If Livinia were really the loving mother she pretended to be, that would have been enough to persuade her, but Livinia’s love had limits—great big ones.
“You don’t know what you want, Harmony.” Her mother turned away and poured another two fingers of Southern Comfort. It wasn’t ladylike to swig directly from the bottle. “If you’re seriously considering parading around a television set in leather and high heels, you definitely don’t know what’s good for you. Or for this family.”
“Nobody said I was going to be parading around in leather.” Leather was always a good choice. Black leather pants or shorts, depending on the season, could be her signature look for each show. Add different pairs of crazy-ass heels and sexy tops each time and she could totally show off her inner—and her outer—badass.
“I certainly hope not,” her mother replied. “Every Southern lady worth her salt knows leather is only good for accessories.”
Harmony wanted to scream. Or to beat her head against the wall. Or to grab her mother by the throat and beat her head against the wall. Was an overbearing parent why Lizzie Borden had picked up her ax and gone on a chopping spree?
Harmony would have liked nothing better than to shake those ridiculous Southern manners right out of her mother and replace them with some actual common sense. And compassion. And basic understanding for someone outside of her very rigid social circle.
Harmony had resigned herself to the life she led a long time ago, had accepted the secrets and the sneaking two towns over to let her hair down as just something she had to do to survive. Now she wanted more for herself. She wanted her own life. Was that too much to ask?
“I think we should try it.” Harmony wasn’t going to give up. This was too important to her. “Think of all the business the bakery could get from being in a national show on the Food Network. We could singlehandedly put San Angelo on the map.”
Harmony might be the good daughter, but she knew how to work her mother.
Livinia stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”
“It will be just like what HGTV did with Fixer Upper. Fixer Upper has made Waco, Texas, a tourist destination. Wouldn’t you like to be one-half of the reason tourists flock to San Angelo?” If Harmony knew anything, it was that her mother was the queen of vanity.
“I don’t know …” Her mother looked like she was weighing the good with the bad.
“People would come from all over to watch us film.” She had no idea if that was true or even possible, but she’d deal with that later. “Our business would grow. The online orders alone are going to be huge. Think about all of the marketing opportunities.” Harmony was smart enough to leave out the temporary tattoo revenue stream. “If the show is successful enough, we would be TV stars.” Well, not Momma. Holly didn’t even know Momma existed. “Think of how much that increase in tourism could benefit the whole city. Restaurants, gas stations, small businesses. And it would all be because of the Wright Way.”
Momma’s eyes lit up.
She knew she was laying it on a little thick, but subtle wasn’t going to get the job done here. Not when Livinia would love nothing more than to be San Angelo’s biggest benefactor. If the Junior League and the garden club knew she was single-handedly—because in Livinia’s head, this would all be about her—responsible for increasing tourism and city revenue, she would be even more revered than she already was.
Harmony could see her mother’s mind working, could see her calculating the subsequent rise in her status that would come if she signed the stupid waiver. She was just starting to congratulate herself on finding the one thing that would make this palatable to Livinia when her mother slammed her cut-glass tumbler down.
“And what would happen when all these people showed up and found you looking like this?” She gestured to Harmony’s matching lavender twinset, straight midi skirt, and string of pearls. “What happens when they find out there is nothing badass about you?” She said “badass” in the same whisper she used when talking about cancer or a fatal traffic accident or a debutante’s teen pregnancy and subsequent fall from grace.
Harmony didn’t know if it was the tone that did it or if it was the look on her mother’s face. Maybe it was a combination of both. Or maybe it was the fact that she was sick of being underestimated, sick of hiding, sick of pretending to be something that she wasn’t just to make her mother happy.
Whatever it was, it had adrenaline pumping through her. It had annoyance and frustration, and the desire to do something just for herself just because she wanted to, mixing with that adrenaline.
“Sign the waiver.” She held her mother’s gaze, and this time it wasn’t a question.
