Tightwad (Caldwell Brothers Book 2)

by Colleen Charles

  “Fine.” She flares her nostrils, spins, and practically stomps out of the room. I know what I just did was kind of bitchy, but I don’t care. Something about Reagan makes me feel selfish, like I want him all to myself. That, and I’m a little sick of explaining my every move to Bailey, best friend or not.

  “She’s in a bad mood,” I lie, glancing at the back door just in time to see it bang shut. “I’ve been talking her ear off about Dante all morning, and she’s been trying to talk me down from the ledge.”

  My hungry gaze sweeps over him. Reagan looks all business again, straight and tall and muscular in his Valentino suit. Like a lawyerly dessert I want to devour. “I know it’s not much comfort, but try not to worry. There’s nothing we can do, at least not right now. We just have to wait. Nixon and I can handle him. He’s been doing it for years all on his own, and now I’m here to help. What could go wrong?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Everything. That’s what I hate about this whole situation. If a charity event goes south, the only people who suffer are those that would have been helped by the funds raised.”

  “Can I get some water?”

  “Of course,” I say, darting across the room and opening the mini-fridge. “Sorry, I should’ve offered.”

  Reagan smiles, a fluid warm smile that makes my lower belly jump with excitement. “Taryn, relax,” he says. “You’re really keyed up. How about taking an early lunch with me?”

  “What about Nixon?”

  “We can always talk later. Besides, it’s probably better if I don’t bother him in the middle of the day. Nix tends to get surly when he’s in the middle of something important, and the word Dante comes up in polite conversation. He’ll end up ruining my day.”

  “Lunch does sound good.” I’m not hungry, but any excuse to sit across from Reagan and stare at his sexy face sounds very good. And maybe a glass of wine, or two…just enough to relax and flirt, and forget all about Dante.

  “Go tell Bailey you’re leaving, and I’ll see if I can get us a table at Ruth’s Chris,” Reagan says, pulling out his phone. “Steak sounds good to me, what about you?”

  “Perfect,” I say, unable to stop my lips from spreading in a wide grin. Just as I’m about to turn and head back into the storage room, the door chimes again and my heart sinks. Crap. Just when I was about to leave, too.

  “Welcome to Strict Nécessaire.” My greeting’s automatic as I whirl around. Thankfully, it’s not Dante…but it’s not anyone I recognize, either. A pretty blonde in her late twenties smiles tentatively at me as she saunters into the store.

  “Hi, I just thought I’d stop in. I heard from Nixon that you opened your own boutique. That’s so cool,” she gushes. “I’m so happy for you.”

  Behind her back, Reagan wrinkles his brow as if to ask who this girl is. Nervous energy bubbles in my throat, and I force another wide smile.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”

  “Taryn, seriously.” The blonde gives me a chastising look. “You don’t remember me?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling helpless. “Have we worked together before?”

  The girl looks stricken, then suddenly drops into a split and throws her arms in the air. My heart stops dead in my chest as the realization hits me like a ton of bricks – it’s the signature end move from my old burlesque troop.

  My hand flies to my lips. “Tawny? Is…is that you?”

  Tawny nods and laughs. “I know, I look a little different,” she says, gesturing to her perfect ski-jump nose. I can tell she’s had it done, but now that I know it’s her, she does look familiar. Her warm brown eyes are still the same, and the light smattering of freckles across her now-perfect nose and high cheekbones is a dead giveaway. She’s blonder and tanner, if that’s even possible for an Orange County girl like her.

  I haven’t seen Tawny in years – not since I quit dancing and opened the store.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, my mouth going dry. How am I going to explain her and her sexy gymnastics to Reagan? “Can I help you find something?”

  Tawny frowns as she gets to her feet. “No,” she says, sounding confused. “I just thought I’d stop by and visit. I heard through the grapevine how good you’re doing, and I wanted to say hello for old time’s sake.”

  “Right.” I cast another look at Reagan. “Well, um, I was actually just about to head out to lunch.”

