The Boss and His Cowgirl (13 page)

Seventeen

W
ednesday morning, just after dawn, she awoke in Clay's arms, head snuggled on his shoulder. His arm was around her back, hand cupping her hip as her knee rested across his thighs. She wanted to wake up this way every morning. Life would be hectic for the next year. Hectic and scary, but she felt safe here with Clay. Strong. As though she could take on the world and win—emotions both unfamiliar and appreciated. He was right. Today would be whatever it was.

After a shared shower full of kisses and touches, they dressed and drank coffee in the kitchen, sitting close to each other. She was too keyed up to eat, knowing she'd likely toss whatever was in her stomach. Clay seemed to realize this instinctively and didn't push food on her. Instead, he suggested she do her job.

“You're still my communications director, sweet pea.” He winked when he said it.

As usual, Clay was right. She threw herself into work, answering emails, returning phone calls and doing what she did best—communicating. At nine Clay came into his study and closed her laptop. “Hunt's here.”

Her stomach dropped to her toes. Hunt was driving them to the University of Oklahoma medical complex to meet her oncologist, Dr. Nassad. “Hey!” she groused. “I wasn't finished with that email.”

“You can finish it when we get back. C'mon, sweet pea.” Clay was gentle as he pulled her from the chair.

The drive didn't take nearly long enough. Filling out the paperwork in Dr. Nassad's office should have taken days. She was done in ten minutes. Clay sat next to her in the waiting room, holding her hand. He looked calm, collected, in control. She wanted to scream and run from the room. She didn't. She sat quietly, absorbing strength from the amazing man at her side.

A nurse appeared, gave instructions. Georgie was to come with her, Clay could come back to Dr. Nassad's office to wait and the doctor would meet with both of them after the exam. They parted in the hallway as the door marked Private closed behind them.

Georgie changed into a paper gown, happy she could keep her slacks on. She only removed her blouse and bra. The nurse tapped on the door, poked her head in, nodded with a small smile and disappeared. What felt like five days later—though it was probably only five minutes—Dr. Nassad knocked and entered.

He was in his late fifties, balding and fit, with a contained energy about him that filled the atmosphere with static electricity. His handshake was no-nonsense, his words blunt. Georgie liked him immediately.

After the exam he opened her files on a rolling metal stand and studied them for a long moment. When he looked up and met her gaze, she reminded herself to breathe.

“If you wish to try to save the breast, the least invasive treatment includes chemotherapy to shrink the tumors before we try a lumpectomy. If the chemo doesn't work, we'll try radiation. I want to make the tumors as small as possible before we do the surgery.” The doctor watched, waiting for her response. When she simply nodded, he continued. “If that doesn't work, or it spreads again, we need to consider a mastectomy.” He had a slight accent and his eyes were kind as he explained.

The doctor glanced at her file again, and when his gaze met hers, she couldn't breathe. She knew what he would say next, and to hide from his hateful words, she hid in her memory of last night. Of Clay's hands cupping her breasts, of his mouth on her, teasing her puckered nipples. She relived the warmth shooting straight to her core, the way her body responded to his touch, the way his eyes glowed with pleasure as he touched her. Could she deprive him of that? Deprive herself?

“Ms. Dreyfus, I would recommend the mastectomy now, followed by both chemo and radiation to make sure we've caught it all. Your mammogram last year was clear. This is a particularly aggressive form of cancer. You already have a new tumor forming that was small enough it didn't show on the mammogram you took last month.”

No. She didn't want to hear this, didn't want to listen. She stuck mental fingers in her ears and sang la-la-las in her head.

“Ms. Dreyfus? Georgeanne?”

She refocused her gaze on him. “Not yet.” Her voice croaked the words. “Last resort. Okay?”

His lips flattened out as he pressed them together. “I don't—”

“My body, Dr. Nassad.”

“Yes, it is. But I think you should discuss this with your partner. I understand losing your breasts is not an easy decision, but do you wish to gamble with your life?”

“My life, too.” Anger swirled around her. Why was she acting this way? Shock? Fear? Yes, both of those. But she wasn't afraid of losing her life; she was afraid of losing Clay. Yes, he'd promised to stay by her side, but after his mother's ordeal...and the way he loved her breasts? She couldn't make that decision. Not yet. Not until every last possible cure was tried.

She stared at Dr. Nassad. “We try conservative first. And not a word about this to my partner.”

The doctor's disapproval was evident in his expression and body language. “I can refer you to another—”

“No. I like you, Dr. Nassad. And I trust you, even though it seems I don't. I just know that I have to try alternatives first.”

“Stubborn woman.”

The smile she directed toward his scowl was wistful. “Yes, sir. I am. My way first. We'll continue to discuss the outcomes, keeping all options open. Okay?”

His scowl deepened, but he nodded. “No, not okay, but we will do as you wish.” He scribbled on a prescription pad and gave her further instructions before leading her to his office. He shook hands with Clay, offered more scowls directed at Georgie and shooed them out.

Their next stop was the in-hospital pharmacy where she got the drugs making up her first round of chemo. The information sheet was ten printed pages, including six listing side effects. She took her first pill before they left the hospital complex.

By dinnertime, food was the last thing on her mind. Figured. She was part of that .2% of patients who had an immediate reaction to the drug cocktail. Clay fed her ice chips and sips of ginger ale and she worried about how long he would put up with her.

“Don't go there.”

She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“I know you, Georgie. I recognize the panic in your eyes. Not gonna happen, sweet pea. I'm with you. No matter what. Understand?”

She stared, her vision blurred by unshed tears. “Startin' to.”

“Good. Now, we're going to bed. I'm going to hold you in my arms and not only tell you how beautiful you are, but show you until you get it.”

* * *

Georgie stared at Cassie and Jolie. She was an only child. She could count her close girlfriends on one hand. These two women enfolded her like they were her lifelong BFFs. She'd tried to cancel their Girls' Day Out, but they showed up at the door and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Cassie put her hands on her hips, her expression stubborn. “We're headed to JJ Nails to see Jacky and Jessica because they're the best. And Tommy gives the most amazing pedicures in the metroplex. Don't argue. You need to be pampered.”

Jolie looked up from reading the medical literature. “You definitely need pampering. We'll take it easy. Plus, the massage chairs are awesome! You sit and get the works while Tommy does his magic. Then, when we have pretty feet, Jacky and Jessica take over.” She offered a tentative smile. “Having acrylics will help, hon. Your nails will get brittle from the chemo drugs.”

“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.

Clay hauled her up against him and she could feel his silent laughter where her back pressed against his chest. She glanced back and grew flustered when she saw his brothers standing in a half-circle behind him.

“Dang, Clay,” Cord sputtered around a chuckle. “You do like 'em feisty, ol' son.”

The man with the earphones stuck his head in the door. “Everyone to their places. National networks go live in five minutes.”

Cyrus evidently realized they had the entire room's attention. He glared at Clay, his lips twisting into a feral snarl. “We're done here but I'm not finished with you. We'll discuss this without an audience.”

It was over, for now at least. Clay entwined his fingers with hers, and then led her out toward the stage entrance. Everyone else followed. As they approached, the music of Deacon's hit song “Red Dirt Cowgirl” filled the air. The audience was singing along. The band occupied one corner of the stage, while risers covered the rest of the space. The “backdrop” people filed out while the last notes faded and the audience erupted into applause, whistles and screams.