Bootscootin' Blahniks Read online

  Scratching noises and whimpers from the third level interrupted his thoughts. Not wanting to wander uninvited throughout Roxy’s home and certain her dogs were in bad need of a potty break, Zayne left the ice pack in the sink and began his ascent of the final flight of stairs. He huffed and grumbled. Despite the craftsmanship, the layout of the home sucked.

  But once he stepped onto the third floor, the view stopped him with an unexpected punch to his gut. Ten-foot ceilings and expansive windows filled one wall, framing Nashville’s downtown skyline. The picture-like setting begged him to step onto the outdoor terrace.

  Passing a fireplace that separated Roxy’s bedroom from an ornate, yet comfortable sitting room, Zayne opened the French doors and walked out into the spring night.

  At this height and location, an electrifying quietness blanketed the cityscape. He’d never looked at Nashville from this vantage point. If he lived in this house, he’d spend all his quality time here, watching the city sleep, dozing in the chaise lounge until the sunrise awakened him.

  His mom would get a kick out of this.

  Scratching noises broke the spell. He hustled inside, feeling bad he’d forgotten the reason for his sojourn.

  Once back in Roxy’s sitting room, he found the dogs and their cages next to a drafting table. Dipstick and Darling looked out with their large, sweet-natured eyes. Zayne’s chest swelled as if a balloon filled with the animals’ joy took over his heart. Dogs socked him in the cardio muscle, creating irreversible damage.

  Unlatching their cages, he noticed one-of-a-kind, jeweled labels attached to each. They could only have been Roxy’s handiwork. The girl certainly loved her bling. On polished silver, in decadently scrolled script, he read ‘Dipstick’ and ‘Darling.’ Dipstick’s plate was studded with some type of funky brown crystals and Darling’s featured large, pink sparkling rocks. He also wasn’t surprised, knowing Roxy’s flare for matching everything, that each dog wore a collar and tag coordinating with its crate label.

  Zayne had no sooner let Dipstick and Darling free when both dogs and their loose-skinned, wrinkly-faces were all over him. They licked and sniffed identifying him as (a) dog-lover or (b) non-dog-lover. Quickly deciding he was the former or perhaps remembering he’d helped them in their snack sickness state, the dogs wouldn’t leave him alone. Maybe they also smelled traces of their long lost buddy Studley Pete.

  Zayne sat down on the edge of an over-stuffed ottoman. Both dogs jumped up on him, competing for his attention as their curly-fry tails jiggled.

  A far cry away on the canine social scale from Studley Pete’s shelter-rescued, lab shepherd mix, Zayne had read about these designer mutts after his mom had seen them on the Today Show. She hadn’t let him forget since how much she wanted one. Yep, Dipstick and Darling were definitely Puggles — a cross between a pug and a beagle. And if he weren’t mistaken, their breed had first been discovered walking alongside Manhattan elite. No wonder Roxy had them. He couldn’t imagine a woman more uniquely elite and Puggle-worthy.

  “What are you doing up there?” Roxy’s voice crackled, appearing to come right through the wall. “I’m sure the poor dears have to pee something fierce.”

  Zayne looked in the direction of Roxy’s voice and found an intercom, its green light buzzing. Damn! He couldn’t get away from her, even two floors up — definitely the house’s biggest design problem yet.

  “Do they look like…they…uh…missed me,” Roxy said, her slurred speech, signaling the pain medication must be working.

  Not really, Zayne thought to himself, they just look like they have to pee. Thinking it best to ignore his sarcastic impulses, he pushed the intercom’s green talk button and changed the subject. “I’d been meaning to ask where did you get these dogs? I’ve looked online. No one seems to be able to keep them in stock.”

  The intercom beeped. “I don’t know where they came from. My mom got them for me after she forgot my birthday last year. Head…upstairs…I mean downstairs. We’ll talk while we pee. There’s intercoms…in the…stairwells too, so you won’t lose me.”

  ‘We’ll talk while we pee?’ Something wasn’t quite right with that statement, but he’d better pass on it. Good thing he’d given her two pills. She’d be off his ass in no time.

  He pressed the green button again. “By the way, how are you reaching an intercom from your office couch? You’re supposed to be off that ankle.” It’d be just like her to be walking on it when she was told not to.