  “Oh, I’m starving! Can I come with?” Tawny asks. “We can get a burger and fries just like back in the day.”

  “Uh,” I say nervously.

  “Are you a friend of Taryn’s?” Reagan steps closer, giving me an odd look over the back of Tawny’s blonde head.

  “Ah, I see. You have a lunch date with him. Well, Taryn and I used to–”

  “We used to work together,” I say, cutting her off. She gives me an odd look, but I don’t care. The last thing I need is for her to reveal all of my sordid past to Reagan. I’m sure he already thinks I’m a little rash and showy in comparison to his buttoned up exterior, but I don’t need him knowing the gritty details of me dancing for Dante. If he makes the connection, he will try to take over the situation, and I can take care of myself.

  “You’ve turned into quite the businesswoman,” Tawny says, giving me a long, appraising look. “You’re so…mature.”

  I shrug, feeling helpless. My anxiety grows by the second, causing my heart to gallop. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about it,” she says, tossing her long curls. “I’m just going from appearances. I’m still dancing, doing a limited engagement at Crazy Horse tonight, isn’t that cool?”

  “Sure.” I give her an overly bright smile. “Congratulations.”

  “Where did you say that you and Taryn worked?” Reagan asks. There’s a curious gleam in his eyes, and the sight of it makes me want to melt into the marble floor.

  “We just worked together. That’s all,” I say, flashing Reagan my biggest fake smile. My palms are damp with perspiration, and I wipe them on my designer-clad thighs. “You know, just old friends, re-connecting.”

  No one laughs. The uncomfortable silence in the room ratchets up, making me feel even worse, and sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I wish more than anything that I hadn’t sent Bailey out of the room – she’d know how to handle this. But I can’t exactly run after her now, not with Tawny and Reagan in the same room. If he finds out about my dancing at the Mona Lisa, it needs to be from my lips and not from some random blast from the past.

  “This is nice,” Tawny says, running her fingers over the silk of an Ivory Clause gown. “Can I try it on?”

  “Sure,” I say brightly, grabbing the gown off the rack and hustling across the store to the dressing room. “Can I interest you in anything else?”

  “You didn’t even ask my size,” Tawny says, pouting.

  “No need,” I say, putting a hand in the small of her back. “I can tell you’re still a two.”

  Tawny laughs and her pout turns into a blinding smile. I can tell she’s about to make a joke about how well I know her body, so I grab her by the elbow and guide her across the room. As soon as she’s locked in the fitting room, I turn to Reagan.

  “Would you mind getting Bailey from the back and telling her that we’re about to leave?”

  Reagan gives me an odd look. “Taryn, what’s going on? You’re acting really weird.” He took a step closer. “If this isn’t a good time, I can always come back. We can make it dinner instead of lunch.”

  “No, no, lunch is great,” I say, smiling. “Just go get Bailey, okay? Please?”

  Reagan narrows his eyes. Just as he opens his mouth to reply, the dressing room door flies open and Tawny steps out, clad in a curve-hugging gown.

  “That looks amazing on you,” I say. “You should definitely buy it.”

  Tawny gives a nervous giggle. “I don’t know, Taryn, this is kind of out of my budget.” She glances down at the tag. “You know as well as I do, danci
ng pays well but not this well.”

  My stomach drops like I’m riding down the first hill of a roller coaster, and I suppress a groan. There it is. Now, everything is out in the open. Reagan’s going to start pressing me about my dancing career and where it all went down.

  “Well, Taryn?” Tawny asks and bobs her eyebrows. “I mean, unless you’re going to give me a discount.”

  I can feel a flush creeping up my neck to land on my cheeks. I have to do something fast and get out of the room before Tawny says anything even more incriminating. I’m just now realizing I’m falling for Reagan, and I don’t want the magic to end before I’m ready.

  “Uh, I’m going to model these,” I say, grabbing a fedora and a silk scarf from the accessories table. They don’t match, at all – the fedora is a houndstooth print, and the scarf is covered with bright Pucci swirls, but I grin and wrap the scarf around my neck. “I should be out, you know, doing some viral advertising for the fashion show. I’ve been slacking. What would Nixon say?”