Livinia’s perfect salon-arched brows hit her forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is a terrible idea and there’s no way I’m going to let you be a part of it. There’s certainly no way I’m going to let my bakery be a part of it.”
“It’s my bakery too.” This time, Harmony was doing what she wanted.
Her mother’s eyes turned the size of macaroons. “Excuse me?”
“The Wright Way is my bakery too. I built it from nothing.” If her mother wanted a fight, Harmony was all in.
“Don’t you mean you built it from the seventy-five thousand dollars I gave you to build it?” Her mother’s tone was all don’t-sass-me-little-girl.
“I want to do the show.” She was doing the show.
“Yes, well, I want a lot of things, Harmony Marie. Doesn’t mean I’m going to get them.” Her mother nodded her head like it was final.
Harmony gritted her teeth so hard it was a wonder she didn’t grind them to dust. “I want this. This is my dream. Shouldn’t that be enough for you? Don’t you want me to be happy?”
Harmony’s happiness was something her mother had probably never given any thought to.
Livinia sighed like she was tired of dealing with a petulant child. “If you want a show that badly, we can see about putting a proposal together for one. Something tasteful and sedate. Something that showcases our shop just the way it is.” Her mother held her arms out like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
The bakery was decorated in Early-American Snotty Debutante. It had crystal chandeliers, subdued lighting, and a shit-load of white. Harmony had always hated the décor but had tolerated it because changing it wasn’t worth the fight.
Her mother poured another glass of Southern Comfort, then shuddered delicately as she raised the liqueur to her lips. “Just think of what a show like Badass Baker would do to your reputation. And more importantly, to the family’s reputation. I won’t have it, Harmony. I just won’t have it.”
“So, that’s it, then? You won’t have it, so I don’t get a vote?” There wasn’t a chance in hell Harmony was giving this up.
“Of course you get a vote, dear. But I own fifty-five percent of the bakery, so no matter how you vote, mine trumps yours. And I can assure you, there is absolutely no way I’m signing that waiver for them to use my name—my bakery—on that dirty little show.”
Dirty little show? It wasn’t like they were making bakery porn. Was that even a thing?
“Your name. Your bakery. Your reputation.” Nothing ever changed. The world revolved around Livinia Angleton Wright, and the rest of the world was just there to serve her.
“Yes, Harmony. My reputation is—”
“All you care about. Is it really more important to you than my dream? Is it more important to you than my happiness?” She knew the answer even as she asked the questions.
She’d spent her entire adult life living a lie so that she could live within the narrow parameters her mother set. Hadn’t she hidden everything she was away, everything she wanted to be, so that she wouldn’t damage her mother’s perception of herself and her family?
She’d done it all so that Lyric could have a life, so that her sister could stop beating herself up trying to fit into a cookie cutter mold that she never stood a chance of fitting into. But Lyric had a life now. She had a husba
nd who adored her and a job she loved. She didn’t need Harmony to protect her anymore, didn’t need Harmony to keep being something she wasn’t in a misguided attempt to please a woman who could never be pleased.
That stopped now. It stopped right this second. Because if the family reputation was so important to her mother, if it really was more important to her than her daughter’s happiness and career success, then there was only one thing to do.
It was time to show her mother just how much of a Badass Baker she really was.
* * *
Chapter 4
* * *
Dalton Mane kicked back in his chair and looked out his office window at the Wranglers’ brand-new practice field. They’d moved into the new training complex just a few weeks ago, and he couldn’t be happier. Lasso Stadium had been his brainchild when he’d first come to the Wranglers more than a decade ago, and it had taken nearly seven years to build. And it was glorious, worth every penny of its one-billion-dollar price tag. This was more than just a sports stadium, it was a real shot in the arm for the local economy. God knew the price of oil was putting a good bit of the state of Texas out of work. But this mixed-use complex was providing much-needed jobs. At least, the city council thought so, and that was why they were giving him the key to the city next week at the grand opening cocktail party and ribbon-cutting ceremony. No expense had been spared and nothing was too extravagant. Even the team owner, Barry Lamont, had convinced his wife to attend, and she hated her husband so much she lived in another country.
