13. Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Marcy
Marcy
The boutique Patrick’s mom recommended looked about like I’d expected. I opened the door to a pristine, brightly lit space with a handful of sparsely stocked clothing racks. The opposite of the jam-packed racks at my favorite discount outlets. These clothes hung with a gentle breeze between each garment. A modern chandelier dazzled from the center of the room above a turquoise velvet couch that looked ready for a lady on a romance cover to faint onto.
Panic raced through me. I spun on my heel to leave.
“Miss?” a woman’s voice called over just as my hand made blissful contact with the doorknob.
I froze, filled with dread. “Yes?”
“Are you Janine Strauss’s referral?”
How did she know? Was I that obviously in need of a makeover? I forced a smile and turned. “Uh, yes. That’s me. The referral.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about being labeled a referral. I was supposed to be Janine’s future daughter-in-law.
A new shot of panic hit. Getting used to being a daughter-in-law would take time .
Or not, since I wasn’t actually getting hitched.
I tipped my chin up and mustered confidence as I approached the saleswoman. I blinked at the sight of her. She was younger than I’d expected, and I had to admit, much cooler than anyone I assumed Mrs. Strauss associated with. Dressed in a relaxed linen blouse and effortlessly slouchy pants, she had light brown skin and natural hair in a lightly highlighted tone. Big chunky earrings. No pearls and no uptight pantsuit.
“Am I in the right place?” I gazed at the minimalist racks.
“I’m Shanay.” She reached out a hand. “Let me help you start your fitting.”
The next hour flew by. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman , post her makeover experience where she rocked it in that fancy shop. This was actually…fun.
I tried on silky, drapey blouses, simple pencil skirts that hit just above the knee and nipped in my waist. A few white pieces and some navy-blue items, but nothing so obviously red-white-and-American blue like a walking flag. Simple dresses in muted fall colors. These clothes were clearly well made in lovely fabrics, but I still didn’t get why my discounted designs were all that terrible.
But if Bea Clark and Mrs. Strauss wanted me to wear clothes from this shop (and were footing the bill), why not? “Mrs. Strauss really said these clothes are paid for?” I asked for at least the third time.
Shanay nodded. “A campaign expense. Your husband is running for office?”
The word husband drilled a hole in my throat. I nodded, then shook my head. “Fiancé.” Friend. “We’re engaged,” I choked out.
I’d barely contained thoughts of kissing Patrick since the night he showed me the bakery space. And I couldn’t tell anybody. As my fiancé, of course I should want to kiss him. But then I’d have to admit—to Hudson, to myself—that maybe more existed besides our friendship after all. So, I’d done my best to stay busy, like this shopping trip where I had enough distraction to not actually think of Patrick’s clear, in-focus face gazing at mine, telling me he promised to make my bakery dreams come true.
And I definitely didn’t dwell on the next time we’d be in a room together, likely holding hands and pretending to be in love with each other. I had no idea if I could keep my real and very quickly evolving feelings from showing right across my face.
Shanay moved toward an assortment of accessory racks and pedestals set on a pale blue painted table. “A statement necklace like this would be great for some of your pieces.” She held up a chunky, rose gold-colored floral piece that looked like art. “What do you think?”
I scanned the display. Not a string of pearls in sight. “I’ll take it.”
By the time Saturday and the fall festival event rolled around, my shopping high had vanished. I couldn’t wear any of these silky, expensive clothes to a dirt-dusted county fairground. Why didn’t a stylist come with this gig?
With Hudson’s help, I managed a cute but understated summer-to-fall look. The temperature still soared over seventy-five degrees in September. We chose a sundress paired with a light cardigan. I couldn’t resist my western boots.
I planned to meet Patrick at the event since his schedule required being somewhere else prior. Great, since I was avoiding him.
He’d know right away I’d want to tackle him to the ground, right? And not in a sisterly way .