  “What about the dress?” Tawny asks, looking down at herself in confusion.

  “What about lunch?” Reagan looked equally confused. “Taryn, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say with false enthusiasm as I grab my purse and walk to the door. “Gotta go. Bailey can handle everything from here. Tawny, great to see you. Tell Bailey to give you the employee discount. Reagan, catch you later.”

  Before anyone can cast light on my dark past, I walk away and out on the Promenade, my ludicrous disguise trailing behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Reagan

  “What the hell was that?” The blonde – Tawny – asks. “Are you like, her sugar daddy or something? Should I know you? You do look kind of familiar.”

  No, not another woman who saw me on The Real Housewives of New York. I stifle a groan and deflect.

  “What?” I shake my head. “No. You don’t know me, and I’m not a television star.”

  “Then what happened,” Tawny asks, narrowing her eyes.

  “I…I have no idea,” I say honestly, shrugging my shoulders in frustration. Taryn’s going to be the death of me with her ever-changing moods. I want to invent a mood ring that would help with reading her multiple personalities and pitch it to Mark Cuban on Shark Tank. “I’ve never really seen her like that before.”

  Tawny rolls her eyes. “Taryn was always a little headstrong,” she says, as if letting me in on some big secret. “She likes to be in control, even if it’s at everyone else’s expense. She doesn’t understand the meaning of spontaneous. Look, I’m going to change – you can tell her I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can afford this dress, even with a deep discount.”

  “Okay.” My mind spins. Why the hell did Taryn bolt like that with that weird getup? It doesn’t take a fashion guru to know a cosmo woman like Taryn would never step out of her store in mismatched accessories. What happened to make her evade talking about her past? Surely not the dancing because I’ve known about it forever. Hell, I’ve even seen her burlesque show myself via YouTube. Many a long night’s been spent in NYC with my finger on the enter key and my other hand stroking my hard-on. Her line about “viral advertising” for the fashion show was obviously bullshit, but what the hell made her lie in the first place?

  Tawny changes in the fitting room then hangs the dress back up on the rack. She digs into her purse and brings out a silver card case. “You can give this to Taryn if you ever see her again,” she says, rolling her eyes. “In case she’s been wondering what we’ve all been up to. We’d love to get together for drinks.”

  “Who is ‘we all?’”

  “Our burlesque troupe, Diamonds and Dames,” Tawny says. “Taryn danced with us for years.”

  “I know.” I realize I should probably recognize Tawny, but she pales in comparison to Taryn. I’ll admit, I never even looked at the other dancers. “I’ll make sure she gets this.”

  I pocket Tawny’s card. She leaves, and I’m left standing in Strict Nécessaire, feeling like an asshole. Just as I’m wondering whether I should stay or go, Bailey comes trotting out from the back. She frowns when she sees me standing there alone.

  “Where’s Taryn?”

  “She said she was going out to do viral marketing for the fashion show,” I say. “Wearing a hat and a scarf.”

  “That’s weird,” Bailey says, wrinkling her nose. “Taryn hates hats. Ruins her hair and she thinks it’s her best feature. She was really looking forward to lunch with you. Did something happen?”

  I shrug, feeling helpless. I almost want to throw my hands up in the air and walk off without completing the conversation. It feels like an exercise in futility. “No clue,” I say. “This girl came in, someone that Taryn used to dance with. And she freaked out, and then she left. We were supposed to have lunch together.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing.” She gazes around and lifts both shoulders nearly to her ears. “I should probably just hang out here over lunch, maybe she’ll come back in an hour or so.”

  “Maybe,” I say, glancing down at my Rolex. “I should get going. I have to meet with my brother about the event.”

  “Okay.” She bites her lip. “Um, Reagan?”

  “Yeah? What’s up?”

  Bailey presses her lips together and gives me a strange look.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Is Taryn okay?”

