Harmony and High Heels (Fort Worth Wranglers 2)

Harmony would have liked nothing better than to shake those ridiculous Southern manners right out of her mother and replace them with some actual common sense. And compassion. And basic understanding for someone outside of her very rigid social circle.

Harmony had resigned herself to the life she led a long time ago, had accepted the secrets and the sneaking two towns over to let her hair down as just something she had to do to survive. Now she wanted more for herself. She wanted her own life. Was that too much to ask?

“I think we should try it.” Harmony wasn’t going to give up. This was too important to her. “Think of all the business the bakery could get from being in a national show on the Food Network. We could singlehandedly put San Angelo on the map.”

Harmony might be the good daughter, but she knew how to work her mother.

Livinia stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

“It will be just like what HGTV did with Fixer Upper. Fixer Upper has made Waco, Texas, a tourist destination. Wouldn’t you like to be one-half of the reason tourists flock to San Angelo?” If Harmony knew anything, it was that her mother was the queen of vanity.

“I don’t know …” Her mother looked like she was weighing the good with the bad.

“People would come from all over to watch us film.” She had no idea if that was true or even possible, but she’d deal with that later. “Our business would grow. The online orders alone are going to be huge. Think about all of the marketing opportunities.” Harmony was smart enough to leave out the temporary tattoo revenue stream. “If the show is successful enough, we would be TV stars.” Well, not Momma. Holly didn’t even know Momma existed. “Think of how much that increase in tourism could benefit the whole city. Restaurants, gas stations, small businesses. And it would all be because of the Wright Way.”

Momma’s eyes lit up.

She knew she was laying it on a little thick, but subtle wasn’t going to get the job done here. Not when Livinia would love nothing more than to be San Angelo’s biggest benefactor. If the Junior League and the garden club knew she was single-handedly—because in Livinia’s head, this would all be about her—responsible for increasing tourism and city revenue, she would be even more revered than she already was.

Harmony could see her mother’s mind working, could see her calculating the subsequent rise in her status that would come if she signed the stupid waiver. She was just starting to congratulate herself on finding the one thing that would make this palatable to Livinia when her mother slammed her cut-glass tumbler down.

“And what would happen when all these people showed up and found you looking like this?” She gestured to Harmony’s matching lavender twinset, straight midi skirt, and string of pearls. “What happens when they find out there is nothing badass about you?” She said “badass” in the same whisper she used when talking about cancer or a fatal traffic accident or a debutante’s teen pregnancy and subsequent fall from grace.

Harmony didn’t know if it was the tone that did it or if it was the look on her mother’s face. Maybe it was a combination of both. Or maybe it was the fact that she was sick of being underestimated, sick of hiding, sick of pretending to be something that she wasn’t just to make her mother happy.

Whatever it was, it had adrenaline pumping through her. It had annoyance and frustration, and the desire to do something just for herself just because she wanted to, mixing with that adrenaline.

“Sign the waiver.” She held her mother’s gaze, and this time it wasn’t a question.

Livinia’s perfect salon-arched brows hit her forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is a terrible idea and there’s no way I’m going to let you be a part of it. There’s certainly no way I’m going to let my bakery be a part of it.”

“It’s my bakery too.” This time, Harmony was doing what she wanted.

Her mother’s eyes turned the size of macaroons. “Excuse me?”

“The Wright Way is my bakery too. I built it from nothing.” If her mother wanted a fight, Harmony was all in.

“Don’t you mean you built it from the seventy-five thousand dollars I gave you to build it?” Her mother’s tone was all don’t-sass-me-little-girl.

“I want to do the show.” She was doing the show.

“Yes, well, I want a lot of things, Harmony Marie. Doesn’t mean I’m going to get them.” Her mother nodded her head like it was final.

Harmony gritted her teeth so hard it was a wonder she didn’t grind them to dust. “I want this. This is my dream. Shouldn’t that be enough for you? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

Harmony’s happiness was something her mother had probably never given any thought to.

Livinia sighed like she was tired of dealing with a petulant child. “If you want a show that badly, we can see about putting a proposal together for one. Something tasteful and sedate. Something that showcases our shop just the way it is.” Her mother held her arms out like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

The bakery was decorated in Early-American Snotty Debutante. It had crystal chandeliers, subdued lighting, and a shit-load of white. Harmony had always hated the décor but had tolerated it because changing it wasn’t worth the fight.

Her mother poured another glass of Southern Comfort, then shuddered delicately as she raised the liqueur to her lips. “Just think of what a show like Badass Baker would do to your reputation. And more importantly, to the family’s reputation. I won’t have it, Harmony. I just won’t have it.”

“So, that’s it, then? You won’t have it, so I don’t get a vote?” There wasn’t a chance in hell Harmony was giving this up.

“Of course you get a vote, dear. But I own fifty-five percent of the bakery, so no matter how you vote, mine trumps yours. And I can assure you, there is absolutely no way I’m signing that waiver for them to use my name—my bakery—on that dirty little show.”

Dirty little show? It wasn’t like they were making bakery porn. Was that even a thing?