  “Relax, Dudley Do-Right,” she mocked him. “I happen…to have a reboat…remote.”

  How convenient. Even though she was immobile, he couldn’t dodge her medically-induced babble.

  He rubbed Dipstick and Darling’s ears and massaged their elongated snouts, giving-in to their lap-loving personalities. Figuring he’d probably better get them outside, he located their leashes on top of Roxy’s drafting table and hooked them to each dog’s collar. Brown with the brown gems and pink with the pink. Roxy had to have been raised in Granimals. No wonder his mother loved her. When Zayne was a boy, she’d bought the entire line each season. He’d wanted Wranglers but always ended up with Granimals.

  He followed the dogs down the first set of stairs. They raced around the side hall toward the second set. Damn. The steps were a bitch. Especially trying to hurdle dog leashes. No wonder he planned to keep his parent’s ranch-style home instead of building a modern multi-level dwelling. After working the fields then the saloon every day, stairs of any kind were an unnecessary aggravation.

  On the second-floor landing, he found the intercom mount, painted the same canary yellow as the wall. He pushed the button, but couldn’t wait ’til Roxy responded as Dipstick and Darling made a mad dash for the first floor.

  “You…rangggg…,” Roxy squealed into the speaker on his way down the final flight. Yep, the drugs were working.

  Reaching the foyer, he yelled into the study. “And just where would your Highness like me to allow her royal Puggles to relieve themselves?”

  “Out back. Follow the dogs…through the garbage…garage, whatever…,” she yelled back then laughed some more. “How did you know they were Puggles? I’m stressed…I mean…impressed, yeah, that’s it.”

  Stepping into the two-car garage, he spotted Roxy’s cracked-up Mercedes and…her motorcycle? Unbelievable. The woman was a fascinating mystery. Who would have thought the fashion princess would also be a Harley Mama? Unfucking believable.

  Lost in thoughts of taking her vintage Harley for a test-run on the back roads of the farm, Roxy seated behind him, he imagined the feel of her body against his. The idea drove him to new places, making him hotter than a bike’s exhaust pipe after a long ride.

  Dipstick and Darling pulled at him, stopping his mind in its wistful tracks. He opened the back door of the garage, letting them tug him over a cobblestone terrace into a fairytale-like courtyard.

  Surrounded by a brick privacy wall, Roxy’s backyard was cut straight out of the pages of his mother’s Southern Living then pasted here. He’d stepped into a honky tonk Garden of Eden. He unleashed the dogs and let them do their thing. Thankfully, the heady smell of roses and wild lilies, all in shades of pink, hit his nose ahead of the dogs’ number two.

  The yard was the stage for a canopied eating area including, of all things, a lit chandelier suspended over an antique wrought-iron table and chairs. Roxy had also meticulously landscaped and lit a cutting garden with a majestic, lion-head fountain anchored in the center of a reflecting pool.

  Except for the lion, the scene offered a softer side of Roxy he’d never imagined existed. And never would have believed unless he’d seen it with his own eyes. The woman was a dichotomy of morally opposing forces, but he was crazy about the mix.

  “You never answered me, did you? How did ya know about Puggles?” Speaking of a lion, damn if she didn’t have an intercom piped into the backyard too.

  “My mom wants one, but I haven’t found one for under six hundred bucks.” Zayne leaned over to
praise the dogs for doing their deeds. “Hell, I only gave the pound twenty-five for Studley Pete.”

  All he could hear from the intercom was a series of guffaws followed by choking bursts of hysterics.

  “Now what the hell’s so funny?” I should have only given her one pill.

  “Stud…ley Peeete. That name still cracks me up. Now…there’s one…hell-uv-a name for a mutt.” Roxy sniffled then blew her nose, evidently while she was still holding down the talk button.

  Nice. Sexy too.

  “He happens to be one fine dog, Princess. And you know he has a huge crush on you.” Zayne thought of his mixed-breed friend patiently waiting by his back door. Yeah, that’d be the day. Who was he kidding? That dog was sprawled out on his bed, reveling in the extra room afforded him by his master’s absence.

