Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Silas
I’ve never been a believer in bad luck clingin’ to a person, but I’m starting to entertain the idea. First Mama, then the boutique not doing well, and now the employee from hell.
Here I was holding out hope my new employee would be exactly what I needed to turn the ship around.
A recent college graduate who majored in sorority life and fashion would have been just the thing.
Instead I got a college dropout who majored in klutziness, attitude, and color blindness.
She’s not even from around here, so what would she know about running a boutique in a town known for beauty pageants and sorority girls?
Birdie is for sure on my shit list.
Not that I’ll ever yell at the woman. She’d have my ear pinched in her talons, taking me to task for speaking ugly to a lady.
I’ll just silently curse her in my head for sending me Betsy Mae Coldreign.
Yeah, that’s her actual name. I saw it on her new hire paperwork yesterday and nearly rolled my eyes so hard I gave myself a migraine.
On her second day of work, Betsy arrives before me.
She’s sitting outside on the rickety wooden bench one shop over from Harp and Hemline.
She sees me unlocking the door and hops to her feet.
She’s dressed in one of the outfits Mary London found for her, a flouncy pale yellow dress with lace and ruffles, topped with a string of pearls around her neck. She looks…ridiculous.
And so pretty I drop my keys and have to shuffle the items in my hands to bend down and pick them up off the pavement.
Betsy grabs the laptop bag out of my hands so I can get the door unlocked, which I appreciate. “Ms. Coldreign,” I say by way of greeting.
Opening up the store, flipping on lights, and putting out the sandwich board advertising our sale gives me something else to look at besides the irritating woman I have to spend my day with.
Betsy puts my bag on the counter by the register and gets busy hanging up the last few go-backs from late yesterday that neither of us got to.
She’s got blindingly white tennis shoes on that look like something a high school cheerleader would wear.
Have to admit, they’re an improvement over the pointy heels she couldn’t seem to walk in yesterday.
I find myself flicking glances her way, checking out the changes.
It’s strange to see her attempting to dress like a Southern woman.
Her wild dark hair sticks out in every direction. I have a feeling she’s never explored the many uses of a flat iron or curling iron. Don’t get me started on the piercings trailing up each ear. She’s got more holes than a block of Swiss cheese.
Betsy turns in a full circle and catches me looking at her. She instantly frowns, ruining the soft look of her outfit. “What are you looking at?”
“You ever think about taking all those earrings out? Stop setting off metal detectors?”
Her expression falls flat immediately. The sparkle in her eyes is raging hot though. She doesn’t answer me. Just lifts her right hand in the air and flips me off. I see her dark purple nail polish is starting to chip.
I can’t help but smirk at her unfailing attitude. I like her pissed off. Less confusing than her looking all cute and feminine in a yellow dress. “Before we officially open, I want to go over some plans for an event we’ll be co-hosting in a few weeks.”
Betsy sighs, following me over to the counter where I have the preliminary flyer Mary London created last night. I slide the paper to her and give her time to read the details. When she lifts her head, she looks no less belligerent than when she was flipping me off a minute ago.
“I know you’re brand new here, but Heaven has four boutiques.
Harp and Hemline, of course. We serve middle-aged women.
Mary London opened Golden Halo right after she graduated college.
She outfits the sorority girls. Then you’ve got Darby Kate Buckley, who runs Blessed and Dressed for her great-aunt, Birdie Buckley.
You have to be at least sixty to step foot in there.
And the fourth is owned by my best friend Deuce St. Legare.
His is the only men’s boutique in town.”
Betsy blinks slowly, and I can’t help but notice the thick fringe of dark lashes over her wide blue eyes. I wonder what she’d look like without the thick black eyeliner.
“So, what’s this Battle of the Boutiques?” Betsy asks when the silence goes on a little too long. She gestures to the flyer.
I shake off all thoughts about her appearance and focus on the issue at hand.
“It’s something Mary London came up with earlier in the summer.
She thinks we can drive more traffic to all our boutiques if we put on a fun football fashion show with prizes and giveaways and things of that nature.
