Page 1 of My Cowboy Valentine

Chapter One

RED

Sauntering down the long white corridor of Red Brand’s headquarters in New York City, I hear snickering and low voices bleeding from the intern area to my left. Snippets of conversation float towards me, filled with inept insults—“dragon lady,” “queen bitch,” and my personal favorite, “the couture cunt.”

I don’t know what makes me madder: the inherent misogyny of their observations or their utter lack of imagination. Clearly, they don’t have the creativity to make it in the clothing industry.

Rounding the corner and standing in front of my three newest interns with my hands on my hips, I smile viciously at the women’s unfettered gasps and round-eyed stares. The twenty-somethings transform from perky, gossipy exuberance into a great, stinking pile of wayward glances and muttered apologies.

I snap, “Next time you want to talk behind my back, do it outsidemyhearing range. Oh, wait! There won’t be a next time.” My gaze sears into them one at a time, watching their chins tremble, and their lips struggle for words they never find.

“I could almost see the whole ‘dragon lady’ comment as a compliment. But the part about me being ‘the couture cunt’?” I shake my head, tsking them. My clothing label, Red, ishoused on the fourth floor of a more than one-hundred-year-old manufacturing building that bustles with activity. I don’t have time or patience for lazy interns and dull office chatter. Besides, I’ve heard it all before.

“It wasn’t me, Ms. Cash,” the diminutive, mousy blonde protests, looking at her feet. As if her pathetic begging isn’t sickening enough, she wears the ugliest pair of flats I’ve beheld since the Hermès show in Paris.

“Who was it then?”

“It was…” She stops mid-sentence, making a half-assed show of loyalty. Rule number one in the fashion industry? There is no loyalty in getting ahead.

Maybe I should know this woman’s name or those of the other two since they’ve been here for at least a couple of months. But why waste the mental energy? Interns have a short shelf-life around here.

“I don’t care who it was. You all participated, if only by association. Nobody uses the term ‘cunt’ in this office…except for me. And as for malicious water cooler talk? It is unacceptable. Pack your things, and don’t let the door hit your asses on the way out. Bye-ee,” I finish with malicious glee.

Their faces blanch, and they stand frozen like deer in headlights.Good riddance. Turning back down the hallway toward my office, Nico, my tall, dirty-blond personal assistant with a man bun, intercepts me, his face agitated.

“Nico, provide these twatwaffles with an escort off the premises. Take their badges because they’reneverallowed on this property again.”

He nods with a frown, pressing his lips tightly together. “Yes, ma’am. After that, Ms. Cash, we need to discuss something of high importance.”

“I’ll be in my office,” I reply with a sway of my hips, crossing the distance to double doors bearing a gold nameplate that reads:

Lesley “Red” Cash

CEO and Owner

The Red Brand

Behind closed doors, I exhale, gently resting my head in my hands to avoid messing up my makeup. A turmoil of rage, desperation, and anxiety brews inside.

My cluttered, chaotic internal state contrasts wildly with the tranquil, sparsely furnished office surrounding me—white walls, black accents, gray furniture. Pops of color from styled mannequins, framed hand-drawn designs on the walls, and verdant houseplants break the monotony. The large window behind my desk pours light, offering stunning views of the dynamic city below. The city that never sleeps…perfect for the woman who hasn’t slept soundly for more than a year.

A familiar ache seizes my heart, like a dull knife twisting. “Hold it together, Lesley,” I whisper. I have much bigger problems than snarky interns…

The office door squeaks open, and Nico enters, somberly holding a tablet. The guy with the messy top bun is otherwise clean-shaven and in his early thirties, sporting an immaculately tailored dark gray suit with a dark blue shirt and a jewel-toned floral tie and matching pocket square in a classic fold. He looks poised to walk the runway at Fashion Week, but he swallows loudly, his rugged, square-cut face pale and Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Under any other circumstances, I might find the man attractive. But he’s my employee and significantly younger than me—two lines I never cross.

Eyeing him, I grumble, “Well, out with it.”

He steps forward, handing me the tablet. My eyes glance at the screen, unable to process the preposterous headline:

Red Faltering? An Unlikely Savior in Jameson & Cash

My forehead scrunches despite chastising myself inwardly not to make this expression. The last thing I need is deeper forehead wrinkles. I can already hear the “poof” from all my money disappearing to plastic surgeons as I try desperately to salvage my looks, turning into something resembling a cat. After all, redheads don’t age well, especially with the ginger skin endowed to me by my mom’s side of the family, the Kirkpatricks.

Grabbing the tablet, I scroll down, my eyes straining and my heart pounding as I read the article in a Word document. “Since the debut of the Jameson & Cash Western wear brand, rumors have swirled in the fashion community about possible ties to Lesley Cash’s couture line, The Red Brand. Lesley Cash is the NYC-based older sister of William “Billy” Cash, celebrated rodeo rider and team roper who made a name with Ronald “Rowdy” Jameson on the PRCA circuit. Now, sources close to the Cash family have confirmed a partnership between the Cash siblings and, perhaps more tantalizing, an engagement between Lesley Cash and her younger brother’s business partner, Ronald “Rowdy” Jameson. Despite the significant age gap with Cash eight years Jameson’s senior…”

I stop reading, my hands shaking with anger as I chew my lower lip, concentrating with every fiber of my being to set thetablet on my desk without smashing it to bits. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

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