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Harmony could practically hear all of the wind being sucked out of her sails. Momma would never sign off on Badass Baker. Maybe Prim and Proper Baker, but who wanted to watch that?
“Oh, and we’re thinking of trademarking your catchphrase, ‘the Wright Way,’ so we’ll need her to sign off on that too, since it’s the name of the bakery. But that won’t be a problem.” Holly sounded so sure. If she only knew.
It was going to be a huge problem. A gigantic problem. One of infinite proportions. There was about as much of a chance of her mother signing off on Badass Baker as her mother joining an outlaw biker gang. The mental image was pretty funny, but hell wouldn’t only have to freeze over, Jesus was going to have to change his forwarding address to 666 Satan Avenue for that to happen. Nope, Momma wouldn’t be on board with this.
Not in a million years.
Even if Harmony decided she wanted to blow her whole family dynamic straight to hell—which she wasn’t sure she did, no matter how she felt about Momma—there was no way in hell Livinia would ever agree to let a show like Badass Baker film in her bakery. And in her mother’s mind, the Wright Way was very much her bakery, no matter that Harmony was the one who showed up there every morning at 3:00 a.m. to do the actual baking—and created all of the recipes and did all of the work.
Just the idea of her youngest daughter showing up on a TV show in leather hot pants, all tatted up, and with attitude to spare, would be enough to send her mother spiraling straight to the bottom of her bottle of Southern Comfort. Not to mention, the world’s Xanax supply would take a huge hit. With Thanksgiving and Christmas just around the corner, Xanax was the one thing keeping in-laws around the country from serious bodily harm.
Holly had obviously taken her continued silence as encouragement, because she continued, “Why don’t you let us come down there? We’ll set up at the bakery, put together a mock show just so you can see what we’re thinking of doing, let you see how much the camera loves you. Maybe film part of the pilot. Then, if you don’t like what we’re doing or the direction we’re going, I promise I won’t push you. You can stay a secret in San Angelo and we will look elsewhere for our Badass Baker.”
“You’re willing to do that?” Harmony massaged the tension at the back of her neck. She wanted this, but convincing her mother was going to be difficult. “Doesn’t it cost a lot of money to come down here and film a show?”
Holly laughed. “Well, it isn’t cheap, that’s for sure. But that’s how much I believe in you, Harmony. I’ll set everything up, get my bosses to sign off on it, and see you in three weeks. All you have to do is say yes.”
“Yes.” It was out before she could stop it.
Butterflies started fluttering in her stomach … and she never got butterflies. She never got nervous. What the hell was there to get nervous about, after all, when you had nothing to lose—and nothing to look forward to beyond a two-week vacation every other year?
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was why she felt so testy all the time—and why her stomach was flipping all over the place now. Because for the first time in longer than she could remember, she actually wanted something for herself. And it was within her reach—all she had to do was reach out and grab it.
But could she do it? Could she really throw away a lifetime of pretense and show the world—and her mother—who she really was?
Damn right she could. The Badass Baker wouldn’t hesitate in a situation like this, and neither would Harmony. Livinia and her Xanax were just going to have to get on board. Because the Wright Way was about to become on
e Badass Bakery.
* * *
Chapter 3
* * *
An hour later, Harmony wasn’t so sure she was a badass anything. Dealing with her mother was like handing nitroglycerine. She was unstable, explosive, and went off for no good reason.
This must have been how Custer felt when he realized he wasn’t getting out alive.
“Badass Baker?” Her mother actually choked on the words. Or maybe she was choking on her too-large sip of Southern Comfort. It was hard to tell, what with all of her pacing and drinking and coming as close to ranting as her ladylike Southern drawl would let her. “That’s not acceptable, Harmony. That’s just not acceptable. And where would they even get the idea that you would be interested in a show like that?” She made it sound like Harmony would be smoking crack and screwing johns on camera.
Her fingers went to twisting at the pearls around her neck, a sure sign of her agitation. And the glazed, somewhat frantic look in her mother’s eye said it was real agitation, not the fake stuff she manufactured on a regular basis to keep her husband and her oldest daughter towing the company line.
“It’s just a gimmick. Something to distinguish it from all the sweet-baking shows out there.” Even Harmony didn’t buy that one.
“What’s wrong with sweet-baking shows? People love watching good old hometown shows with lovely Southern women showing off their cooking skills. Who do they think will actually watch a show with some woman dressed like a tramp and pretending to be a badass?” Her mother looked her up and down. “There’s nothing badass about you, Harmony Marie Wright. A fact for which I am eternally grateful.”
“I want this.” The words slipped out before she knew she was going to say them. But once they were out, she didn’t regret them. She’d spent her entire life hiding who she was—and what she wanted—from her family in order to keep the peace. She was tired of hiding, tired of pretending to be less than who she was. “I really want this.”
If Livinia were really the loving mother she pretended to be, that would have been enough to persuade her, but Livinia’s love had limits—great big ones.
“You don’t know what you want, Harmony.” Her mother turned away and poured another two fingers of Southern Comfort. It wasn’t ladylike to swig directly from the bottle. “If you’re seriously considering parading around a television set in leather and high heels, you definitely don’t know what’s good for you. Or for this family.”
“Nobody said I was going to be parading around in leather.” Leather was always a good choice. Black leather pants or shorts, depending on the season, could be her signature look for each show. Add different pairs of crazy-ass heels and sexy tops each time and she could totally show off her inner—and her outer—badass.
“I certainly hope not,” her mother replied. “Every Southern lady worth her salt knows leather is only good for accessories.”
Harmony wanted to scream. Or to beat her head against the wall. Or to grab her mother by the throat and beat her head against the wall. Was an overbearing parent why Lizzie Borden had picked up her ax and gone on a chopping spree?
