Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Silas
“I’m not really the target market,” Betsy grumbles behind the velvet curtain that partitions off one of the two fitting rooms we have in the boutique.
“I know, but we can at least see if it’s good quality and looks like what we were hoping to offer.”
We placed a large order for clothes that fit all the parameters that Betsy discovered from talking to women at Mary London’s shop.
I didn’t exactly have the money to spend for that big of an order, but I can’t go into the fall buying season or the Battle of the Boutiques with bare racks.
It’s a gamble, for sure, but I’m confident in the findings.
Mostly confident.
The rings on top of the curtain scrape across the rod as Betsy comes out.
She’s dressed in a sundress with ties at the top of the shoulder, a sweetheart neckline, smocking around the waist, and a hemline that hovers just a touch above the knee.
The color is royal purple with gold stitching crisscrossing the ties.
I inhale sharply. For two reasons. One, that dress is perfect for middle-aged women to cheer on the Angels in the hot late summer sun. And two, because despite being a decade younger than our target demographic, Betsy looks stunning. Ethereal, if I had to choose a fancier word.
Betsy mistakes my silence. “What? Is it terrible? Shit!”
She stomps her bare foot and whirls around to stare in the mirror on the far wall of the fitting room.
She smooths her hands down the skirt and twists this way and that, critiquing the dress.
Her toes are painted royal purple, an interesting choice for a girl who claims to know nothing about our Angels.
I blink, telling myself to stop focusing on her dainty feet like a complete weirdo.
It’s just I never considered she had pretty feet inside those black stomper boots.
“No! No,” I say more calmly. “It looks amazing. Perfect, in fact.”
Her shoulders slump. “Why didn’t you say so? You had me freaking out. I swear this is what some of those women were describing.”
I nod, taking in the way the dress cinches Betsy in perfectly at the waist. The top is a little loose, but that makes sense. She’s not well endowed, a fact I probably shouldn’t know about my employee.
“It’s exactly what you wrote down.” I yank the curtain closed again, needing a second without her in my line of sight.
Quit staring at her like a creep, Si.
I can hear her unzipping the dress and sliding it off her body. Which, of course, makes me conjure up all kinds of images I shouldn’t.
“How about trying on the gold-skirt-and-purple-blouse combo?” I say absentmindedly as I pace the corridor.
“Okay!” she hollers back a few beats later.
I yank the curtain open, ready to force my eyes to evaluate the clothes, not the woman wearing them.
Except, there are no clothes.
Betsy yelps something unintelligible.
Okay, well, there are some clothes. Namely a bra-and-panty set that should be illegal in all fifty states, especially the Bible Belt ones.
Betsy is standing there with her back to me, only a black lace thong and bra on.
I can see the lovely curve of her ass and also the front of her reflected in the mirror.
God almighty, her puckered nipples are clear as day through that thin lace.
Betsy ducks to cover herself, realizes there’s too much ground to cover with two small hands, and hollers at me instead.
“Oh my God, get out, Silas Grey!”
I slam my eyes shut—way, way too late—spin on my heel and dart away. Straight into the wall. I ricochet off and right myself, frozen like a deer in headlights as I wait for the dizziness to stop.
“I’m sorry,” I wheeze, breath knocked out of me.
By the wall. Not seeing Betsy practically naked.
My brain is busy holding on to the image while every other part of my body is tingling with adrenaline. Goddamn, I can’t be tingling over my employee.
Oh, I’ve stepped in it now. We were just starting to get along, moving in the same direction to save this boutique, and now I had to ruin it all. She’s going to quit on me, and I wouldn’t blame her one little bit.
“Why’d you do that?” she yelps through the curtain.
“You said okay!” I holler back indignantly, peeking through my fingers, relieved—and disappointed—to find the curtain closed and Betsy nowhere to be seen.
“Okay, as in, sure, I’ll put the skirt and blouse on, you big dummy!”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, pretty sure I might be repeating that apology ’til the end of time. “I really thought you meant you were ready to show me.”
