Chapter Three
Grady
“No, thank you.”
I ignore the knock at my door and swivel back and forth in my desk chair, the way I used to in Dad’s when I’d come in on the weekends to bug him silly. Only, now he’s gone, and this is my desk I’m sitting in.
Jesus, why did I ever agree to all this in the first place?
The door knocks again and, before I can huff another denial, it whips open and Parker storms in, all 5’6” of him, and that’s with his big ass cowboy boots on. He’s huffing and puffing, but suddenly? I’m oddly ... calm.
“I’d say don’t bother knocking,” I tease, nodding toward the open door. “But you’ve already done that.”
“Your father never made me knock,” Parker insists, easing into the chair across from my desk without being asked. “Your mother didn’t, either.”
“Stepmother,” I remind him.
“Yeah, well, the point is...”
“I’ve never made you knock either,” I insist. “Because my door isn’t usually shut.”
“Only when dealing with one of our biggest clients?”
I frown. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Parker, but ... is Wild West Studios paying us for this?” I tap the dossier on my desk.
He looks dubiously impressed. “Not exactly, no, but the publicity? On the day of the event? All of our Palmer Properties signs in all those storefront windows? You can’t pay for that kind of publicity.”
I nod and glance past him out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office. “Fine, yeah, I get that, but ... we already manage the Galloping Galleria, am I right?”
“Sure, but there’s only the one occupant right now, and that’s the whole point of this big, showy Grand Opening—to get more occupants and, hence, more properties to manage.”
When I nod and remain silent a little too long, still studying the open folder on my desk, Parker nudges quietly, “You get that, right?”
“Yes, obviously, it’s just ... that guy’s not my boss.”
Parker smiles at my obvious huffiness. “No, not technically, but Wild West Studios is a big get and the sooner you appreciate that fact, the sooner you’ll get up from out behind that desk, put your tail between your legs and go make peace with that nice young fella.”
“I didn’t think he was very nice.” I pout.
Parker rolls his eyes. “Kid, listen to me now—it’s one week. One week of kissing ass, playing nice, being a good host, and then these big Hollywood folks are going to be out of our hair and—”
“Burbank,” I remind him.
Parker makes his patented “I don’t give a fuck” face. “Say what now?” he growls impatiently.
“Wild West Studios isn’t even in Hollywood.” I sigh, pointing to their address on the Fact Sheet in front of me. “They’re in Burbank.”
“Okay, well, they still do that one big TV show, uh—uh...” Parker pretends like he knows what he’s talking about. While he blunders, blathering, pretending to come up with a name, I wait him out. “Fine, dammit. Remind me again?”
I roll my eyes. “Dang, Parker. Weren’t you the one who put this all together for me?” I wave the Fact Sheet around for good measure, surprisingly satisfied by the fluttering, flapping noise it makes above my desk.
Parker looks chagrined. “I put that together for Rachel. Like ... two weeks ago?”
“Did you remember that little fancy pants was coming in here this morning?” I ask, and before Parker can huff and puff and, more pointedly, bluff his way out of this one, I hit him with a good, old-fashioned: “Be honest, now.”
“Fine.” He sighs, sagging beneath his stiff denim cowboy shirt. “No, I plum forgot, but that doesn’t mean you had to kick him the hell out of your office, Grady.”
“Fine, yes, I get that, but ... he’s a little shit and needed to be put in his place, that’s all.”
“He’s a big shit,” Parker reminds me. “And I don’t need to remind you what kind of a hissy fit that stepmother of yours will throw if she comes back here and finds out we’ve fucked this six ways to Sunday, Grady.”
I start to speak, and Parker snaps, “And before you remind me that your precious father left you controlling stake in Parker Properties in his will, I’ll remind you that your stepmother, like her or not, has been running this place since long before the stroke that finally killed him, so...”
I glance sideways, out the nearest window. Beyond it, Lonesome Lane bustles with mid-morning foot traffic. “I know that,” I say quietly. “I get that, honestly, I do. And I appreciate it, but it’s not like I’m some total newb, right?”
“Yes, fine,” Parker concedes. “But working summers for your father didn’t quite prepare you for, you know? Taking over for him?”
“Neither will one week kissing some Hollywood type’s ass, Parker.”
“Burbank types ass,” he reminds me, glancing out the door as if for witnesses. “And, not that I’m into that or anything, obviously, but ... it wasn’t a horrible ass, now was it, Grady?”
“Stop,” I groan. The only thing worse than Parker knowing my dirty little secret is him trying to hook me up with every eligible bachelor who’s ever passed through tiny Pistol Creek, Kentucky, as a result. “I’m not doing this again.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, Parker,” I hiss, leaning closer over my desk so the whole nosy ass office suite doesn’t hear. “Again.”
“When have I ever—” Then it hits him, and he smirks. “Oh right. Printer Guy.”
“Yeah, Parker, Printer Guy. I’m not having a repeat of that particular debacle just because it’s, you know ... been a while.”
He snickers. “Wouldn’t know what that feels like, partner,” he brags, straightening his big, stupid, brass belt buckle as if to draw attention to his legendary trouser rocket.
“Yeah, well, I usually don’t either, but ... color me surprised as well.”
“Well then, partner,” he teases, leaning closer and putting on the old cowboy charm. “All the more reason to get up off that purdy little ass of yours, swallow your pride and head on down to the Cracked Egg and eat a little crow for breakfast, you hear?”
“You didn’t?” I sigh wearily, knowing that I’ll probably do just exactly that.
“I did.”
“Why, Parker? You know that prissy little city boy won’t find a lick to eat down there.” I’m already standing, as if more protective of poor Chet’s sensible dietary needs than my own insufferable pride.
“Because I knew it’d be the only way to get your bossy ass down there to save him, that’s why!”
I sigh, snatching the dossier up at the last minute. “Stop looking at me like that,” I warn Parker as he follows me to the door.
“Like what?” he asks, all innocent like.
“Like you knew exactly how this would play out when you sauntered in here just now, all high and mighty.”
He leans against the doorway, looking like he belongs in an old-timey saloon door rather than my measly corner office. “Well, I did.”
“No one likes a know-it-all,” I call over my shoulder, hastening down the hall.
“Ginny McBride does,” he croons, naming off his latest conquest, a hairdresser down at the Cut Above Salon on Cattle Drive. “And as soon as you’re gone, I’m about to head on over and show her just how much I know ... about lovin’!”
“Gross,” I mutter to myself as I enter the main reception suite.
“You got that right,” Ginny mutters without lifting her head up from a glossy fashion magazine on her desk.