Harmony and High Heels (Fort Worth Wranglers 2)

“Your name. Your bakery. Your reputation.” Nothing ever changed. The world revolved around Livinia Angleton Wright, and the rest of the world was just there to serve her.

“Yes, Harmony. My reputation is—”

“All you care about. Is it really more important to you than my dream? Is it more important to you than my happiness?” She knew the answer even as she asked the questions.

She’d spent her entire adult life living a lie so that she could live within the narrow parameters her mother set. Hadn’t she hidden everything she was away, everything she wanted to be, so that she wouldn’t damage her mother’s perception of herself and her family?

She’d done it all so that Lyric could have a life, so that her sister could stop beating herself up trying to fit into a cookie cutter mold that she never stood a chance of fitting into. But Lyric had a life now. She had a husba

nd who adored her and a job she loved. She didn’t need Harmony to protect her anymore, didn’t need Harmony to keep being something she wasn’t in a misguided attempt to please a woman who could never be pleased.

That stopped now. It stopped right this second. Because if the family reputation was so important to her mother, if it really was more important to her than her daughter’s happiness and career success, then there was only one thing to do.

It was time to show her mother just how much of a Badass Baker she really was.

* * *

Chapter 4

* * *

Dalton Mane kicked back in his chair and looked out his office window at the Wranglers’ brand-new practice field. They’d moved into the new training complex just a few weeks ago, and he couldn’t be happier. Lasso Stadium had been his brainchild when he’d first come to the Wranglers more than a decade ago, and it had taken nearly seven years to build. And it was glorious, worth every penny of its one-billion-dollar price tag. This was more than just a sports stadium, it was a real shot in the arm for the local economy. God knew the price of oil was putting a good bit of the state of Texas out of work. But this mixed-use complex was providing much-needed jobs. At least, the city council thought so, and that was why they were giving him the key to the city next week at the grand opening cocktail party and ribbon-cutting ceremony. No expense had been spared and nothing was too extravagant. Even the team owner, Barry Lamont, had convinced his wife to attend, and she hated her husband so much she lived in another country.

With the best practice field in the NFL, state of the art training, physical therapy, and even medical facilities for the players, luxurious offices for running the business side of the team, a hotel complete with a two-thousand-spot parking garage, a team library, a museum, and Wranglers shops open to the public, the complex was everything he could have asked for and more. It certainly showcased just how far the Super Bowl winning Wranglers had come from their humble beginnings.

Kind of like him.

Kicking his feet up on his desk—a luxury he rarely allowed himself—Dalton couldn’t help thinking that in his time here, he’d come nearly as far as the Wranglers had. And nearly as quickly. Fifteen years ago, he’d been a rough-around-the-edges business major with a questionable background and zero experience. He’d also been full of ambition, football knowledge, and the ability to deal swiftly and capably with rooms filled with testosterone-fueled giants. All of which had led him to where he was right now—namely, sitting behind the general manager’s desk in the offices of the reigning Super Bowl champions.

It was a good life, if you could get it.

He took one more minute to survey his domain, and to check out the report on Blake Johnson, the quarterback they’d picked up to replace Heath Montgomery when he’d been injured. Johnson had a bad attitude that was almost as impressive as his throwing arm. But bad attitudes were nothing new to Dalton, and he knew exactly how to handle this one.

With that thought in mind, he swung his feet off his desk. Enough with patting himself on the back. It was time to get to work.

But before he could do much more than log back into his computer, his desk phone buzzed and the efficient voice of Eleanor Sanchez, his overprotective personal assistant, came over the intercom. “Coach Montgomery is here to see you.”

Eleanor ran the office and him with a French-manicured iron hand. He was pretty sure that given the chance, she could run the world with one hand tied behind her back. He counted it as plain good fortune that she wasn’t power hungry. She’d been with him for years, and the last thing he wanted was to lose her to plans for world domination. Especially when he had his own plans to dominate his corner of the world. He’d be named NFL commissioner within the next decade, or die trying.

But those were plans for another day. He pushed the intercom button. “Send him in.”

As he waited for the arrival of the quarterback turned offensive coordinator, Dalton straightened the two pens next to his legal pad and checked to make sure his nameplate was square. Appearances were important in this game, as was control. He’d spent years learning how to keep up both.

Pasting a guarded smile on his face, he watched as Heath strolled into his office in the royal-blue-colored shirt worn by most of the coaching staff, tailored khakis, and a pair of worn, brown cowboy boots. The grounds staff had been complaining about the boots ruining the playing field, but Heath had them in his contract and he wasn’t relenting. All of which had led the groundskeeper, Jacob Bennet—who was usually the nicest, most pliant guy in the world—to declare war on Heath’s cowboy boots.

But bigger wars than this had been fought—and settled—from Dalton’s state-of-the-art office chair, and this one would be as well. Babysitting might be the most unpleasant task of his position, but he took it as seriously as he took all of his other roles. After all, he’d worked hard to make sure that nothing went on in the Wranglers organization that he wasn’t aware of and in control of.

“Heath, have a seat.” Dalton gestured toward the two overstuffed, gargantuan black leather chairs on the other side of his desk. He’d started with normal-sized chairs all those years ago, but pro football players didn’t fit into normal-sized anything, and eventually he’d gotten tired of having to replace broken furniture.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Heath grinned as they shook hands. “If it’s about the boots,” he pointed to his feet, “they aren’t leaving my feet.” He put his hand over his heart. “I’m a Southern gentleman and I have principles. I take my hat off inside, open doors for ladies, use a knife and fork to eat, and I wear cowboy boots. It’s the first Texas Commandment—Thou Shalt Wear Cowboy Boots. I don’t expect you to understand it, as you were born across state lines, but it is a rule. I don’t make the rules, but I do abide by them.”

Dalton was born in Oklahoma but had lived in Texas his entire life. He mashed his lips together to keep from smiling. Heath was so damn likeable that most of the time it was damn hard to lay down the law—it had been that way even when he’d been a player. Not that Dalton had any plans—or any desire—to take away Heath’s Texan civil liberties. Why would he do that when he could use them to his advantage instead?

“I have no intention of taking those boots away. Not when I know how much you love them. The groundskeepers can find a way around the mess they make.”

Heath grinned. “You’re a good man, Dalton. I appreciate your support with this matter.”

“You’ve always got my support, Heath. You know that. Which is why we’re cutting Shawntel Green. He’s a hell of a running back, but I know you’re fed up with his diva ways. The last thing I want is to make your job harder.” Green was also too expensive and a total ass, but Dalton felt no need to share his opinion on the subject. Better to let Heath think he was making two concessions before he took something away—especially something Heath loved as much as his favorite wide receiver.