4. Mollie
CHAPTER 4
Mollie
ATTAGIRL
I’m not proud of using a bottle of Opus One to lure Palmer to my apartment later that week. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
The three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, along with two wineglasses, whose bowls are coated with purple residue, sit empty on the coffee table in front of me. Mom gifted me a case of the rare vintage to celebrate the launch of Bellamy Brooks’s first collection. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion ever since.
Or in this case, an emergency.
I prop my feet on the table’s ledge and angle my laptop closer to my face. Scanning the spreadsheet, my eyes ache. I need to take out my contacts, but I don’t want Palmer to see me in my glasses.
“I thought you said you needed to de-stress?”
I glance up to see Palmer resting a shoulder against the jamb of the bedroom door. He’s gotten dressed, his suit jacket hanging over his arm. He bears no sign of the sex we just had, other than his undone collar and slightly swollen lips. They’re curved in a smirk.
I grin. “Mission accomplished. ”
He strides across the room, all commodities-trader cockiness. “But diving back into Excel is going to reverse all those feel-good endorphins I just gave you.”
“You can’t give me endorphins.”
“I gave you something better.” Leaning over the couch, he presses a quick, hard kiss to my mouth. “That was good, Mollie.”
“But your lines”—I laugh against his lips—“they’re pretty bad.”
“I deliver where it counts. You’re welcome.”
I playfully swat his shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
“You don’t have any more of that wine, do you?”
“I’m done for tonight, I think.” I lift my laptop. “Got a lot to do.”
I don’t wait for him to ask about my work or why it has me so stressed out, because I know he won’t. His lack of interest isn’t malicious. We just don’t have the kind of relationship where we check in with each other that way.
Palmer straightens and adjusts his belt. He’s tall. Broad. Handsome.
Part of me wishes I felt disappointed he doesn’t push harder to stay and hang out, maybe even spend the night. We had a nice enough conversation while we drank the wine, chatting about former classmates and the bar that just opened down the street here in uptown.
Palmer and I ran in the same circles in college, although we were more acquaintances than friends. A couple of months ago, we ran into each other for the first time since graduation. Three hours and one dance-floor make-out session later, I asked him to come home with me.
We’ve been hooking up ever since. It’s exactly what I need: good, no-strings sex that requires very little effort on my part. He’s not interested in dating me—like most twenty-something-year-old guys making Wall Street money, he’s not interested in monogamy, period—and I’m definitely not interested in dating him. He’s a little too corporate for my taste. A little too full of himself.
Hence why a larger part of me is relieved he’s heading out. Looking at the numbers on the spreadsheet, I’m going to have to do some creative math to pay Bellamy Brooks’s bills this month. Maybe I’ll ask our publicist if I can pay her quarterly going forward?
I yawn. “Wow, I’m tired.”
The smirk is back. “Bet you are.”
I roll my eyes. “You really need to work on your lines.”
“And you really need to go to bed.” He digs his keys out of his pocket. “Thanks for the wine. And the orgasm.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, throwing his line back at him. “Drive safe.”
He smiles, too, handsome as hell. “Safety is my motto.”
“Wow. Worst one yet,” I tease.
“You like it.”
A beat passes. Palmer looks at me.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m confused, tired, grieving, or what. But suddenly I’m asking, “What would you do if you inherited a ranch?”
Palmer lifts a brow. I didn’t tell him about Dad’s will. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I never told Palmer Dad even owned a ranch or that he died. My father is not exactly a light topic of conversation, so makes sense that I’ve never brought him up when I’m with Palmer.
“Why?” he asks. “Did you inherit one?”
“Just play devil’s advocate.”
“That’s really fucking cool if a ranch did fall into your lap. Back in high school, I’d go to my friends’ ranches all the time. We’d have the best parties out there.”
“I’m talking about a working ranch. Like with cows and stuff.”
Palmer screws up his face. “Shoveling shit? No thank you. ”
“Right? I don’t get why anyone would choose to do that.”
“I mean, to be fair, it would be cool to get out in nature a little.” Palmer glances at the condo’s floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook uptown Dallas. The city sits beneath a blanket of steamy haze, tinged yellow by the sunset. “Living here, I can go whole weeks without ever being outside. Makes me feel like a vampire. My dad and I hunted a lot when I was a kid. I miss that sometimes.”
