Chapter Seven
Jag
“Cowboy boots, Jag?” Miss Petty asked as I walked out of my bedroom.
“Is there anywhere better to wear these things?” I asked her. “I mean, it’s small-town Texas and there’s going to be dancing. I can hear the country music playing already as it wafts through the air of the otherwise dead town.”
“Honestly, Jag, how’s this little bar going to stack up against the music venues you’ve been to in Los Angeles and New York? I wouldn’t even bother going if I were you.”
It occurred to me that Miss Petty might have become snotty since she’d entered my employment. “You do realize that this series of investments will be made in small towns all over the United States, right?”
“I do realize that,” she said, then pulled a glass of red wine to her lips, stained with the same color