With the best practice field in the NFL, state of the art training, physical therapy, and even medical facilities for the players, luxurious offices for running the business side of the team, a hotel complete with a two-thousand-spot parking garage, a team library, a museum, and Wranglers shops open to the public, the complex was everything he could have asked for and more. It certainly showcased just how far the Super Bowl winning Wranglers had come from their humble beginnings.
Kind of like him.
Kicking his feet up on his desk—a luxury he rarely allowed himself—Dalton couldn’t help thinking that in his time here, he’d come nearly as far as the Wranglers had. And nearly as quickly. Fifteen years ago, he’d been a rough-around-the-edges business major with a questionable background and zero experience. He’d also been full of ambition, football knowledge, and the ability to deal swiftly and capably with rooms filled with testosterone-fueled giants. All of which had led him to where he was right now—namely, sitting behind the general manager’s desk in the offices of the reigning Super Bowl champions.
It was a good life, if you could get it.
He took one more minute to survey his domain, and to check out the report on Blake Johnson, the quarterback they’d picked up to replace Heath Montgomery when he’d been injured. Johnson had a bad attitude that was almost as impressive as his throwing arm. But bad attitudes were nothing new to Dalton, and he knew exactly how to handle this one.
With that thought in mind, he swung his feet off his desk. Enough with patting himself on the back. It was time to get to work.
But before he could do much more than log back into his computer, his desk phone buzzed and the efficient voice of Eleanor Sanchez, his overprotective personal assistant, came over the intercom. “Coach Montgomery is here to see you.”
Eleanor ran the office and him with a French-manicured iron hand. He was pretty sure that given the chance, she could run the world with one hand tied behind her back. He counted it as plain good fortune that she wasn’t power hungry. She’d been with him for years, and the last thing he wanted was to lose her to plans for world domination. Especially when he had his own plans to dominate his corner of the world. He’d be named NFL commissioner within the next decade, or die trying.
But those were plans for another day. He pushed the intercom button. “Send him in.”
As he waited for the arrival of the quarterback turned offensive coordinator, Dalton straightened the two pens next to his legal pad and checked to make sure his nameplate was square. Appearances were important in this game, as was control. He’d spent years learning how to keep up both.
Pasting a guarded smile on his face, he watched as Heath strolled into his office in the royal-blue-colored shirt worn by most of the coaching staff, tailored khakis, and a pair of worn, brown cowboy boots. The grounds staff had been complaining about the boots ruining the playing field, but Heath had them in his contract and he wasn’t relenting. All of which had led the groundskeeper, Jacob Bennet—who was usually the nicest, most pliant guy in the world—to declare war on Heath’s cowboy boots.
But bigger wars than this had been fought—and settled—from Dalton’s state-of-the-art office chair, and this one would be as well. Babysitting might be the most unpleasant task of his position, but he took it as seriously as he took all of his other roles. After all, he’d worked hard to make sure that nothing went on in the Wranglers organization that he wasn’t aware of and in control of.
“Heath, have a seat.” Dalton gestured toward the two overstuffed, gargantuan black leather chairs on the other side of his desk. He’d started with normal-sized chairs all those years ago, but pro football players didn’t fit into normal-sized anything, and eventually he’d gotten tired of having to replace broken furniture.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” Heath grinned as they shook hands. “If it’s about the boots,” he pointed to his feet, “they aren’t leaving my feet.” He put his hand over his heart. “I’m a Southern gentleman and I have principles. I take my hat off inside, open doors for ladies, use a knife and fork to eat, and I wear cowboy boots. It’s the first Texas Commandment—Thou Shalt Wear Cowboy Boots. I don’t expect you to understand it, as you were born across state lines, but it is a rule. I don’t make the rules, but I do abide by them.”
