Bootscootin' Blahniks (15 page)

Hell
. He had forty, four-by-eight foot benches with approximately sixteen trays in double rows on the top of each bench. He’d be hardening these suckers for hours.

Hoping Cody had made it back from town, Zayne unclipped his Nextel from his belt and dialed Cody’s number. He had to start moving the trays out of the greenhouse. Since it would be another two weeks before they could plant the vines in the fields, they could mix the starter solutions later. But if they didn’t get the trays out, the straggly shoots wouldn’t need starter solution. They’d need a compost pile.

Not getting any response from bumping Cody, Zayne grabbed as many trays as he could stack in his arms without crushing the starts and headed for the hardening area. Muscling his way to the greenhouse entrance, he heard a vehicle pull into the lot in front of the door.

Good
.
Cody must be back
.

Leaving the greenhouse, the screen snapped hard against Zayne’s back, sure to leave a welt. The high noon sun beat down into his eyes, but he was unable to shield them on account of his tray-packed arms.

His upper body strained against the weight of the trays as he squinted into the sun’s glare, trying to spot Cody’s truck. But he didn’t find Cody or his truck. He found Jack Baudlin, adding nothing but disgust to Zayne’s damn near debilitating distress.

Z
ayne fought the blinding rays ricocheting off Jack’s white Silverado as the truck rolled to a stop in front of the greenhouse. Dust churned from the dry ground, plastering the Baudlin Brothers Tomatoes sign covering the side of the truck’s cab.

Six feet, five inches of farm-buffed muscle stepped out of the driver’s side, activating Zayne’s defense mechanisms before his brain could argue. His shoulders squared to Jack’s solid frame, his chest inflated, pressing against the buttons of his shirt.

As Jack’s boots hit the ground, he tipped his hat. A friendly gesture contradicting the serious furrow of his brows, Zayne thought.

Jack’s straw-blond hair made for a sharp contrast to the man accompanying him. Santos, a good seven inches shorter than his employer, was made of the same home-grown muscle. He was the dark yang to his boss’ golden boy ying, with hair and skin the color of the earth. Whereas his eyes were light, a clear blue holding nothing but kindness, Jack’s were weary with darkness brewing.

Zayne hadn’t seen much of Jack since high school, except for occasionally at The Neon Cowboy. Each time he’d run into him, however, Santos had been at the youngest Baudlin’s side, always with a good-natured gentleness balancing Jack’s rowdy, drunken bravado.

Zayne, unlike Damian, though, couldn’t rationalize that the two men’s brawn, coupled with Jack’s ultra-conservative family, would allow them to be more than work partners.

Interesting too, Zayne thought, that Harry wasn’t leading his pack this time. Two visits in two days from the Baudlin bunch. What was up with that? Nothing smelling of good will.

Putting value in his body’s cautionary instincts, Zayne refused to relax the hard-set tension tightening his jaw.

He believed in friendly neighbors. But this double drop-in was beyond neighborly. Baudlins weren’t known for affability. In fact, except for Jack’s tendency to smile and Santos’s polite, reserved demeanor, Baudlins were assholes, especially when it came to tomato contest time.

Jack wasn’t smiling today. His lips were set in a taught line. He sucked-in his stomach, puffing out his perfect pecs. This was the last place he wanted to be, Zayne thought, watching Jack posture as he closed the short space between them.

“I’d shake your hand, but mine are full,” Zayne said, nodding toward the cell packs. “What brings you two by again?”

“So you’re really serious about the contest this year?” Jack asked, his voice’s forced ease betrayed by his intensely dark eyes.

“Yep. Sure am.” Zayne adjusted the packs in his arms, hoping for a brief visit from his competitors. The trays, still heavy from last night’s watering, were about to buckle in his arms. “Why are you asking again? Did we not make ourselves clear on that point yesterday?”

Scuffing his boot on the ground, the only son Harry Baudlin produced, gnawed on a piece of straw in his mouth. A habit Zayne had taken-up too, but just about the only one he shared with his old man.
Hell
. Kent McDonald should have been buried that way.

Jack moved the straw around his mouth with his tongue, chewing on his question. “You were perfectly clear. But after we left, we all got to talking. You haven’t been in the business for what, Zayne…ten plus years?”

