“And you’ll look gorgeous tomorrow standing next to Clay on stage. I got us appointments with the top three stylists at Salon Beau Monde. Because, girl, we can’t look like poor relations standing next to you!” Cassie wore a huge grin even as she eased Georgie into the passenger seat of her Highlander. Jolie climbed into the backseat as Cassie jumped into the driver’s.
By lunch, with glossy, French-manicured nails and toes, Georgie felt well enough to try a light lunch of homemade noodle soup and croissants at La Baguette. The afternoon consisted of discussions about highlights, haircuts and other beauty “trauma,” but by the time the girls deposited her back at Clay’s, Georgie’s stomach had settled and the warmth of Clay’s gaze as he surveyed her from head to toe made all the hassle worth it.
“Feel up to going out for dinner?”
Invigorated, she nodded. “I do.”
A little grin hovered at the corner of Clay’s mouth. “I kinda like the way you say that.”
Flustered, Georgie blushed as Clay leaned in to kiss the tip of her nose. “Food and then bed. Tomorrow is a long day.”
* * *
Friday. Day three of her drug regime and Georgie was feeling optimistic. She’d managed a real breakfast and coffee. She’d suffered through hair and makeup. She’d acquiesced to the demands of the stylist on her outfit—a softly draped dress in a muted tangerine color that she hated until she was wearing it and her makeup had been applied. The big fight came over leaving her glasses off.
“I can’t see without them.”
“Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to see. Better yet, contacts.”
She glared at the stylist and managed not to stick out her tongue as Clay arrived and ended the argument by picking up the black frames and placing them on her face, followed by a mostly chaste kiss that didn’t mess up her lipstick.
By the one-hour mark until airtime, the entire family had arrived. The five Barron boys looked like fashion models in suits, starched shirts and designer ties. Every one of them wore Western boots. Jolie and Cassie also wore designer duds—Cassie in a tailored pencil skirt and jacket with slight Western touches and Jolie in a crepe wrap dress with a floaty skirt. CJ chafed at the miniature suit he’d been coerced into wearing.
The Tate brothers were just as handsome when they arrived en masse with their mother, Katherine. Deacon Tate and the Sons of Nashville had been in a separate room running through the songs they planned to play when they took the stage at the thirty-minute mark.
Cyrus held court on the opposite side of the luxurious green room and Georgie did her utmost to avoid him. An occasional chill would steal over her and she’d glance over to find his malevolent glare focused on her. She could do nothing but wait for the other shoe to drop. And it would. Cyrus was getting his way with the announcement, but sooner or later, he’d come after her. A man wearing headphones around his neck and carrying an iPad ducked into the room and asked Clay and Chase to step outside.
Jolie and Cassie were sitting with their husbands, trying to keep CJ entertained and clean as he raided the buffet laid out for the VIP guests. The governor was there, along with her entourage. Several state and US legislators were there to show support—and appear on the stage behind Clay, ready to hitch their wagons to his rising star.
A wave of nausea washed over Georgie and she headed toward the bathroom, just in case. Cyrus hijacked her before she got there.
“We need to talk,” he snarled.
“No, we don’t.” She tried to step around him, but he cut her off.
“I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars.”
Georgie rocked back and swayed, unused to the tall, skinny heels of her shoes. “Beg pardon?”
“Quit and walk away from my son. Half a million dollars.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream. “Are you serious?”
“A woman like you? It’s a generous offer.”
“A woman like me?” Her voice rose as adrenaline tingled all the way to her fingertips. She was vaguely aware of a flurry of movement behind her. “And what kind of woman am I?”
“You aren’t worthy of Clayton. He should have stayed with Giselle. You’re plain. Too plump. Those glasses are hideous. And you’re just an employee. I thought I taught him better. You screw the hired help but don’t move in with them. My son will be the next President of the United States and he needs a real woman at his side.”
Cyrus’s words felt like vicious hooks snagging into her heart and jerking. It hurt, but she was so mad, she didn’t care. “Hired help? Unworthy? Real woman?” Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed into a snarl. She stepped into Cyrus’s space and jammed her index finger into his chest, jabbing him to punctuate every point. “You listen to me, you misogynistic, dried-up old piece of manure. I’ve worked my butt off for your son. I’ve covered him with the media when you and your other sons showed up on the front pages of every tabloid in the world. I am more than hired help and I dang sure am worthy of Clay. I might not be a size three, but I don’t consider some skinny model a real woman. A real woman looks like me. A real woman stands beside her man. She supports him and loves him and takes care of him.” She stopped for a breath, but an arm sliding around her middle kept her from launching into part two of her tirade.