A Bravo Homecoming

“Travis, I only—”

He turned to meet her eyes again. “Help me out, Sam. Help me out and I’ll help you out. Win-win. You’ll see. You can have the new life you’ve been dreaming of. All you have to do to get it is a little favor for a friend.”

Chapter Two

A week and a day later, Sam entered the lobby of Houston’s Four Seasons Hotel.

She wore a gray pantsuit with a white blouse and black flats. Not exactly glamorous. But hey. At least it was something other than coveralls, steel-toed boots and a hard hat.

Unfortunately, her hair was being really annoying that day. It was only an inch long, for cripes’ sake. But still, it insisted on curling every which way.

Her makeup? She wore none—and not because she hadn’t tried. Three times, she’d applied blush, lip gloss and mascara. She’d picked those up the day before at Walmart in an effort to look more pulled-together for this big adventure she probably shouldn’t have let herself be talked into in the first place. Each time she put the makeup on, she’d had to scrub it right off again. It just didn’t look right on her. So in the end, she decided to go without.

The Four Seasons was about the fanciest hotel in Houston. She’d expected old-fashioned elegance. But the lobby was modern. The furniture had clean, trendy lines. The carpets were in black-and-white geometric patterns. There was also bright color—in the modern art on the walls, in the purple pillows, all plump and inviting on the tan and off-white sofas.

And where the hell was Travis, anyway? He’d promised he would be here waiting for her.

She tried not to gape like the oversize hayseed she knew herself to be. She told herself it was all in her mind that the bellmen and concierge clerks were staring at her and wondering what she was doing there. What did a concierge clerk care if she was as big as a horse and every bit as muscular? So what if she looked more manly than most of the guys in the place? She had as much right to be there as anyone else.

And she did have her pride. Chin up, her black leather tote hooked on a shoulder, she sauntered past the checkin desk and chose a sofa thick with bright pillows beneath a giant circular chandelier dripping with about a hundred thousand crystals.

When she reached the sofa, she turned and lowered herself into it with care. She kept her knees together, her black flats planted on the thick carpet, neatly, side-by-side. Easing the tote off her shoulder, she put it at her feet. And then, sitting very still and very straight, she folded her hands in her lap and she waited.

She tried not to squirm, tried to keep her face calm and composed. The minutes crawled by.

Travis, you SOB, where are you?

He’d better get there damn soon or she wouldn’t be waiting when he finally did arrive. She pressed her lips together, swallowed, felt the nervous sweat beginning to seep through the underarms of her new shirt.

Wasn’t there some old saying about how a person should beware of all situations that require new clothes?

Uh, yeah. Exactly.

Travis, unless you show up right this minute, I am going to get up and walk out of here. And then, the next time I see you, I will beat the ever lovin’ crap out of you….

“Sam. Great. There you are….”

So. He was there. At last.

Sam let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Turning to look over her shoulder, she watched him striding toward her, wearing really nice black jeans and a sport jacket, looking like he owned the place. With him was a short, skinny man in a striped shirt with a big white collar, linen pants and suspenders. The man’s thick, wavy blond hair was bigger than he was. Sam could have picked him up with one hand, tucked him under her arm and carried him several city blocks without even breathing hard.

She snatched up her tote and rose to meet them.

“Lookin’ good,” said Travis. He grabbed her in a quick hug. When he let her go, he turned to the tiny, bird-boned guy with the big hair. “Jonathan, Sam. Sam, Jonathan.”

The little guy gave her the once-over through eyes as small and bright and birdlike as the rest of him. “Hello, Samantha. I can see we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Her coach. Of course. Pretentious frickin’ twit. She started to say something to put him in his place, but then changed her mind. He might be pretentious, but then again, he was also right. No point in beating up the messenger. She had a lot to learn if she wanted a different kind of life. “Yeah,” she said drily. “I hope you’re up to the job.”

Travis said, “I found him on the internet. And I’m betting he’s the best.”

Jonathan tossed his big hair. “No time to waste, is there? Shall we go up?”

The suite was spectacular. All in relaxing colors—dusty greens and creamy tans and warm golds, with a great view of downtown Houston. Two bedrooms. One for her, one for her coach.

Travis had his town house in the city.

She stood at the window and looked out at the skyline and worried about how much this had to be costing him.

He came to stand with her. “Great view, huh?”

“Yeah. Where’s Jonathan?” she asked the question low, out of the corner of her mouth.

“He’s in his room, getting settled.”

She decided to go ahead and ask him about the expense. “This all looks…really pricey, Travis.”

“That’s right.” He sounded so pleased with himself. “Didn’t I promise you a crash course in how the other half lives?”

“I’m just saying it’s enough that you hired me my own personal coach. That had to cost plenty. And then the clothes. That’ll be plenty more. You really didn’t need to spring for a suite at the Four Seasons.”

He put an arm around her shoulder, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Only the best for my favorite fiancée.”

She eased out from under his hold. “You’re blowing me off.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It just, you know, seems like it’s kind of overkill. Way too frickin’ expensive overkill. I mean, I know you have your investments and all, but I hate to see you waste your hard-earned money.”

“Stop worrying—and anyway, I didn’t raid my portfolio for this.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a soft growl. “Did I ever tell you about my giant trust fund?”

“You did, but you always said—”

“—that I would never touch it. And I haven’t. Not once. Until now.”

She turned to him, met his kind dark eyes. “You broke into your trust fund for this?”

He gave her an easy smile. “About time, I was thinking—and no, I didn’t break into it. It’s mine, after all, just sitting there, waiting for me, the prodigal son, to finally take advantage of what being a Bravo has always offered me.”

She smiled too, then. “The prodigal son. I never thought of you that way. And I thought a prodigal was a wild-living big spender.”

“I was thinking more in the sense of the son who left home.”

“Well, you are that.”

“And my mom only wants me to come home.”

“And get married to a nice Texas debutante…”