Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Silas
“Interesting turn of events, huh?” I can practically feel the smug smile dripping off my face. “Of all the coffee joints in all the world, she walks into mine.”
Betsy lives up to her nickname by crossing her arms over her chest and glowering at me. “You’re not hot enough to be Humphrey Bogart.”
The insult only has me grinning harder. “Do you know how bad you are at first impressions?”
I think back to her flying through the rack of clothing on her first day at Harp and Hemline, a scene I’m pretty sure she’s reliving based on the blush stealing across her face. Her lips twitch and I hold my breath, wondering if I just might see a smile from Betsy Mae Coldreign.
Sadly, she snuffs it out as quickly as it arrived, leaning her elbows on the table like a ten-pound pit bull who doesn’t know it’s tiny. “Seriously? You own Cloud Nine too?”
I tap my badge. “Sure do. First rule of business: diversify.”
“Second rule of business: dress for success.” Betsy gives me an up-and-down glance, then sniffs, clearly unimpressed with my polo.
I can’t help the laugh that sneaks out. God, this woman has some good comebacks. Most of the time, I can’t think of something scathing to say to someone until the next day. Not Betsy though. Her tongue is as sharp as those studs decorating her ears.
Honestly, I’ve been pretty angry at Betsy for quitting on me. Her research was impeccable, but she didn’t stay long enough to see it through. She left me hanging and then has the audacity to show up at my coffee shop begging for a job? Ridiculous.
But today is a new day, and I’m not one to hold a grudge. I spread my hands open, hoping for a truce of sorts. My pinkie brushes against a piece of paper and my gaze drops to it. It’s a résumé. Betsy’s résumé. I whip it around and glance over it, skimming through to the important parts.
“You have a marketing degree and another one in horticulture?”
Betsy sits up straight. “Yes. I thought opening a flower farm would be my part in saving the planet, but then I killed everything I touched, so I had to pivot.”
I’m biting back a laugh. “Ah, the storm cloud strikes again.”
She glares at me. “I got a marketing degree, but then no one was hiring more than minimum wage for that degree in California where I lived. As you can see, I have extensive barista training.”
I do see that. She has several years of working behind the counter at coffee shops. Which I’m sure worked fine in the big city out west. Everyone has their nose in a phone and expects a moody one-word-answer type of barista. Edgy and moody.
But here in Heaven, Mississippi? We like our baristas as sweet as our iced tea.
An idea is percolating, I can feel it. I stare at her while she stares back.
I can see the gray speckles in her blue eyes, the way they flare out from the center like a kaleidoscope.
Every second I don’t speak, her eyebrows pull up tighter.
I can see the silence bothers her, but I like to take my time.
We speak a little slower here and it’s time she gets used to it.
“What?” she finally hisses, exasperated with me.
I tap the tabletop gently, letting my pace slow down and my drawl get deeper. It’s worth it just to see her squirm. “Well, now, darlin’, I got an idea.”
She flips her hand in the air, like she wants me to spit it out already.
“I’m fixin’ to put you back in the boutique.”
“What? Why?”
I pick up her résumé and point at it, like I’m a professor giving a lecture.
“You know flowers, right? Horticulture major? Well, see now, every proper gentleman knows women love their flowers. Especially Southern girls. And you’re a marketing major, adept at spotting trends and capitalizing on them, right?
You’re practically a shoo-in for the boutique. ”
Betsy flops back in her chair. “I just quit there, Silas.”
I give her my best smile. “You’re rehired!”
“I’m not cut out for a boutique!” She rolls her eyes at me and I take that as progress. We’ve been talking for ten minutes and she hasn’t flipped me off once.
I put her résumé down and lean in closer across the table. “You are, you just don’t know it yet. Your research was money, Betsy. I want to show you some of the clothes I found that match your notes. A little more research by you and I think we could really turn things around.”
She purses her lips, but doesn’t disagree.
I decide it’s time to put all my cards on the table, incentivizing the last woman on earth I thought could help me. “Do some more research, help me purchase the right clothes to stock, and if revenue goes up by fifty percent by Christmas, I’ll give you a ten-thousand-dollar bonus.”
Betsy’s mouth pops open before she can rein it in.
I can tell she’s intrigued. I know the offer of a huge bonus has her considering it.
Do I have an extra ten grand just lying around?
No, of course not. Everything I earn from Cloud Nine is covering my mortgage and supplementing Harp and Hemline.
Dad calls my businesses money pits. I call them dreams.
“I’ll even let you flip me off whenever you want.”
She huffs, but her lips lose the pinched look. “I have one more condition.”
“Name it.”
“I wear what I want.”
I wince, taking in her baggy black jeans, Doc Martens, and black tank top that shows exactly zero cleavage. Not one ruffle or pearl or flower in sight. But then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and with Dad’s ultimatum from last night, I’m one measly step away from begging.
“Fine.”
“Glorious,” she drawls in some weird wanna-be Southern accent.
Neither of us smiles. I extend my hand toward her and she takes her time sliding her own slim hand into mine.
I ignore how soft her skin is and how small she seems in my meaty hand.
