9. Cowboy Up
NINE
COWBOY UP
Holt
“Now, if you’ll just look at this next board, you’ll see that I’ve used an English toile fabric for the window coverings over the large picture window. Won’t that be fabulous?”
I follow the interior designer’s hand, which is pointing to the back of my house.
Her assistant is helping Ray, the contractor, take measurements, both of them having to step over and around all the samples a team had brought in earlier.
The room is stockpiled. Cabinet doors, stacks of fabric, floor choices ranging from tile to carpet to wood. There’s even a box of knick-knacks.
Knick-knacks.
I should really try to focus on everything around me, but all I can do is look out the window and over the fields and wish to the almighty that I was out there and not stuck in here with a bruised foot and an interior designer named Pearl.
The decorator’s honest-to-goodness name is Pearl.
And she wants to cover the window that lets in morning light and overlooks the great expanse of the West property, so that it will be more “cozy.” I may occasionally curse in my head, but rarely out loud, and most certainly not in front of ladies, but I almost let out a loud “fuck no” to whatever it is that she’s holding up and calling English toile.
“You can see how well the Scottish plaid compliments the toile, can’t you?”
Again she asks a question but doesn’t wait for an answer, instead moving on to another board. There are fifteen boards. Fifteen large posterboard-type things with cutouts of fabric, sketches and photos. All in navy, dark green, maroon and this weird mustard color.
I hate everything.
“Is that—is that a fox hunter?” I interrupt whatever Pearl is saying about Persian rugs and point to one of the boards.
“Yes! Good eye!” Every sentence out of her mouth is an exclamation. It’s like she’s incapable of speaking in normal sentences. “Isn’t it fabulous? You know”—she gives me a sideways grin—“a little nod to the estate here.”
I try and exchange a glance with the assistant Pearl brought with her, trying to gauge if her boss is serious or not, but the assistant keeps her head down toward the clipboard she’s holding, supposedly jotting down measurements.
The pain in my foot from yesterday’s encounter with Angelo’s hoof is now matched with a pounding at my temples.
“You mean ranch, right?” I ask. “’Cause we don’t fox hunt here.
That’s an English thing,” I say, this time touching the offending fabric.
“He’s got on the traditional red English hunting jacket. And there are blood hounds.”
“But there are horses!”
I laugh. Pearl might just be all right with a sense of humor like that. But my laughter fades quickly when I realize the interior designer isn’t laughing. Apparently to Pearl, a horse is a horse.
Ray clears his throat and gets back to measuring the wall he’s already measured and I rub the back of my neck, trying to decide if I love my brother enough to go through with this.
After we looked over the wedding thumb drive at lunch, it was pretty apparent that Jackie’s good taste would look odd against the Brady Bunch background of the outdated West ranch house.
I mentioned to Jules that maybe we should spruce the place up before the wedding as she popped the last chip in her mouth yesterday at lunch.
To her credit she didn’t make fun, roll her eyes or say “finally.” No, she just smiled in that infuriatingly sexy way she has and stated, “Two months.” I was dismissed when her laptop sounded with a notification.
Her smile melted into a frown and she mumbled something about work before hightailing it to her room.
I haven’t seen her since. I know she went to NASA, but when she came home she holed up in her room afterwards. After she spent time with the new calf, Tucker reported.
I glance back at Pearl’s designs. I can’t help but think that if the “in thing” in interior design is what Pearl calls “Rustic Horse Glamor,” then maybe the 1970s look I’ve got going isn’t so bad after all. It’d look a hell of a lot better with Jackie’s wedding dreams than fox hunters and plaids.
I’m about to resign myself and my house to our fate, when a board that I’d originally thought blank catches my eye.
“What’s this?” I push the hunting fabric aside to reveal a poster board with a lot of neutrals and simple furniture. Comfortable looking furniture. No patterns, no crazy colors and the best part? No hounds.
Pearl glares at her assistant. “Missy, where did that come from?”
The assistant turns bright red, clutching the clipboard to her chest. “You, um, told me to create a board, Miss Pearl. Remember?”
Pearl rolls her eyes. “That was just to get you some practice, not to actually show to the client,” she reprimands.
She leaves her assistant red-faced and spins on her exceptionally high, pointy heel to pluck the board off of the couch where all the rest are displayed.
