Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Silas
Just when I thought I’d get a lovely break from my employee by sending her to Mary London’s for the day, I discovered that the uptick in customers we had the day prior was because of her presence.
The middle-aged women around here love a bit of gossip, that’s for sure.
So without her here, only two customers came into the shop all day long.
I found myself with my nose shoved against the front window, peering out at Golden Halo, where there were so many customers they were flowing in and out the damn door like a rushing stream in spring.
At least I didn’t have to listen to her incessant humming.
The shop is already muggy and warm when I arrive early Friday morning.
I went for a run this morning, so maybe that’s why I’m so damn hot.
I stomp over to the air-conditioning panel and jab my finger on the down button.
The old unit outside cranks over, the cool air soon streaming through the vents.
One day that thing is going to croak and I’ll have to dip even further into my savings for the repair.
My only hope is that Betsy discovered some valuable information about our target audience yesterday. And that gossip seekers return today now that Betsy is back in my boutique.
The little bell over the door rings and I turn, a forced cheery greeting on my tongue.
It dies a sudden death at the all-black outfit and scowl on her beautiful face.
She’s in leggings today, the kind that form to every curve a female has, and despite her slenderness in general, Betsy has lovely shaped legs.
The concert T-shirt on top is old and probably worn so soft she could wear it to bed as pajamas.
The clunk-clunk-clunk of her Doc Martens as she storms across the boutique feels like a metronome of doom.
The eye makeup is gone, however, which renders me speechless as she slaps the clipboard on the counter by the register where I stand. Her blue eyes are brilliant without the harsh black liner, just like I suspected.
“The answers to your problems are here,” she barks, finger jabbing at the clipped papers. A messy scrawl of writing is all over the pages and the margins. Looks like Betsy takes notes like a biology student about to take a midterm.
I open my mouth to thank her, excitement and hope a welcome change to the doom and gloom I’ve been living under recently. But the woman beats me to it. Her boots squeak as she spins toward the door.
“And I quit.”
She clomps away, her brunette hair swinging back and forth like she discovered hair dryers and round brushes. My jaw drops open but my traitorous eyes drop to her backside, which has the T-shirt bunched up around the waist, leaving the bubbly curves of her butt on display.
Betsy Mae has a nice ass.
Yes, I know this makes me an ass for noticing and staring, but stare I do. The bell rings out as she pushes the door open and I blink, coming back to normal brain function. This is now the second time she’s quit on me.
“Betsy!” I holler. “Wait!”
She does not wait. She doesn’t even look back or flip me the bird, which I kind of miss. I dart through the racks, intent on running after her, but the second I get to the door, my father’s obnoxious truck drives through the square and I stop on a dime.
I can’t be seen running out of my shop, yelling at the new girl not to quit on me. That would cause a scene. And if there’s one thing I’ve had drilled into me since the moment I was born, a Winthrop does not cause a scene.
As far as my father’s concerned, a man managing a women’s clothing boutique is enough of a scandal. Hiring a goth woman from out west and then getting dumped by her the first week? Humiliating.
So I clench my jaw so hard it sends a shooting pain through my skull and turn back around.
I plop my ass on the barstool by the register and flip through the pages of notes Betsy took yesterday.
At least I can do something productive while I fume.
She did say the answers are in here. Maybe I don’t need her after all.
Maybe she did me a favor by quitting. Maybe it’s just my ego that’s making me want to run after her and get the last word in.
I haven’t even gotten to page two and I’m collecting flies with my mouth hanging open.
She’s not wrong. These notes are gold! I pull out my phone and start googling the things these women say they want.
The education is like wrapping my lips around a firehouse, but I force myself to keep going.
I have to save this shop. For Mama. For me.
“Hey!”
The little bell over the door jingles. I nearly jolt right off my barstool at the interruption.
My head lifts and I see my best friend strolling in, looking all put together in a three-piece suit.
He looks like he’s walked right off the cover of GQ magazine if they had an issue for Southern gentlemen.
He even has a gold chain on the vest and a gold pocket square that matches the tie.
“Deuce. Aren’t you hot in that thing?”
He plops two take-out bags on the counter and strokes his hand down the lapel of his suit jacket. “Hell no, brother. I’m cool as a cucumber. Always.”