She whips open the curtain and I flinch. I don’t cover my eyes though. What? I’m a perfectly normal male, okay?
Betsy is dressed this time, hands on hips, face tomato red.
I look her up and down, unable to wipe the image from my brain.
What Betsy lacks up top, she makes up for down below.
I’ve never been a boob guy, personally. But a nice ass to grab on to when you slide your arms around a woman and kiss her? Yes, please, sign me up.
“Looks great. Perfection.” And I mean it. All those baggy jeans and layered skirts are doing Betsy’s backside a disservice. She should wear pencil skirts, bodycons, and leggings only.
“My eyes are up here, frat boy.”
Guiltily, I raise my gaze from her curves to her face. She’s got one eyebrow lifted in that way all women do when they’re about to unleash the kind of argument there’s no chance of you winning.
I’m not an asshole though. Normally I’m very gentlemanly, and I’m both embarrassed and discombobulated from the whole thing. I put my hands on top of her shoulders and peer into her face. I feel like it’s a miracle when she doesn’t flinch away.
“Betsy. I’m so sorry. I would never have done that on purpose. I sincerely apologize for making you uncomfortable.”
She opens her mouth, and I brace for the tongue-lashing.
“Well, it’s only fair to see you in your underwear now.”
I blink, stunned stupid. Just when I think I have this woman figured out, she zigs when I’d stake my life on her zagging. But honestly, it’s a brilliant idea. We’d both be embarrassed. Both exposed to the other. Even Steven.
My hands slide off her shoulders and I’m pulling my polo out of the waistband of my khaki shorts. It’s over my head and hitting the floor before Betsy can bark out a shocked laugh, her hands landing on my forearms.
“No! I’m just kidding!”
My lips tip up into a grin. I move our hands to my belt and nearly cackle as her eyes grow wide. She snatches her hands back.
“I mean, if it’ll make you feel better,” I drawl, sliding the belt out of the loop.
Betsy’s blue eyes are sparkling with laughter, her lips stretched wide in a smile that takes her from cute to damn right gorgeous.
She should smile more often. Then I take it back.
No, I don’t want her smiling out there in the wild.
All the single men of Heaven would be trailing after her.
I want to keep her rare smiles all to myself.
“Only if you’re sure.” I freeze with my belt still holding. “I can strip if it would make you feel better. I’m not like an expert stripper, but I can wing it.”
Betsy shakes her head, but the smile amps up into a giggle. Hot damn, the woman can giggle. “No, seriously. It’s fine. I accept your apology.”
Matching her smile, I slide the belt back into the loop. “Okay. But if you change your mind, you just let me know. It’s hot as Hades. I probably wouldn’t mind stripping.”
Betsy turns back toward the dressing room. “Noted.” She whips the curtain closed again, talking through it. “I think that’s about it from the order. If I focus, I can get most of it hung by end of day.”
“Do you hum louder the more you focus?” I ask through the curtain, putting my shirt back on. “Because I’m not sure I want you focused.”
“Rude!” she hollers back. Her hand whips through the crack where the curtain ends, middle finger extended. Just as quickly, she pulls her hand back in.
I grin, leaning against the far wall. We’re back on solid ground if she’s flipping me off. “Since I’ve seen you half nude, I think it’s okay for me to ask about your past relationships, don’t you think?”
“Jesus,” she mutters just loud enough for me to hear.
“What? Aren’t we friends? Friends talk about these things.”
She whips the curtain open, standing there in the athletic dress Mary London gave her on her first day.
This time, she’s paired it with wedges that have that cork material on the sides that women always seem to wear.
While I’m not sure it goes with the dress any better than her Doc Martens, it does great things for her calves.
“Are we friends, Silas?”
I clutch my chest. “Ouch, Betsy Mae. Of course we’re friends. Here in the South, we’re all friends, right from day one.”