“So sorry, Mr. West,” she says with a slick, red-lipped smile, then rests her other hand on my arm.
Her nails are at least two inches long. And pointy.
Her touch kind of makes me nauseated. “I’ll just get this out of the way?—”
“He likes that one.”
Everyone turns to see Jules, clad in loose-fitting ripped jeans, bare feet and a tank top, leaning against the family room’s entryway.
“I’m sorry, and you are…?” Pearl asks, looking her up and down, her expression making it obvious that she’s unimpressed.
“I’m the maid of honor and self-appointed declarer of ugly shit,” Jules says, pointing to the remaining boards.
Ray choke-laughs and excuses himself to the kitchen.
“Excuse me?” Pearl draws all five and a half feet of herself up. That’s including the heels. “I’ll have you know that my work is featured in several of Houston’s prominent homes!”
Jules shrugs. “Sucks for those people.”
Pearl clutches her pearls.
Jules sighs and straightens from the wall.
“Listen, lady. Have you even asked Holt what he wants? What he likes? I mean, I know this place is dated, but it sure as shit isn’t eighteenth century England, so I don’t know why you insist on trying to make it look that way.
” She walks into the room, bypassing Pearl to stand next to the large picture window.
“Do you even notice how all the furniture is angled to look out the window? And you want to cover it up? And that”—she points to the beat-up La- Z-Boy—“is ugly, but it’s well-used.
It’s comfortable. What in the hell is Holt going to do after a long day working the ranch? Plop his ass down on a settee?”
Pearl looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time, glancing nervously at her boards.
Shaking her head, she says, “He’s a guy, of course he has a La-Z-Boy.
That’s why I’m here. Help him get ready to entertain society.
” She throws me a sly smile. A smile that screams she’s interested.
Not in me, but in the society I might bring her way.
I definitely feel sick now. “And he’s a West, dear.
He doesn’t actually work the ranch.” Pearl crosses her arms, looking pleased with her conclusions, muttering, “Not that a woman of your caliber would know these things.”
“Oh dear, you have no idea what a woman like me knows,” Jules drawls.
“Like how, at just eighteen, Holt West, eldest of the West Oil heirs, raised his brother and sister after their parents died. Or how he took what used to be a tax write-off of a ranch and turned it into one of the most successful cattle ranches in Texas. Or how he wakes up before the sun rises every morning to go over the schedule with his foreman, then puts in at least eight hours himself before calling it a day, always making sure to leave his boots at the door. Or how the very idea of entertaining society makes his skin crawl like he’s rolled naked over fire ants. ”
Jules pauses and looks me over. A look that says she’s picturing me naked.
The corners of her mouth slowly curl up before she shakes her head as if to clear the image.
I can feel myself blush from my own reaction stirring under my belt.
I blush harder, thinking about how I haven’t exactly been all that welcoming to her, and yet here she is, defending me against a short Southern woman with swaths of plaid at her disposal.
Jules’ eyes flick back to Pearl. “A woman like you couldn’t possibly know what a man like Holt wants.”
Pearl stomps her foot, and the heel wobbles. “Well, I never!”
“I know, that’s probably why your work is as dried up as your vagina,” Jules mutters loud enough for everyone to hear.
Pearl gasps. The assistant snorts and there’s a crash in the kitchen where Ray is hiding.
“I won’t stand for this.” Pearl spins back to face me and I’m a little too slow in wiping the smile from my face, judging by her scowl. “Mr. West! You can’t just let this, this person dictate?—”
I hold up my hands, heading her off. “This person, although, uh”—a glance at Jules shows she’s amused at my discomfort —“colorful?”—Jules just smirks —“in her articulation, is a close friend of the West family, and as such, has an equal say in the whole remodel.” Pearl sucks in air, but before she can speak, I rush over her, unable to stop myself from trying to play peacemaker.
“And I know I didn’t mention that, which is my fault.
I apologize, ma’am.” I try to rummage up some charm and smile at the designer.
I’m not sure if I manage to be charming, or if Pearl just sees West and not Holt, so doesn’t care.
Either way, she saddles up to me and takes my hand, wrapping her pointed red talons around my fingers.
“Oh, Holt, there’s no need for that. Call me Pearl.” Her fingernails graze my skin, causing a chill to race down my spine. And not the good kind.