Page 17 of Cash

“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. Iwouldbe 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.