Dalton was born in Oklahoma but had lived in Texas his entire life. He mashed his lips together to keep from smiling. Heath was so damn likeable that most of the time it was damn hard to lay down the law—it had been that way even when he’d been a player. Not that Dalton had any plans—or any desire—to take away Heath’s Texan civil liberties. Why would he do that when he could use them to his advantage instead?
“I have no intention of taking those boots away. Not when I know how much you love them. The groundskeepers can find a way around the mess they make.”
Heath grinned. “You’re a good man, Dalton. I appreciate your support with this matter.”
“You’ve always got my support, Heath. You know that. Which is why we’re cutting Shawntel Green. He’s a hell of a running back, but I know you’re fed up with his diva ways. The last thing I want is to make your job harder.” Green was also too expensive and a total ass, but Dalton felt no need to share his opinion on the subject. Better to let Heath think he was making two concessions before he took something away—especially something Heath loved as much as his favorite wide receiver.
Looking the big Texan in the eye, he lowered the boom. “We also need to cut Marcus Dunbrook.”
Heath looked like Dalton had just reached across the desk and slapped him in the face. “No way are we cutting Marcus.”
“You know better than anyone that he rode the bench most of last season. And last month at training camp he couldn’t keep up.” He did his best to look unconcerned, even as he watched Heath for signs of how this fight was going to go. Dalton liked it when things ran smoothly, but he’d learned to brawl before he’d learned to walk, and he’d never run from a fight since.
Heath didn’t say anything for long seconds, but when he finally spoke up, he sounded determined. “I agree that he’s a little out of shape, but when he’s on, he’s got the best hands in the game. Certainly the best hands we’ve got—”
“He had the best hands. He fumbles more balls than he holds onto these days.” Dalton slid the file folder in front of him to Heath. “And he failed his latest drug test … again. Opioids this time.”
Heath’s face fell. “Can’t we suspend
him for a few games and send him to rehab? He’s got five kids.” But the look on his face said he knew he’d already lost the battle.
“We’re beyond game suspension here, Heath. We’ve sent him to rehab … twice. It didn’t work. This time, the dosage was more than he could claim a medical exemption for. He has a problem. We’ve done more for him than he’s done for himself. It’s time to move on.”
Finally, Heath shook his head. “I’ll tell him. It should come from me.”
Dalton nodded, pleased with how the whole thing had gone. Heath was turning out to be a stand-up guy.
“Have you given any thought to—” Heath broke off as his phone rang. Reaching into his pocket for it, he said, “I know it’s unprofessional to pull out your phone during a meeting, but Lyric is flying home today from Hawaii and she’s supposed to call me when she lands. Considering her bad luck when it comes to planes, I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Family first.” Dalton smiled. He liked Lyric. She was smart as hell, and—despite being a bit of an absentminded professor—she managed to keep Heath in line. Little remained of the hell-raising ladies’ man he used to be, and that was something Dalton could definitely get behind. Especially since it made his job so much easier.
“Hey, baby. How was your flight? Did you make it without duct tape this time?”
Dalton watched as Heath’s smile turned to a scowl. “What the hell are you doing with my wife’s phone?”
Dalton sat forward as threats of high-profile kidnappings bounced around in his head. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” Heath rolled his eyes even as he covered the phone with the palm of his hand. “It’s just my crazy sister-in-law giving me hell because I won’t let Lyric go jump off a mountain in the middle of a South American hailstorm.”
A series of pissed-off-sounding squawks came through the phone then, and Heath winced as he held the thing farther away from his ear. “I know you heard that, Harmony. It’s not like I made any attempt to stop you from hearing it.” It was a blatant lie, but it wasn’t like Dalton was about to call him on it. “I was just explaining to my boss that you are my sweet Lyric’s evil twin.” His top lip was curled into a snarl.