We’d texted in the days since we’d had dinner together, but texts made it easy to lie. No, I’m not imagining we’re making out at the rodeo.
My first rodeo! But not my first time kissing Patrick.
The internal cringe hit hard at the memory. Then again, we were in high school. What did we know? All I’d known then was it had been a mistake.
But that was then and this was now. I was a full-grown adult and Patrick was a constant in my life. I liked that. I liked him .
Nervous jitters rocked my insides with every step from the parking lot toward the big county fair building. Everything’s fine. Totally fine.
A sharp whistle sounded to my right. It happened again and I turned. Bea Clark—she’d made that sound. With her mouth.
She was doing it again. “Marcy. Over here.”
I’d assumed someone had been calling cattle in a nearby 4-H barn. But no, she’d been calling me . I forced a stiff smile. “Hey, Bea. What’s up?”
She looked me over in a two-second scan. “Why are you wearing that?”
“Why—uh, I mean, we’re at a fairground and—”
“You went to the shop. We got the invoice. Why aren’t you wearing the approved clothes?”
I made a point of looking around. “Everyone is dressed in T-shirts and shorts. Jeans and plaid. I’m already over—” I bit back the word over-dressed. “I made an executive decision so I wouldn’t get the new clothes dirty.”
Bea’s steely look didn’t tarnish. “That’s not your decision. The expectation is to wear the clothes purchased for you.” She snapped her head aside. “Come with me. I have back-ups for this very reason.”
“What? No, this is fine. Really. Patrick likes this dress.” I blushed as I remembered Patrick complimenting the dress earlier this year. Did he notice me in clothes more than I’d realized? I always figured he said nice things about what I wore because he was thoughtful. What if there was more?
Bea hooked her arm through mine and pulled me, against my will, toward a nearby outbuilding. “I’ve got a temporary office set up with emergency supplies.”
Sure enough, Bea provided a back-up wardrobe. And guess what it wasn’t? Any of the beautiful, stylish clothes from the boutique. Nope. She offered up a stiff, cobalt blue shift dress and a string of personality-free pearls.
I changed in the corner of the room while Bea tapped messages at top speed on her phone.
She looked up just after I’d zipped the side closure of the dress. “Here.” She thrust four-inch heels in lacquered red at me.
“Seriously? At a fairground?”
Bea yanked open the door of the small office, which, by the way, smelled not-so-faintly of a barnyard. Bits of hay littered the hallway. She cleared her throat, holding open the door.
I slid on the heels and followed her out.
We made it to the larger building for the local politicians’ meet-and-greet event. The heels wouldn’t be so bad after all in a building with solid floors. Bonus: air conditioning.
Inside, fluorescent lights attacked my every sense (somehow I could taste those stinging lights). An arrangement of flags decorated a stage at one end of the large space. The U.S. Stars and Stripes, the Michigan state flag, and several others I’d have to quiz Patrick on later .
Patrick. I caught him in my sights from a distance and my heart backflipped. He existed in his element, shaking hands with people dressed in everything from T-shirts and jeans to western wear and cowboy hats. A man he spoke to said something and Patrick laughed. His smile lit up his face. That was a real smile. I knew his smiles.
And wow, did he look good. His forearms were exposed from the rolled-up sleeves of his impeccably fitted light blue button-down. A simple navy-blue tie. He moved with ease and confidence. He smiled again, and my lips tingled.
A snapping sound broke through my thoughts. I blinked. Bea, several steps ahead, had turned halfway to look back at me. Making direct eye contact, she snapped her fingers.
First, she whistled at me like cattle, now she snapped? Who did that to grown adults?
Still, she was waiting on me. I ground my teeth and followed.
Patrick looked up as I approached. “Hey. How are you? Did you get here okay?” He spoke softly, with care, resting a hand on my back.
My body itched from the stiff dress and my pinched toes already hurt. But that didn’t matter right now. “Yup. Small delay with a wardrobe change.”