I shake my head at his antics. “I bet you’re sweatin’ ass.”
Deuce drags the other barstool over and has a seat. He takes off his suit jacket, lays it carefully on my counter, and proceeds to unbutton and roll up his shirtsleeves. When he’s done disrobing, he looks me up and down with a critical eye. Oh great, here we go again.
“At least I don’t look like an overgrown frat boy.”
I look down at my navy polo, gray khakis, and leather loafers. “I’ll have you know these shoes are designer.” I narrow my eyes. “Have you been talking to Betsy?”
Deuce’s face splits into a grin that all the women in this town gush about. Personally, I don’t see it. I see the guy who had glasses in middle school, awkward and skinny, quiet and shy. Sure, he dresses better now, but he’s still the goofy best friend I made way back when.
“I haven’t, but I wish I did. She’s pretty in a stab-you-while-you-come kind of way.”
My face screws up, but my brain takes a journey into territory I’d be better off not exploring. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, she’s hot. This may be Heaven, but I feel like she’s a little dark vixen sent straight from hell to tempt a man.” He tosses his tie over his shoulder and digs into his food, nudging my bag closer to me.
I follow suit, stomach growling. Time passed quickly this morning with all the searching I was doing with Betsy’s notes. Sadly, only one customer came in to break up my morning.
“I call her storm cloud,” I mutter, digging into the gourmet sub sandwich.
Deuce laughs. “That suits her perfectly. I saw her interviewing women at Golden Halo. She’d frown at them, then proceed to somehow charm their Golden Gooses off and get them talking.”
I roll my eyes at the shoe trend I can’t seem to get behind no matter how many times my sister tries to explain it to me. Hundreds of dollars for white tennis shoes that are already scuffed up and dirty? Yeah, no, thanks.
“Well, she hasn’t bothered to try to charm me.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “In fact, she just quit.”
That gets Deuce’s attention. He plops down his sandwich and turns fully in my direction. “You have to get her back.”
I shrug, trying to act like her quitting—again—didn’t hurt my feelings.
“Nah. She hums all fucking day long. It’s so annoying.
And she dresses like a gothic grandma! Completely the wrong look for the boutique.
” I count off her faults on my fingers. “Oh, and she’s rude to customers.
She told one lady in the fitting room who asked for a size up that we don’t carry plus sizes. ”
“Well, you don’t.”
“She asked for a size ten!” I explode.
Deuce throws his head back and laughs. “God, I think I’m a bit in love with her.”
I snort, the idea so ridiculous I have no words. “Believe me. You don’t want to get mixed up with her.”
With a twinkle in his green eyes that spells trouble, he opens his mouth. “I don’t know, Silas. I’ve found that sometimes when women are that much of a sourpuss, they just need a good fucking to unclog the pipes, you know?”
I screw up my face. I may dress like a frat boy, but I’ve got the manners of a Southern gentleman. Deuce is my opposite. He’s got the look of a Southern gentleman down to a T, but has the personality of a frat boy. Probably why we get along so well.
“Jesus, Deuce,” I grumble as I pick at the last of my sandwich. “Maybe don’t talk about my employee like that, huh?”
“But she’s not your employee.” Deuce bounces his dark brows up and down suggestively.
Something about him talking about Betsy like that rubs me the wrong way. “Seriously, man. Stop it.”
“Oh-ho! We have feelings about little storm cloud, do we?” he asks, voice booming in the quiet boutique.
“You’re obnoxious.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
I give him a look meant to get him to drop the subject, but it only fuels his curiosity. He opens his mouth—probably to say more crap that will piss me off—but gets interrupted by the bell ringing. We both look to the front door and see my father filling up the doorway.
Dad is six foot four, just like me, both of us football players back in the day.
He’s lost some of his muscle in recent years, mostly because of aging and because he doesn’t prepare actual meals for himself now that Mama’s gone.
His hair is just as thick as always, though it’s lined with grays that started at the temples and have now taken over the entirety of his head.
Dad sneers at the racks of women’s clothing, then turns his gaze on us.
The disapproving look doesn’t get any better when he sees Deuce with me.
He’s never really liked my best friend, probably because Deuce has never hidden his dislike of my father.