  Bailey doesn’t respond. She squirms, twisting her hands in front of her and knotting her fingers together.

  “Bailey, come on, just tell me. We’re both adults.”

  “It’s nothing,” she says, pissing me off to no end. I feel like I’ve stumbled into some alternate universe where females are on some kind of mission to confuse and alienate. “Bye, Reagan. Have a nice day.” She grabs some dress hangers and walks to the door. When I realize she’s holding it open for me to leave, I walk out into the Promenade.

  “Well, bye.”

  I’m so confused. Every time I feel closer to figuring Taryn out, something like this happens. I’m not sure why she’s so ashamed of her past – it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Heck, I’m a lawyer by day and a stand-up comedian every chance I get. My partners don’t know about it, and I want to keep it that way. But Taryn and I are friends. More than friends. It makes my heart ache that she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me her true feelings after everything we’ve shared. I want to know her mind as intimately as I know her body.

  Does she know that I know this? Or is she somehow worried that I won’t want her because of her so-called sordid past? The truth is, I really don’t care. If anything, I admire Taryn’s strength. She’s a fighter – she’s always been a fighter, since back when we were kids in undergrad. And she obviously did what she had to do in order to open Strict Nécessaire. I don’t know why she’s avoiding the inevitable. Everybody’s got a past.

  It occurs to me as I walk down the strip that maybe she’s embarrassed. I don’t know much about her background – only that she’s from South Dakota, which makes me think her family is pretty conservative. I bet they don’t know about Taryn’s dancing, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t approve.

  But I like to think they’d be proud of her now. After all, Taryn’s a very accomplished woman. She’s not even thirty, and she has one of the hottest designer boutiques in Vegas. She’s right up there with my brother and myself – we’re all young, determined, and driven. And if Taryn wasn’t driven, she wouldn’t be where she is now, enjoying an exclusive contract with Ivory Clause.

  But I want to know her better. I want to really know Taryn – I want to figure out what makes her tick, what she really thinks in that brilliant and beautiful mind of hers. But if she won’t open up, even a sliver, I’m screwed. My time in Vegas is running out. As soon as Dante is under control, I’ll be back in New York City, drinking and sleeping at the office, while Taryn will remain a distant, delicious dream of the past.

  As I think about her past
performances, a little shiver of lust travels straight to my balls. Dancers are beautiful. I’ve always thought so. And while I can’t deny that the thought of Taryn dancing – really dancing, not just alcohol fueled gyrations – turns me on, I don’t want her to think that I disapprove.

  This is one hell of a situation. As I walk past Ruth’s Chris, I wish I was in there right now, with Taryn, eating steak tartare and sipping Syrah.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I snatch it out without looking. It’s Taryn – it has to be – and she’s going to say that she’s sorry, that she still wants to get lunch. And then I’ll get the chance to explain everything.

  “Taryn,” I say breathlessly. “Where are you?”

  There’s no answer for a few seconds, then I hear a familiar masculine chuckle in my ear.

  “Oh, Reagan, I love you sooo much,” Nixon says in a high-pitched voice.

  “Shut up,” I growl. “I didn’t look at the caller ID.”

  His peals of laughter make me want to reach through the phone and slap him. “Obviously. Look, I need you to swing by my office right now – there’s something we have to discuss for the benefit.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  We hang up, and I slip my phone back into my pocket. I’m starving, and I’m close to Caesar’s – Munchbar has a takeout window, so I order a bacon cheeseburger with extra fries and wait for my food. The smell of grease and meat is enough to make my mouth water, but I’m still fantasizing about sitting in an intimate booth at Ruth’s Chris, across from Taryn.

  By the time I make my way back to the Armónico, it’s almost two. The sun is high overhead, and I’m sweating buckets as I walk into the casino and down the back hall to Nixon’s private elevator. Too fast, it grinds to a stop at his private office and the doors ding. His office door is closed. I don’t even knock, just push open the door and plop into one of the leather executive chairs in front of his massive desk.

  “Hey,” he says, the phone pressed to his ear. “Give me a second.”