“Something like that,” Zayne answered, not sure where this conversation was headed but curious enough to continue. “But why would that worry you? Hell, with me at the helm, I’d think your farm would already be celebrating a win.”

Jack laughed. But Santos didn’t, choosing instead to stare at the ground, drawing the heel of his boot against a jagged piece of crushed rock as if he was reluctantly standing guard, dutifully waiting to follow his mentor’s lead. Santos’s seriousness tempered by his concerned look seemed to offer Jack the loyal support of a friend. A devotion Zayne admired despite the trouble the man’s silence predisposed. Something was brewing at the Baudlin farms.

“Well, you’re not far off there,” Jack said, cloaking the awkward silence. “Dad sure is whoopin’ it up knowing
you’re
his competition.”

Yeah. He would be, Zayne thought. But why was Jack singling out his father as the only poor sport in the bunch? The Jack Baudlin Zayne had grown up with would have been bellying up to the winner’s circle right along with his dad. All Baudlins were in love with their tomatoes and knew their farm produced the best in the county. And Baudlin men stayed true to the family line, regardless of truth or what act would better serve justice.

“Dad swears he’ll be Nashville’s tomato king forever.” Jack tossed the limp piece of straw to the ground, mashing it into the dirt with his boot. “His only
real
competition was your father. So, yeah, he’s feeling confident.”

“Good for him. Just don’t let him get too confident.” Zayne shifted his weight, antsy to move the trays off his cramping arms. “I’m planning to win.”

“I’ll tell him that,” Jack said with a sly grin.

Although Zayne would have liked to dig deeper into Jack’s apparent angst at the promise of a tomato showdown, he had work to do before the heat of the day gave way to sundown. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’ve got to get these trays out.”

“Here. Let me help you.” Jack took two trays.

Santos took two more. “Hardening time?”

“That it is. Thanks. Cody should be back soon to catch the rest.” Zayne set off for the shade behind the tractor barn with Jack and Santos following close behind him. “So things working out for you farming for your dad?”

Jack edged ahead of Zayne and Santos, effortlessly maneuvering the trays. “You bet. Farming. Tomatoes. Family. That’s my life.”

Santos quickened his strides, securing his place next to Jack, leaving Zayne faltering alone. But Zayne needed the extra time to digest Harry Baudlin’s hell-bent drive to win the competition.

Jack slowed down so Santos could match his gait then hollered over his shoulder to Zayne. “But I’ll never have the insane devotion to the farm that Dad does. There’s more to life than tomatoes.”

Zayne fell back further, not remembering it taking this long or this much effort to get from the greenhouse to the tractor barn. His stomach tightened in raw acknowledgment. He faced more of a battle than he’d prepared for by entering the contest. Dancing and tomato growing required different muscle groups. The reality of his incompetence sickened him, while at the same time producing an unshakeable will to beat the odds.

A fleeting glance passed between Jack and Santos. Or was Zayne imagining it? With the early May heat, greenhouse gases and manual labor overload, hard telling what was real and what was a mirage messing with his mind.

“Jack’s dad will do anything to prove he’s the king,” Santos said, shaking his head almost as if he were in a disturbed daze.

Despite his stoic detachment, Zayne sensed Santos had a sharp edge grinding underneath his composed surface. His muscles twitched under his skin, giving Zayne the push to needle both him and Jack for specifics. “What do you mean by anything?”

Santos brushed Jack’s shoulder with his hand as if attempting to sooth his friend’s unrest.

No, Zayne thought, he wasn’t imagining a bigger connection between the two men. There was something more going on there than work. But Zayne sure as hell didn’t have the time or right to ask. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know how well they were connected, although he definitely needed more on their cryptic behavior regarding Jack’s dad’s intentions.

“Just be prepared for a hell of a competition.” Jack set the trays in the shaded grass behind the barn. “Dad’s devoted to his growing operation. So are Santos and I. I’m sure your dad told you the stories. My old man’s not always the best sport during the game.”

Zayne hadn’t talked tomatoes with Jack even when they were boys. ‘Course, he’d never been direct competition. His father was their threat. Only now had Zayne filled those boots.

And boy he sure didn’t like the implications of foul play being levied.
Jesus
. He wished his dad were here. He’d know what to make of this. Did the Baudlins play fair? Or would they do whatever it took to win?