“It’s just as hazy and hot on a ranch as it is in Dallas.”
He turns his head to look at me. “I don’t know. All this concrete, the buildings, the cars, the pollution—you can’t compare that to the wide openness of a ranch.”
“Maybe.” I glance back down at my laptop. My stomach is killing me. “Thanks for humoring me.”
“If you really did inherit a ranch, I’d gladly visit you.”
“You use me for my wine, and now you’re using me for my ranch too?”
“So you did have a working ranch fall into your lap.” He smiles.
I move my fingertips over the keyboard. “Good night, Palmer.”
“Night, Mollie. And get your facts straight. I’m using you for the sex. The wine and the ranch are just a bonus.”
I laugh, and he laughs, and then he turns to let himself out of my condo. I live on the eighteenth floor of a high-rise, so I can hear the elevator ding outside my door a minute later. I can picture Palmer stepping inside, rolling his head side to side.
He’s already stopped thinking about me. And that makes me feel…nothing. No trace of disappointment or embarrassment.
I tell myself that’s a good thing, because I really need to focus on what my next steps are. Glancing at my phone, I see Wheeler has texted me three times and called twice. The stomachache I’ve had all week pulses .
I’m absolutely using sex and wine to avoid her. She just won’t leave me alone about the money we were supposed to have by now, but don’t. I don’t blame her.
But even if that stupid stipulation didn’t exist, it would take time—several months at least—for the money to actually hit my bank account. I would be able to borrow against my inheritance so we’d have enough cash on hand to get our collection off the ground, however.
I just don’t think either of us expected to burn through so much cash so quickly. Spending like we have—neglecting our budgets—has turned into our largest rookie mistake to date.
My gut seizes when I read the texts she sent while I was in bed with Palmer.
Wheeler Rankin
We really need to follow up with Barb. I’m worried we’ll lose our spot in production if we don’t get the first payment to her ASAP.
You think you should follow up with your dad’s lawyer too? I’m sorry to keep bugging you, but I feel like we’re losing valuable time.
Are you okay? I know you’re going through a lot right now. I’m sorry. We’ll figure this out together, I promise. Just let me know where your head’s at.
I wish I knew.
My lawyers—really, Mom’s—have instructed me not to contact Goody, as they’ve been working with her to come up with a solution. So far, no dice.
Meanwhile, I’m sweating bullets.
Usually, sex with Palmer soothes my frayed nerves. But this stomachache will not quit. Setting down my laptop, I grab my phone and stand in front of the windows. Dallas is many things in September, but beautiful isn’t one of them .
The whine of the air-conditioning is loud in the otherwise silent room. My laptop screen goes blank.
I head for the condo’s spare bedroom, which has become Bellamy Brooks’s de facto headquarters. Wheeler affectionately dubbed it “the closet,” mostly because it’s a tiny jewel box, dedicated to fashion. It’s stuffed to the gills with cowgirl boots in a rainbow of colors, patterns, and textures—mostly samples from our first collection and a few prototypes from our second. We hung inspiration boards on one wall, and they’re covered in leather swatches, magazine clippings, Pantone color cards, stencils, and more. A tiny desk is squeezed between two boot racks on another wall. It’s topped with a jar of Reese’s Pieces—Wheeler’s favorite—and a box of my favorite sweet treat, chocolate-covered espresso beans.
My heart hurts in the best way, taking it all in. I’m so, so proud of the work we’ve done. Running a hand over a pair of brown-and-cream boots, I marvel at the leather’s buttery softness. The perfectly executed Western pattern, done in coral embroidery on the boot’s vamp, still makes my pulse literally skip a beat, months after I sketched the initial design.
I’ll never forget the first email we received from a customer, telling us how beautiful she felt in the pair of Bellamy Brooks boots she wore on her wedding day.
I’m in love with our boots. And it kills me to think we may never make another pair.
Heading back to my couch, I try calling Mom. She doesn’t pick up.
I find myself scrolling to Dad’s number. My eyes burn. I’m haunted by our last conversation, which happened over text several months before he died. I’d asked him for money to help fix my car.
Sure, he texted back. The next morning, I had the cash in my account.
I didn’t thank him, and he didn’t follow up. Now, I’m so ashamed of how it all went down .
Without thinking, I hit his number and bring the phone to my ear. It rings and rings, until, finally, his voice mail picks up.