  Maybe he’d stick with a pound rescue for his mom too. He still had misgivings about getting her a Puggle. Puggles were sweet-tempered, affectionate cuddlers. Qualities no one would use to describe his mom. Or Roxy, for that matter. Although her dogs seemed pretty damn happy. And so did she, now that she was drugged.

  With their duties done, Zayne took the dogs back into the house. While they bee-lined for the study, he went to the kitchen to fix a new ice pack. Taking ice out of the stainless steel side-by-side, he noticed a picture of Roxy and two other girls stuck to the front of the frig with a “I ‘heart’ NY” magnet. He leaned-in closer to the photo, zeroing-in on Roxy’s image, letting her smile melt the frost blasting from the still open freezer.

  The photo must have been taken at last year’s Wine on the River because each girl held the event’s signature wine glass. On the historic Shelby Street Pedestrian Bridge, with the sun setting over the downtown Nashville skyline, Roxy appeared angelic. Must have been the wine.

  Zayne had been there that night too. Regret chipped at his mind thinking he’d never run into her.

  At his mother’s insistence, he’d attended the event because the proceeds went to an organization of merchants and residents of Broadway, Second Avenue and Printers Alley. With The Neon Cowboy in the 100 block of Second Avenue, Kat offered him no outs. But to be fair, she was right.

  Anything that meant good business for the saloon was okay with him. Anything that meant his mom’s happiness was also okay with him. Anything that meant less time on the farm was beyond okay with him.

  His granddad’s and dad’s tomatoes had never given him the buzz his mom’s saloon did. Blame it on the linedancing. Blame it on the casual, slower-paced lifestyle the saloon celebrated. Blame it on the break it offered to the area’s hard-working cowboys and farmers. Whatever the reason, The Neon Cowboy energized him more than any tomato hybrid.

  He traced Roxy’s outline in the photo, letting his fingers run the edges of her curves, wishing it was her in the flesh letting his hands wander. But at this point of their relationship, her photo was all he was going to get, other than a dance partner two nights a week.

  Damn, he was a genius at times. Like he gave a shit if the dents she’d put in his tomato truck were repaired. What he wanted was a chance to get to know the woman. He had a feeling there was a lot more to her than her zany, shoe designer fetish and her sharp, tough-girl tongue.

  Filling the bag with ice, he zip-locked the seal and headed for his final flight for the night. Funny Roxy hadn’t buzzed him while he’d been in the kitchen. He’d come to expect whirlwinds when in her midst, not peace and silence. And he, without any excuses to offer that would be remotely convincing, thrived on the rush circulating through him when she spoke. There was no denying the way his body responded to her presence. Even thinking about her got him worked-up.

  When he reached her study and peaked in, he discovered the source of the unexpected calm. His princess was out cold on the couch, her faithful guardians Dipstick and Darling settled on top of her, one wedged in the curve of her stomach and one between her legs. What he wouldn’t give to be a Puggle tonight.

  At least, while she was asleep, she couldn’t argue with him or throw him out.

  With care, he placed the ice pack into its cover and secured the straps around her ankle, then repositioned her leg on the couch to what he hoped would be a more comfortable angle. Thinking she must be out good since she never stirred, he grabbed a suede throw from a rack full of them then shooed the dogs off her long enough to tuck the blanket around her. Soon, blanket and dogs were nestled in for the rest of the morning.

  He smoothed her hair away from her forehead, momentarily mesmerized by her thick, tri-colored locks. He’d never seen a woman with three simultaneous hair colors. Leave it to Roxy to up the ante. Hell, to give her credit, it looked great. With a combination of caramel, honey, and chocolaty-colored strands, she was hot. In an odd way. But that was Roxy, hot and odd.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he leaned over and planted a kiss on her button nose then dipped-in for a taste of her devil-for-the-taking lips. Wanting much more, he settled for easing back and inhaling the cherry almond scent of her skin. For a woman full of spice, she smelled nothing but sweet. And talk about baby soft skin. Spooning her in his bed would be real nice, the thought further denting his good boy image.

  In desperate need of cooling off, he checked the ice pack once more. Standing to leave, he bent over to pick-up the empty water bottle she’d dropped onto the floor. He didn’t want her falling again.