August first is the date. Right before the start of the new school year makes the most sense for a promotion of this sort given that’s our busiest time of the year, other than Christmas. ”
Betsy lifts an eyebrow. “Friendly competition, but you’re actually working together?”
I smile at her. “Exactly.”
She’s still frowning though. “I don’t get it. If you’re the only four boutiques in town, then I assume you have all the business already, right?”
I take a look around the boutique. It’s empty, even though we technically opened fifteen minutes ago. No one is beating down our door, that’s for sure.
“Forty-three percent of Americans buy their apparel off the internet, not in-store. I won’t even tell you the stats on purchases through big-box stores versus mom-and-pop stores. Don’t want to frighten you.”
Betsy taps her tennis shoe against the hardwood floors. She’s looking right over my left ear, eyes glazed, which is disconcerting. When the seconds drag out and she still hasn’t said a word, I get antsy.
“You okay? Vaped some bad weed this morning?”
Her gaze immediately comes back to mine, two divots forming between her eyebrows. She goes to lift her hand, most definitely with plans to flip me off, but I beat her to it, pushing it back down. I don’t allow myself to think about how soft her skin is.
“I know. You want to flip me off. We really need to break you of this bad habit, Ms. Coldreign.”
Betsy huffs. “Will you stop calling me that?”
“Isn’t that your name?”
Betsy rolls her eyes, grumbling under her breath. “Yes, but it sounds so dumb.”
I lean forward, trying to hear what she said. “Maybe you’ll find a husband in Heaven and you can take his name.”
Betsy plants her fist on her hip, back to being irritated. I could probably just breathe and she’d be irritated. “I can change my name by filing with the court. No husband necessary. And besides, if I do get married, I’m going to hyphenate our names.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “But if you hate your name, why include it in the hyphenating?”
Betsy shrugs, lifting her nose in the air. “Because.”
I cough to disguise the chuckle. “Wow. That explains it all. Glad you’ve really thought it out.”
Betsy flips me off, quick as a snake.
I shake my head. “What did I say about that?”
Betsy smiles, but it’s the kind that makes you wonder if you close your eyes too long, she’ll shank you. “So, what’s your plan?”
“I was thinking about spraying your face with water every time you flip me off. That’s what they do for dogs.”
Betsy sucks in a deep breath as if she’s praying for patience. “I mean, what’s your plan for the Battle of the Boutiques? You said you wanted to talk about your plans. Remember? I know it was awhile ago, but I didn’t think your memory was this bad.”
I can’t help but laugh. Damn. This woman is spunky as all get-out. “Are you calling me old?”
“If the shoe fits.” Betsy shrugs.
Ignoring her quick barbs, I get back down to business. My sister is essentially throwing me a Hail Mary. A way to get eyes on my boutique and dollars in the register. I can’t let her or my mama down.
“Okay, so I don’t have plans, per se,” I drawl. When Betsy rolls her eyes again, I lean my elbows on the counter and lay it out for her. She’ll mock me, I’m sure, but I’m past that. This boutique is on life support. No room for carrying around an oversized ego.
“We haven’t been doing well since my one and only employee, Caroline, left to have a baby.
I don’t seem to have an eye for buying the right inventory.
I’m a man, trying to get inside a woman’s head.
To know what fabrics she prefers, the drape of a skirt, the proper neckline, the shade of colors. It’s all a mystery to me.”
Betsy’s face crumples into an even deeper frown, one that speaks to how much of a dumbass she thinks I am. “How is it again that you own a woman’s boutique if you can’t boutique?”
I grin, despite the insult. “Did you just use boutique as a verb?”
Betsy’s fingers snap right in front of my face. “Focus, boss. We have a major problem here, and if we don’t figure it out, the whole town is going to see it front and center on August first. It’ll be humiliating.”
“Worse than your tumble through the rack yesterday?”
That has her spine straightening. “Way worse. Because I’m just some outsider. You’re born and raised in Heaven. You should know how to boutique.”
I grip my chest, the teal polo under my palm a new offering from Deuce’s boutique. My comeback is lame and I know it. “Maybe if I had a men’s boutique…”
Betsy scoffs. “What? You’d fill it with polos and khakis? Make every grown man look like a frat boy?”