When she’s got her mouth going, she seems larger than life, but times like these I’m reminded she’s just a pint-sized woman. We shake on our deal.
And somehow find ourselves frozen, hands gripped tight.
She’s staring into my soul and I stare back, intrigued and not a little bit alarmed.
She’s an enigma. An odd creature who strikes me dumb half the time and the other half makes me study her to understand what exactly about her I find so attractive.
Betsy yanks her hand back suddenly. I immediately feel the loss of her skin against mine. I can barely swallow around the dryness of my mouth.
“Shall we?” I gesture to the door of the coffee shop and Betsy follows my line of sight.
“What? You want me to work right now?” she blurts out, standing quickly.
I follow suit, somehow needing to stay in her presence. “Sure. Why not?”
She frowns, the look so familiar it feels like I’ve known her much longer than a few days. “It’s football Saturday.”
The grin spreads across my face in degrees until I feel downright giddy. “Damn, Betsy, you sure are getting the hang of the South real quick. Football Saturday. Listen to you!”
She rolls her eyes again. “Shut up. Nana is looking forward to showing me her Angels. She said it’s an exhibition game or something.”
“Yep, they play one every year against State. All the money goes to charity and the teams get a preview of what to expect during the season.”
I gesture again toward the door and Betsy looks at me in confusion.
I sigh and reach around her to put my hand on her lower back.
I give her a shove and she walks. I keep my hand there, even when it feels like she moves faster to get away from me.
It’s like she’s never been on a date and had a man walk her out.
Or open a damn door. I reach around at the last minute and push open the coffee shop door for her and she looks around in confusion.
Out on the sidewalk, I tilt my head in the direction of Harp and Hemline. “How about you swing by the boutique real quick and grab some gear before the game?”
“Gear?”
I put my hands up in surrender. “Listen, I don’t want to rehash the clothing thing knowin’ how sensitive the subject is for you, but you can’t wear that to cheer on the Angels.”
Betsy looks down at her outfit. “Why not?”
My head bobs side to side. “Well, it’s not purple or gold, Betsy Mae. People will think you’re cheering for State, and we can’t have that.”
She chuckles and the sound is surprisingly pleasant. “All right.”
We start walking to the boutique side by side in silence.
Honestly, it’s better than listening to most of the things that come out of her mouth.
When we get there, I unlock the door and hold it open for her.
She slides inside, looking around. I’ve already cleared out a couple racks in anticipation of new clothes I hope to order this weekend.
“What’s with all the middle-name business?” Betsy asks out of the blue.
I shrug and head straight for the Angels gear on the far side of the shop.
There’s a light sweater vest in purple, gold at the shoulders, and logo embroidered in the middle, that would look great on Betsy with her pale coloring.
I also have an Angels sweatshirt that I’ll send home with her for Betsy Sue.
“I’m not sure. We just like ’em, I guess.” I pull the two items off hangers and fold them up, heading for the register for a logo’d gift bag. “You mind giving me your number?”
Betsy’s sharp gaze flies to my face. “What for?”
“So I can send you the login for the backend purchasing app. I want to send you some of the items I put in my favorites. See if you think we should order them.”
Gosh, if that’s how she reacts every time a man asks for her number, I can see why she’s single.
“So, when do you want me to come back to work? You’re closed today?” Betsy looks around, then stops by the register, eyeing the bent pages on the clipboard that I’ve been combing through like a madman. Her handwriting is scrawled all across them.
She suddenly picks up a pen and grabs my hand, carving her number into my palm.
My grin feels lopsided as I watch her write.
I haven’t had a girl write her number on my palm since junior high at least. When she’s done, she releases my hand and glances around like she’s nervous.
I finish with the clothes and keep talking to try to put her at ease.
“Yeah, every place in town closes up for game day. At least when the Angels are playing. And tomorrow’s the Lord’s day, so we’ll be back open on Monday. You available to come in early so we can place an order?” I hand Betsy the bag, clothes all wrapped up nicely in tissue paper.
Betsy takes the bag and peeks inside. “What do I owe you?”
I wave the question away. “On the house. I can’t have my employee wearing all black on game day. It reflects poorly on management.”
Betsy pulls her mouth to one side, but doesn’t argue. “I’ll pay you back for the clothes out of my bonus at Christmas.”
“There’s the spirit!”
She holds the bag aloft. “Thanks. And thanks for the job back, Silas Grey.”
My eyebrows slam together. How does she know my middle name?
Betsy spins on her ugly boots and stomps out of the boutique.
“You been talking to my sister?” I shout after her, genuinely curious.
A tinkle of amused laughter trails behind her, but she doesn’t bother with an answer.
I sigh and shake my head, hoping I’ve done the right thing. I stare down at my palm, memorizing Betsy’s number. There’s a weird feeling in my stomach from either too much caffeine at Cloud Nine this morning or from the woman who just stomped out of my shop.
It’s gotta be the caffeine.
I make myself flip my palm over so I can’t see her number.
My watch tells me I’m going to be late if I don’t hustle.
I’m supposed to meet up with Deuce at Saint & Sinner to watch the game and I can’t let him see Betsy’s number or I’ll never hear the end of it.
What I really need is the cold beer waiting there with my name on it.