A momentary, concerned expression crossed his face as he noticed the pearls. “You look great.”
The heat of his gaze lit me up inside. What if he sensed I’d been imagining making out with him at my first rodeo? Was it written all over my face?
“We’ll get that money and then some,” Bea’s clipped voice carried over. She appeared beside us within a second, having ended her phone call. “After you dazzle your country folk, we need to go over the next fundraiser. Tonight.”
“Tonight’s our family dinner,” I responded without thinking .
I expected a glare in response, but Bea only looked bored. “Tonight. Seven.”
Patrick shook his head. “No can do. I’m expected at the Russos. Though we’re going at five for appetizers. If we wrap up dinner by six-thirty, I might fit it in.”
Bea raised her chin. “The Ribbens are currently attending a golf outing. Guess who’s also there? The head of Banner Entertainment who have their sights set on a new casino location.”
Patrick stilled.
“Meet-and-greets at the county fair only go so far.” Bea tapped her ear and started speaking via Bluetooth on her phone as she moved away from us.
I checked Patrick’s reaction. A grim, stern expression settled over him. “Figures they aren’t here. This is a tradition for local candidates to come to the fair and meet with people. The Ribbens are acting like they’ve already won.”
“What you’re doing here matters,” I told him. “You care about your town and meeting people where they are.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I hate that so much of this is about money. It’s always about money. Every single time.”
A jolt of guilt hit. Our entire arrangement right now involved money at the core. Inheritance money for my business. A fake fiancée to amass money and success for his campaign.
He took in a breath, seeming to re-center himself. He checked his watch. “We’re starting soon. So, after this dog-and-pony show here on the stage, we’re headed over to the outdoor arena. For an actual dog and pony show.”
The gleam in his eye hit me in a new place. My heart bottomed out again and my blush crept up. His little jokes always made me smile.
Only, Patrick hadn’t been joking about the dogs and ponies. After he spoke from the stage about running an honest campaign, followed by a handful of other local candidates running for various offices, we hoofed it outside across the paved sidewalk to where the path turned to gravel, leading to an open-sided arena with bleacher seating. A colorful banner helpfully pointed us toward The Canine, Equine, and Bovine Extravaganza! Now, it definitely smelled like a barn.
“I thought we’d be seeing a rodeo,” I admitted. I was looking forward to it.
Suddenly, I lurched forward, grabbing air. My heel! Stuck in mud.
“Whoa—you okay?” Patrick caught me. If he hadn’t been walking beside me, I would have face planted in…well, I hoped that was mud.
“These shoes,” I muttered.
Ahead of us, Bea Clark stabbed each foot at the mushy ground with brute determination, refusing to allow the mud to slow her.
“I can carry you.” Patrick winked at me. “That would really sell our romance, right?”
My throat croaked.
“Now, come on. The Ribbens aren’t even here.”
“That wasn’t—” I was a mess right now, making weird throat sounds Patrick interpreted as intentional frog noises. People passing by jostled into me. We were, after all, stopped still in a flow of foot traffic. “Okay, I’m unstuck now. I just need a dry path to walk.”
We meandered to the grandstand with VIP seating (also not a joke) facing decorated horses prancing before a marginally captive audience. Across the center ring, varied breeds of dogs waited in a fenced off area with their handlers, and in the far corner tied to a post, a lone cow.
Horses paraded by, demonstrating their grace and their riders’ skill. As the show progressed, the emcee, a portly white man pushing seventy wearing a cowboy hat and boots (dangit, I wished I had my boots!), approached our VIP section. “I hear we have a young man running for office! And his lovely, lovely fiancée.” He held a cordless microphone as he spoke, and a gold ring with a roaring lion’s head gleamed from his meaty ring finger.
Mild clapping sounded behind us. This wasn’t exactly the Jumbotron at a pro basketball game, but apparently we were minor celebrities today.