  “Nice aaasss,” she mumbled then winked at him before once again closing her eyes.

  “At least you like one part of me.” Zayne shook his head at her brash bravado, suppressing a laugh.

  McDonalds had always started at the bottom and worked their way up. With Roxy Rae, the legacy continued.

  Chapter Six

  Zayne pounded the snooze button a fifth time, forcing his eyes to verify the time. Shit. He blinked then refocused, staring harder at the glowing red numbers. Could it really be 7 a.m.? He was way beyond late.

  He shoved aside what little bit of comforter still covered him, knocking Studley Pete onto the floor. Pete yawned, making it known by a disgruntled half-bark, half-growl that he wasn’t any happier than Zayne to be awake.

  “Quit your belly-achin’, Pete,” Zayne said as he rubbed behind the dog’s ears and patted his back. “All you do is run into the kitchen and eat. I won’t get a morsel till I answer a butt load of questions.”

  Zayne opened his bedroom door and stuck his head out, seeing if the path to his bathroom was clear. The smell of fresh bacon and coffee assaulted his nose, reminding him how hungry he was. Hell, he hadn’t eaten since last night’s fried pickles. No wonder his stomach rumbled with the ferocity of a bear waking up from a winter nap.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he hollered to whoever could hear him in the kitchen. “Just have to rinse off.”

  “It’s about damn time,” Damian’s deep, taunting grumble echoed the halls, followed by a hearty laugh.

  Asshole. Damian knew better than to start something Kat McDonald couldn’t resist finishing, although all Zayne’s friends agreed how fun it was to test her patience.

  “Hurry up, Zayne,” his mother scolded, feeding off Damian’s bait. “The food’s been done for over ten minutes. That’s not fair to Cody. He busted his ass fixing our breakfast.”

  “You mean it’s not fair to you, Mom. You’re dying to know why I’m late.” Zayne grabbed his robe off the hook on the back of his bedroom door and headed for the bathroom.

  “I know where you’ve been, Smart Ass,” she snapped back, “and who you’ve been with. So get moving.”

  Zayne heard Damian snickering, followed by Cody’s guffaw. Some friends they were.

  Closing the bathroom door, Zayne turned the shower as hot as it would go, waiting on the water to reach a scalding temperature.

  He stepped around the glass-block shower wall Damian had built during the remodel, entering the swelter of steam swirling the stall. He switched the showerhead to deep massage. The increased pressure pounded his nerves into minced mea
t.

  How could he limit his mother’s involvement in his life without crushing her? Since his dad’s death, her control wrapped around him tighter than ever. It was as if she feared she’d lose him too. He had to level with her soon. Otherwise, she’d squeeze his ambitions into dried up dreams, like the frazzled and frayed pulp of a bad wedge of lime.

  Damian and Cody busted his balls constantly for giving her too much power. But nobody told Kat McDonald what was or wasn’t acceptable meddling. Zayne, and his father too, had tried for years and gotten nothing but chastised or ignored.

  The hot water pummeled Zayne’s chest, beating down with hollow thumps against his ribs. Knowing she struggled to fill the empty space left by his father’s death, he didn’t want to be too hard on her. Fussing over his life ’til he was nuts was her answer to attempting to heal her bereavement.

  Hanging out at the farm every free minute she earned, she was privy to all his comings and goings. She didn’t give a shit about the tomato business. And never had. Tomatoes were the McDonald way of life. She’d just happened to fall in love with a McDonald. The farm simply provided an extra venue in which to keep up with her son’s personal life. She didn’t have enough time to get the dirt on him while tending to their saloon.

  As much as he wanted to stay in the shower to avoid the lynch mob in his kitchen, Zayne turned off the water and reached for the towel he’d thrown over the top of the shower wall. Pressing the fluffy cotton to his face, he breathed in the fresh-laundered scent. His mom insisting on doing his laundry again now that he was back home wasn’t an item he opposed.

  He wrapped the towel around his waist and brushed his teeth. Crossing the hall back to his room, he threw on jeans, and grabbed a T-shirt.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled as nonchalant as he dared, waiting on the firestorm.

  Call him hyper-sensitive, but the kitchen was un-naturally silent, with only the clinks of utensils against plates. Each ping pierced his nerves.