We walk side by side back to the front part of the shop where I get the computer and point of sale ready and Betsy flips the closed sign to open.
“I think you seeing me nearly naked makes us more friends than just being in the South. You’ve seen me biblically.”
That makes us both snort with laughter. When we sober up, I follow Betsy into the back. We work together to get hangers and form an assembly line, hanging up all the new stock. I keep an ear out for the bell at the front.
“Fine. I had a boyfriend when I lived in California. A serious one. We lived together for just over two years.”
I’m shocked she told me anything. I keep my gaze on the clothes, not wanting to startle her into silence by acting too eager for more details. “And?”
She sighs and it’s filled with all the negative emotions one tries to keep hidden. I myself have sighed that same sigh many times before.
“He came home from work one day, tossed his keys on the table like normal, and told me he’d met someone. He was in love and I needed to move out.”
My hands still. I turn to her in shock. She’s stone-faced, that smile from before long gone. She just keeps unfolding clothes, tossing out the tissue paper, and sliding it onto a hanger.
“That’s terrible, Betsy. What an asshole.”
She nods curtly. “Yep.”
A whole minute of silence goes by and I almost miss her humming. “So, what did you do?”
“What else could I do? I moved out.”
“To your mama’s?” I hang up two blouses onto the rolling rack. Damn. She’s already hung up six.
“No, not to my mom’s. She’s…well. Things are complicated there. I had nowhere to go.”
I turn to her, feeling like it’s pulling teeth to get her to talk. “So, where’d you move?”
She turns away from me, digging into the box of hangers, taking an inordinate amount of time to come back up with three hangers. “I moved into my car.”
“Betsy,” I say on a disappointed sigh. Not disappointed in her. Sad that it came to that. Here is this spirited, highly intelligent woman and she had to move into her car?
“It’s not that big a deal, Silas.”
I put down the blouse I had in my hand, get in her space, and take the hangers out of her hands. I slide my hand up to her face to cup her jaw gently. She’s looking down, refusing to look at me.
“Storm cloud,” I whisper. Her eyelashes quiver, but that stubborn streak is a mile wide. “Look at me, please.”
After a moment of hesitation, she does. It just about kills me to see moisture collecting in those wide blue eyes.
“Hey. I’m sorry that happened to you. It’ll never happen again though.
Here in Heaven, we take care of each other.
You find yourself without somewhere to stay, you come to me. Understand?”
She licks her lips, and goddamn my traitorous eyes, they trace the movement with something akin to hunger. “Okay,” she whispers.
I nod, my gaze darting around her face, trying to figure out this insane pull I feel toward this woman. She’s the exact opposite of every woman I’ve ever wanted. Nowhere in my little-boy dreams did I envision a pierced, pissed-off, people displeaser as the one woman who would catch my attention.
And yet here she is in my hands. In my boutique. And I have a suspicion, sneaking into my heart.
I let her go and step back, putting some much-needed space between us. She sniffles and looks away, collecting herself.
“So anyway, I decided right then and there that love was not for me. I would go for women, but sadly I’m not gay. I wish I was. I guess I’m only looking for a good time with a man when the mood strikes me, you know?” Betsy attempts a lighthearted laugh, but I can still hear the hurt in it.
I return to hanging up clothes, happy she confided in me. “I do know. I’ve dated every single woman in the three closest counties and still haven’t found The One. Pretty much given up on that dream of a wife and kids and a white picket fence.”
“White fences are stupid.” Betsy snorts. “Black wrought iron is way better.”
That’s so on point for Betsy. We both chuckle, and I realize that we are friends. The thought makes me feel oddly settled.
“So you want a good time with no strings attached. And I’ve given up on finding love.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s about right.” Betsy turns to hang up three more blouses on the rolling rack. The bell from out front rings out, interrupting our time together.
I stroke my chin where my beard has grown in enough to be annoying. “I find that very interesting.”
And with that, I leave the storage room and greet my customer.