The man made a to-do about leaning his arm against the metal gate separating us from the arena. “Now what I want to know is, does this city boy know how to ride?”
Ha! He thought he had Patrick pegged, but Patrick did know how to ride. My brothers made fun of him for the horse riding lessons he was forced into as a kid.
Patrick grinned. “Well, I’m no cowboy, but I do know how to saddle a horse.”
The emcee patted Patrick roughly on the back. “Let’s have you do just that—Patrick Strauss, get on out here!”
Not sure how a horse-saddling demonstration equated to votes—besides, how many of these people even lived in the town Patrick was running in?—but Patrick put on the show people wanted. He saddled that horse like he saddled a horse daily. I inched forward in my seat. The way he’d gently approached the horse, letting the strong animal sniff his hand before contact, well that gentleness was pretty darned sexy.
“Alright, now let’s put your saddlin’ skills to the test!” The emcee gestured for the crowd to applause.
I clapped and woo-hooed along with them. I’d never actually seen Patrick ride before. And if I found it sexy watching him pet horse whiskers, who knew what him riding would do to me?
“Let’s get your little missy out here!”
Faces swiveled my direction. The crowd grew louder. Actual cheering with a few catcalls thrown in. I held up my hands. “No, thank you. I’m not dressed for—”
Behind me from her seat, Bea Clark ground out: “Go. Now. ”
Patrick waved off the emcee, insisting he would ride the horse himself.
“No, no. Let’s get the lady out here!” The man I’d only moments ago thought of as pleasant and grandfatherly now made my murder list.
“ Go ,” Bea Clark seethed into my ear.
This is how you support Patrick. Just do it!
I stood and commanded myself to walk to the nearest gate, now being held open for me by a young cowpoke. As soon as my foot hit the dirt, my heel sank. It was like freaking quicksand out here in these stilettos.
“You don’t actually have to do this,” Patrick said as he assisted me with walking.
I glanced to Bea Clark and the very invested faces of the cheering crowd. “I’m pretty sure I have to.”
“Lookie here, our little lady in pearls is a bit shy of the horse!” the old man went on, his voice echoing off every surface with that blasted microphone.
“Marcy—” Patrick started.
I shook my head. “I’m doing this.” I took off one shoe at a time and handed them to Patrick. I was done with the shoes but also didn’t want to hurt the horse. The catcalls grew louder and more plentiful.
“She’s takin’ her shoes off!” My number one murder target boomed through the mic.
I’d only ever ridden a horse once before, at a weekend Girl Scouts camp. I had a great time, but no access to horses beyond that to keep up the practice.
Patrick gently moved me toward the horse, who honestly appeared pretty bored. “Follow my directions.” He positioned himself behind me with one hand on the saddle and the other at my back. “I’ll give you a leg up.” He lowered his voice. “And I will owe you forever for this. ”
I couldn’t think of anything other than vowing to not fall on my face.
“Turn this way. Now, bend your left knee like this, and I’m going to lift you from there as you bounce up.”
Don’t fall on your face. Don’t fall on your face.
“Okay. Count of three. One, two, three!”
And up I went. Immediately, I balked. The dress! “I can’t swing my leg over.”
But it was too late for that. I had already started swinging my right leg over the saddle, forcing the narrow skirt of my dress to bunch up. The hemline scrunched inch by very quick inch toward my waist.
Patrick, connecting the dots on the bunch-scrunch situation, quickly moved to adjust my right leg. “Go for side saddle. I’ll support you, just bend your leg. Like this.”
I did as he said and offered my best pageant wave to the stands. The crowd cheered. Patrick’s wise positioning blocked any view that could land me in a barnyard tabloid.
He carefully turned toward me, not risking my exposure. “Okay, that’s enough of that. I’m helping you down.”
“I can do it.” I shifted again, quite ungracefully, and turned so my belly faced down against the saddle—ouch—to slide off the horse.
“Marcy, no—”
All I heard was the sound of fabric ripping.