I rear my head back, insulted. My usual outfit is always polos and khakis. “I’m forty years old, Betsy.”
The woman gives my entire body a perusal, taking her time just like I’d done with her yesterday. “Forty-year-old men don’t wear…that.”
She spins on her heel and marches into the back of the shop, the curtain falling into place and leaving me all alone up front.
Touché, little storm cloud, touché.
The bell over the door rings and I turn my attention to my first customer of the day.
I get busy after that, the hope in my chest expanding when I never get the chance to sit down before lunch.
The last customer to leave the boutique before the normal lunchtime lull asks about my new assistant and my hope deflates.
I should have known. Small towns are predictable and Heaven, MS, is no different.
These women came in the shop today to get the gossip about the new girl in town.
Everyone must have heard about her two left feet, flashing the shop, and her overall appearance that doesn’t fit in around here.
I tried real hard last night to not relive the moment her skirt flew up and showed off a pair of black lace panties.
It’s been way too long since I had a steady girlfriend if the panties of a woman I don’t even like are high-jacking my brain.
“Hey, Betsy!” I holler, flipping the sign on the front door to Back in a few.
She darts out from behind the curtain, pulling headphones out of her ears. “Yeah, boss?”
“You gotta stop calling me boss.” I pull an insulated bag out from behind the counter. I stopped at Burgers & Blessings to grab us lunch before coming in this morning. My way of trying to get along with my new employee.
“Okay. What do you need, frat boy?”
I give her a deadpan look. Seriously? What’s so wrong with polos? “I have lunch here for you. Maybe you could drop the nicknames?”
Betsy pulls up two stools from the back wall and plops down on one. “Best I can do is say it in my head.”
I pull out the containers from the bag and set them on the counter.
I’m a guy who likes most people and most people like me.
I’m not really sure how we got off on the wrong foot—probably when she flipped me off on the road if I had to guess—but I’d like to strike a truce with my employee. “Hope you eat meat.”
“Definitely.” Betsy doesn’t wait for me.
She just pops open the Styrofoam container and stuffs the cheeseburger in her mouth.
Her eyes roll back in her head and she sways on the stool.
I study her, concerned she’s having a medical event, but then she starts to groan.
A low, deep, prolonged moan that sets my hair on end.
I know a satisfied woman when I hear one.
Spinning away, I remind myself she’s my employee and I don’t even like her.
Somehow that’s not enough for me to be unaware of her sitting so close to me.
So I start talking, figuring if I talk business, it’ll take my mind off the way her calves look delectable beneath the knee-length hem of her dress.
“So, football is a big deal in the South. Harp and Hemline needs to supply all the outfits to the mamas going to the games, the sorority galas, church. You know, all the events. Basically, I need to order new inventory as soon as possible for this Battle of the Boutiques.”
Betsy keeps shoving food in her mouth, the occasional moan slipping out to interrupt my train of thought.
“Since neither of us knows women’s fashion enough to know what to order, I have an idea.”
“Oh good. A plan,” Betsy deadpans with her mouth full.
My phone rings, the fight song for our Angels. I look at the screen to see my father’s name. I silence the phone, refusing to answer. He’s just calling to get me to close early and go tour the site he just put an offer in on. Betsy frowns at my phone but doesn’t ask questions.
“You need to do market research. I’m fixin’ to send you to Mary London’s boutique tomorrow to survey all the sorority girls’ mamas.”
“What?” Betsy looks horrified. So much so she puts down what remains of her cheeseburger.
I dip a fry in ketchup and shove it in my mouth. “I’ll have a clipboard with questions. You just smile real nice, introduce yourself, and ask the questions. Simple.”
Betsy just stares at me. I stare right back.
“You know I don’t smile much, right? Or chat with strangers. Or wear what you all wear. I’m not generally a pleasant person.”
I nod. “I’m aware.”
“So, you think sending me out there with the sorority mamas is a good idea?” She points out the front door as if there’s a legion of scary mamas looking to tear into her.
I nod again. “I do.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Betsy mutters, getting off the stool and taking her leftovers into the back, leaving me all alone again.
Lord have mercy. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.