Goose bumps break out on my arms at the sound of his gravelly timbre.
“You’ve reached Garrett Luck. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a good one, y’all.”
My face crumples. His voice mail beeps.
If I’m still so angry, why can’t I stop fucking crying? Anger means yelling. It means frosty silences and heated exchanges. It does not mean crying your eyes out every time you think about the person you loved but hated, too.
I hang up, wishing all the while I could ask him why he put that stipulation in his will. Maybe I wouldn’t hate the idea of living in Hartsville so much if I understood why he wanted me there. He had his chance to bring me back to the ranch—many chances, in fact, over the course of many years—but he never did. Why insist on it now?
The thought comes out of nowhere: Cash might have the answer to that question. He said he was close with Dad. Who better to ask than the man who apparently worked side by side with Dad for over a decade?
Too bad Cash is a jackass. I’d rather pry my eyeballs out of my head with a rusty spoon than talk to him again.
I just wish I had other options.
My memories of the first six years of my life on the ranch are, like the city skyline, hazy at best. But they aren’t all bad. I remember riding a pony, Dad leading the horse in a slow circle around a corral. I remember Mom in the front seat of an ATV, the breeze catching in her hair as she turned around to smile at me in the back. And I can still smell the leather-and-hay scent of the horse barn.
I jump when my phone chimes. It’s a Gmail notification: my business checking account has reached zero dollars.
I think about Goody’s email. The one that detailed how much money I’d get at the end of every month if I lived on the ranch.
What if I go back to Hartsville? Just for thirty days, only long enough to get paid? Maybe Mom’s lawyers will have gotten a judge to strike down the stipulation by then. Wheeler and I crushed an interview with an influencer earlier today, and we only have two more meetings set up this week. Surely, she can handle those while I’m gone?
I jump again when my phone vibrates. Wheeler is calling.
A white-hot flash of pain slices across my middle. Shit.
Shit-shit- shit . She definitely saw the notification from our bank too. We’re both on the account.
Wiping my eyes, I move my thumb across my screen.
“Hey, Wheeler. I’m so sorry I keep missing you. I’ll handle the negative balance.” I take a deep breath. “I’m going back to Hartsville.”
“Wait.” She pauses. “You’re going ? As in going , going?”
“I’m done waiting for our lawyers to figure this shit out. I’m going to get us our money.”
Another pause.
“Mollie, you don’t have to do this.”
“I do, though. I don’t see any other way to keep us from going under.”
“Let me go with you, then. You can’t walk onto your dad’s ranch by yourself.”
My eyes burn at the thought. Still, I say, “We need you here in Dallas for meetings and social media outreach. I can’t imagine there are many influencers or boutiques in Hartsville that are up for a collab.”
“We could open one,” Wheeler replies with a laugh.
“Next to the tractor supply store? Somehow, I don’t think Bellamy Brooks will fit in.”
“Every woman likes to feel pretty. Even cowgirls.”
“Not the kind of cowgirls you’ll find there. At least that’s what Mom says. I got this, Wheeler. Really. I can do anything for a month.”
“Maybe you’ll end up doing some cowboys while you’re at it.”
I scoff. “No thank you.”
“I swear, you’re the only woman on earth who isn’t into dudes in Stetsons with Wrangler butts.”
“Have you met my mother? And let’s not forget the lovely Cash Rivers.”
I told Wheeler about what a dick Cash was when I called her a week ago on my drive home from Hartsville.
“Fair point. Although I can’t imagine all cowboys are like that.” She lets out a breath. “Are you sure about this, Mollie? Ranch life and you…well, y’all don’t exactly go together like peas and carrots.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I don’t plan on doing more ranch stuff than I have to.” Although, if I’m being honest, my heart does a little flip at the prospect of being on horseback again. I don’t have many memories of life on the ranch, but riding horses is one thing I do remember. I loved it as a kid.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
“And send pics. Preferably of all the Wrangler butts you’ll see.”
I laugh. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Attagirl. Keep me posted. Godspeed, friend.”
“Wheeler?”
“Yeah?”
“I know we’ve talked theoretically about helping each other bury bodies. But would you actually be my accomplice? If I need you?”
I hear the grin in her voice when she says, “You say the word and we’ll ride at dawn, shovels in hand.”