’ve selected my store, well, it’s–”
“We’re sure you’ll do the best possible job in creating that special high-end experience that Ivory desires for her brand,” Megan says, sounding like she means it. In that moment, I realize that one of the best and most sought-after designers in the world believes in me and my store. And her belief is going to create a flood of wealthy women hungry to snatch up every design she sends here. “We’ll have our lawyer fax the paperwork over shortly, and from there it’s just a few signatures until we’re officially in business. Ivory herself couldn’t be more excited about this opportunity, and I think I can speak for all of us here when I say how pleased we are. Strict Nécessaire is a perfect fit for our brand, Taryn. Please thank Nixon Caldwell as well when next you see him since he was instrumental in the deal.”
It’s hard not to break into a song and happy dance like one of those animated emojis, but I keep my cool. Victoria Beckham might have fallen through, but landing Ivory instead is a major coup. She designed the two most photographed gowns at last year’s Oscars red carpet.
“My staff and I are very pleased about the news, too. Everything sounds amazing, thank you.” I barely temper my desire to gush. Poise is the order of the day. “And please, if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Of course,” Megan says. “Same goes for you. Here at Ivory Clause, we pride ourselves on our transparent business relationships. I hope you always feel comfortable dealing with me and my associates. I’ll be your special point of contact, and you can contact me anytime of the day or night.”
After a short goodbye, we hang up. The thrill sets in like a chill to my bones and I can’t stop myself from stepping into the stockroom. I leap, jump, and cheer as I cry tears of joy. A few fist pumps toward the sky, and I’m soaring. My heels clack on the marble floors and my face aches from my shit-eating grin. This is, without a doubt, the best moment of my life as a businesswoman.
So far.
This is just the beginning! Who knows what kind of clients I’ll land in the future! Ivory’s just the start. I could land Stella. Or even Versace.
Holy. Shit.
Ever since I first opened my luxury boutique – French for bare necessities – I’ve dreamed of a moment like this. I’ve been dogged – I’ve had to be in order to get where I am today. But so far, I’ve only worked with small couture brands. Previously, my biggest triumph was nabbing Paige, a tiny denim outfit out of Los Angeles. When I started selling Paige jeans in Strict Nécessaire, customers were pulling them off the shelves faster than I could keep them stocked. And then, by some miracle, Meghan Markle showed up to a press event in a pair of Paige jeans. It was right around the time news of her relationship with Prince Harry broke, and that blessed celebrity coupling was what had finally pulled me out of the two-dollar boxed wine and into prosecco.
With Ivory Clause in Strict Nécessaire, I’m hoping I can finally make it to champagne. And not just the bar champagne I’m drinking now.
Kristal.
I almost can’t believe it. Even though I’m working my fingers to the bone, pulling all- nighters and eighty-hour work weeks whenever duty calls, the reality of this success doesn’t feel real. When I first moved to Las Vegas from a sleepy little town in South Dakota on a full-ride scholarship to UNLV, I was caught in the neon of the strip and the fast lifestyle like a deer in the headlights. As a poor college kid, I’d done what I had to do in order to survive – all the while spending every free moment planning my future in the fashion industry. And even during my low moments, I’m proud that I escaped my redneck existence.
I’m the first person in my family to graduate from college, make it to twenty-five without getting pregnant, or even move away from Milton. When I was a grade school kid with pigtails, I dreamed of heading to New York with my tutu and ragged suitcase, to audition for Broadway or the Rockettes.
And then UNLV had come calling with their neon siren’s song. Now, I’m glad that I stuck with Vegas. I like the high energy environment.
It fits.
And even though I like to think of myself as a pretty cosmopolitan woman now, deep down I still feel like a sunburned hick in torn overalls. My best friend, Bailey, says that someday I’ll get over it. But I’m not so sure. I feel like no matter how successful I am, I’m never going to feel like I quite belong in fashion. Almost like I’m wearing a mask or a persona like Reese Witherspoon in “Sweet Home Alabama.”
Just as my heart rate slows to normal, the door chimes and I whirl around, still flushed and breathless.
“Hello!” I sing out with more enthusiasm than necessary, ready to convert my adrenaline spike into a huge sale. “May I help you?”
When I see the man darkening my doorway, my happiness pops like a champagne bubble. Oh, no. Why him? Why now?
Dante Giovanetti stands there in his signature custom Armani, his thin lips pulling into a sarcastic sneer. My heart sinks, but I make sure to temper my own expression. The fact that he’s here in person instead of sending one of his goons speaks
volumes. There’s no use getting into it with him when a customer could walk in at any moment and interrupt us. He’s got me backed into a corner, which is exactly the way he likes it.
He’s not my favorite mistake.
“Hello, Taryn,” he says in a mocking tone, staring at my glass. The liquid gold contents go flat underneath the heat of his censuring gaze, and one lonely bubble floats to the top. I stare at it. Because if I look at Dante, I’ll be tempted to throw the remaining contents in his smug face. “Celebrating something? I’m not sure why you’re in such a good mood – place looks pretty empty to me. Did all your customers just become members of the second wives club?”
I force a tight smile as my nostrils flare involuntarily. Just the sight of Dante sets my blood boiling, but I’m determined not to let him spoil this happy occasion. I’m sure he just wants to intimidate me – and really, how bad can it be? After all, I’m no longer Dante’s employee. He doesn’t have any right to boss me around. I work for myself, and I’m under a generous lease with Nixon Caldwell at the Armónico.
“We’re open for business as usual, but you’re right. I am celebrating.” Damn, it feels good to let this man know how successful I am. “I’ve just landed a significant contract.” I gesture toward the small cabinet of drinks. To prove this douche doesn’t affect me, I make him an offer. If you can’t beat ‘em, get ‘em drunk. “Feel like sharing some champagne?”
Dante’s grin grows a shade more unpleasant. “Ah yes. Ms. Clause has come calling, I hear. I meant to ask, are you celebrating anything that I don’t know about?”
My heart sinks. How could he possibly know about my new contract when I’d just heard the news myself only moments ago? “What?”
“You heard me, Taryn,” he says, his voice laced with menace. He strides a few steps closer to me, and I suppress a shiver. “And don’t treat me like a fool, either, you know very well I keep a very close eye on all my…friends.”
I cock my head to the side, standing firm and not letting him see how he can get to me. “Friends? Is that what we are? Friends don’t have to spy on each other,” I add, putting my hands on my hips. “Spit it out. Why are you here?”
Dante snickers and my pounding blood turns to ice in my veins. “I have my sources.” His presence could only be described as menacing. He takes up space and seems to drain all of the available air from any room he enters, leaving his targets gasping for breath. “Lots of little birds fly around this town, Taryn. Lots of songsters who like telling me everything I need to know.” He pauses and walks even closer, licking his lips. My stomach flips. The thought of that forked tongue anywhere near me makes me want to upchuck my champagne all over his Italian leather shoes. “The thing is, Taryn…you wouldn’t be here without me. And you know it.”
Tightwad (Caldwell Brothers Book 2) Page 1