Maybe his dad had despised Harry Baudlin for a valid reason. Zayne had thought the riff between the two was petty jealousy, perhaps Harry’s obvious fondness for Zayne’s mom. Now he wondered if his dad had a sounder basis for his fierce despise of all things Baudlin.

“Thanks for the warning.” Zayne put his tray next to the others, wishing he’d spent more time with his dad, picking up pieces of the man’s knowledge.

He turned toward Jack and Santos, wanting to question them further about Harry’s sportsmanship, but they were already returning to their truck.

What was Jack trying to tell him? And why were both he and Santos all but speaking in codes? Even though Jack had never been the in-your-face guy his father was, he hadn’t been a man who played games. He’d always played straight. Well, maybe that wasn’t exactly true regarding Santos. But where business was concerned, Jack, unlike his father, had no history of walking as the crow flies.

Did he
?

Reaching the driveway, Jack turned back toward Zayne. “Make sure you get those trays off the ground. They need to drain.”

“I planned on it,” Zayne said. Once you told me to, he thought.

Zayne rubbed his ears, shaking out the roars of confusion assaulting him.

He used to think only the advertising world was full of anomalies. Not anymore. The man who stood to inherit Baudlin Farms just tipped off his competitor on possible foul play. Plus, offered advice on product development.

Jack had just saved Zayne’s ass. Forgetting the trays needed proper drainage while they hardened Zayne hadn’t bothered getting the benches out of the barn to hold the trays off the ground.
Hell
. He would have drowned the shit out of the start-ups, leaving him with nothing but moldy muck-ups for planting.

Once Jack’s truck was out of sight, Zayne went to the barn to dig out the benches, praying Cody would get his ass back to the farm to help.

Shit
. Now Zayne didn’t have time to look for the missing card. He had too many of his own fuck-ups to avoid to worry about his dad’s.

7
:17 p.m. So much for a dinner companion, Roxy thought. Kat had been in the Sunset Grill powder room for over twenty minutes.

Roxy tapped the tip of her home-manicured nail against her wine glass. Her hands may no longer be Elizabeth Arden quality like her mother’s, but they still passed for high maintenance. She’d paid attention to the extravagantly tipped technicians she’d employed every Friday in Manhattan. She may be frugal for the first time in her life, but she was still fashionable.

She’d give Kat three more minutes. If she didn’t return to the table by 7:22, Roxy was going in. Her annoyance had turned to concern. Her stomach was a free-for-all of nervous twitter that something awful could be wrong with Kat. If she were remotely responsible for a mishap resulting in Kat’s injury, Roxy could never face Zayne. Worse, she couldn’t handle the guilt caused by her inaction.

Kat had fluttered around Raeve all day, ooh-ing and ah-ing and making notes. The woman never sat down, finding one design after another to occupy her curiosity and feed her enthusiasm. Not used to overt excitement regarding her talent, Roxy couldn’t decide how to handle the positive reinforcement or the woman behind it. But she was inclined to consider the attention favorably.

Roxy poured herself another glass of Pinot Grigio. One glass hadn’t taken the unique edge out of the day she’d had. She’d started damn near getting run over by a chicken feed truck and ended befriending a co-worker. Not that she was dismissing the horror of the former, but the latter was much scarier.

Surprised at the positive slant she’d given Kat’s first day, Roxy sipped her wine and tried to sort through her discombobulated emotions.

Zayne’s mom may have missed her calling by trading in her fashion sense for The Neon Cowboy. She had a flare for design and most definitely knew what to wear to flatter her body type. Not that much wouldn’t look good on her well-maintained body. At fifty-something, her curves were still in the right places. And she’d proudly boasted, while trying on a pair of Raeve’s jeans, she’d kept her figure without injecting-into or sucking-out any ominous substances. No wonder Roxy liked her so much and, at the same time, had nothing but disdain for her own mother the Cosmetic Surgery Queen.

Roxy swirled the wine around her glass, placing her conflicting feelings in the vortex of the soft white centrifuge.

Exhilarated by Kat’s talent, ideas were taking form as to how she could best apply her new assistant’s strengths. Every creative wire wound through her buzzed with possibility. Too overwhelmed though to accept Kat’s encouragement and support of her designs, Roxy’s blocked artist short-circuited.