Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Silas
Betsy has gotten under my skin in the best way.
I’m finding myself a bit obsessed with her, if I’m being honest.
Of course, I’ll never tell her that. She’d gut me, laugh while she did it, and then flip off my corpse.
In the days after our not-run, I focus on the boutique and our busy schedule ahead, but I also ruminate on what I can do to soften up the little hellion I’ve both employed and continue to give orgasms to.
She’s all sharp angles and even sharper tongue.
I know her absent father and cheating ex-boyfriend are the ones to blame, but short of tracking them down and punching them in the face, I have to find a way to make things right for Betsy.
On behalf of all men, I can’t let her continue to walk this earth thinking all men are assholes.
The idea comes to me one afternoon in the boutique.
Betsy is helping a woman in the fitting room.
I’m staring out the front window of the shop as Birdie walks out of Heaven Sent Flowers.
An older gentleman in a light blue seersucker suit holds the door for her, tips his hat, then heads inside.
Birdie’s lined face positively beams as she walks down the sidewalk to her car, even after the man’s long gone.
Aha!
I need to lean into everything Mama taught me. God rest her soul.
I need to woo Betsy Mae with all the Southern-gentleman charm I have in my body. Born and raised here in Heaven, Mississippi, I’ve got a lot of charm.
She’ll fuckin’ hate it.
All the more reason to shower that Southern charm on her like sweat flying off a frat boy during an August afternoon football game.
Okay, the analogy is gross, but the idea is perfect.
The customer leaves with a purchase and Betsy immediately goes to straighten up the fitting room.
I head back there and hold the curtain up so she can pass through unimpeded with the go-backs in her arms. Her eyeballs track my assistance, but she doesn’t say anything.
I wait for her to be done putting the clothes back on the rack, pretending to work on the computer up at the register.
When she comes near, I snag her hand, twirl her around like we’re in a ballroom, and then pull that hand up to my lips to place a kiss on the back.
“What the…” she mutters, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I shoot her a wink and go back to working. I can feel her staring at the side of my head for a beat or two, but I don’t acknowledge her. She huffs and gets back to work. I have to roll my lips inward and clamp down with my teeth to keep from laughing.
She has no idea what’s about to hit her.
See, the thing that Betsy doesn’t know, being from the West Coast, is that a real man in the South treats his woman like a queen.
We may have an unhealthy obsession with football, beer, and hunting, but we know how to make a woman feel special.
We know how to treat her right and show her every single day how important she is.
I’ve been refraining from showing that side of me because of the limitations Betsy’s tried to place on our not-relationship, but I’m done with that crap.
I’m fixin’ to woo the sourpuss out of Betsy.
When it’s quitting time, I hold the door for her, as usual. Betsy sails through and waits while I lock up.
“Holy hot sauce,” she grumbles, already blotting her top lip. “It’s so hot today.”
“It’s August, honey,” I answer, smiling at her even when she scowls at me for the term of endearment. “Got plans tonight?”
She loses the scowl, her eyebrows lifting. “I don’t think so….” She’s trying to be coy, maybe to lure us into another round in my bed or perhaps my shower, but I don’t bite.
“Well, have a good one.”
I turn and walk away. I’m grinning like a madman, thinking of her gaping at my back for leaving so abruptly. God, she’s not wrong. It’s hotter than a skillet fresh out of the oven as I walk across the blacktop to my truck. The heat’s liable to melt my loafers if I don’t keep moving.
The truck’s even hotter, having sat in the sun all day. I have to roll all the windows down to let out the hot air, along with cranking the air-conditioning before I drive home. I have work to do. A plan to set in place.
It’s over two hours later before I put down the potholders and grab my phone. I scan the various dishes on my countertop. The kitchen is an absolute wreck. I hope Betsy responds the way I think she will. If she doesn’t, I’m going to be eating off these leftovers all week.
Me: Hey, I have some clothes here I forgot to bring in to the boutique. Can you swing by and see if they’d look good on Palmer?
Palmer, one of my sister’s friends, finally agreed to model for us.
Took some convincing that we didn’t care about baby weight.
We are a boutique for middle-aged women, after all.
If we can’t find beautiful clothing for women of all sizes, we have no business being in business.
It doesn’t take long for a bubble to bounce across my screen.
Betsy Mae: Right now?
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s being difficult about it. I wouldn’t expect anything else. Then again, it is last minute. Normally I wouldn’t spring a dinner date on a woman this late, but Betsy requires some finessing.
Me: Only if you have time.
Betsy: Ok
Me: Still in your dress from work?
Betsy: What the hell?
Me: Yes or no
Betsy: …yes?
I throw down my phone and get busy doing the dishes.
I want this place spotless when she gets here.
Thankfully, she takes her sweet time getting here because I end up in the attic grabbing a box full of Mama’s old china set.
The plates are porcelain white with pink and blue hydrangea flowers and a gold ring around the edge.
I had time to change my shirt to a pale yellow polo, which just so happens to match the dress Betsy was wearing today.
I’m just lighting the candle in the middle of the table when the doorbell rings.
Betsy stands on my porch, arms crossed over her chest, face already set in a frown. She’s still in her yellow dress, thank goodness. She takes one look at my matching shirt and narrows her eyes.
“What’s this about?”
I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her gently into the house and closing the door. “Lettin’ all the cool air out, honey.”
She looks around me and sees the dining room table set up like I’m hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Her mouth drops open. Before I can say anything, she spins on her sandals and grabs for the door handle.
“Wait!” I pull her back with an arm around her slim waist, letting her go immediately when her body goes ramrod straight at the contact. “Seeing as I asked you over here for something work related, I figured I’d return the favor by feeding you.”
Betsy spins again, this time to glare at me. “With candles?” She looks past me, then meets my gaze again, looking even more pissed off, if that’s possible. “And flowers?”
I shrug. “Those are just from my garden.” It’s true, though there’s a whole bouquet and they’re neatly arranged in a blue-and-white ginger jar that used to be Mama’s. It’s worthy of being in a fancy hotel all by itself. Add the flowers that Mama taught me to arrange, and they’re a knockout.
Betsy continues to glare at me as her brain spins. One set of purple nails comes up to scratch at her arm while she thinks. Dear Lord, it’s like she’s actually, physically allergic to kindness.
I pull her hand away before she draws blood. I sweep my thumb across the back of her hand and come in hot with the big guns. It’s not entirely a lie. “I was talking to my father and got angry. Figured cooking was a good distraction.”
I can see her softening. Just the tiniest bit.
“What did he say?”
I gesture to the table with my free hand. “Sit and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Betsy growls at me. It could be explained away as a clearing of her throat, but I know it’s directed at me.
I do my best not to laugh in response. I tug on her hand and she chooses to follow me.
I let her go long enough to pull out her chair.
She sighs like it’s such an inconvenience to have me doing these nice things for her.
She sits and I push her in, then grab a cloth napkin off the table with a flourish and slide it across her lap.
She’s staring at me, but I keep going as if this is normal. Because it is normal.
I sit across from her and put my own napkin on my lap. “We have salad with avocado dressing and Mississippi mud potatoes. And I grilled some filets and topped them with blue cheese. I hope you like it.”
Betsy’s eyes are wide as she takes in all the dishes. “I love blue cheese,” she says quietly.
I hand her the bowl containing the green salad. “I know.”
Her head whips up. “How do you know?” She takes the salad and I scoop up my favorite kind of potatoes. Mama used to make them like this, all creamy and savory with the added bacon.
“I asked my sister what you ordered when you went to lunch with her.” I hand Betsy the potato dish. “And I’ve seen what you eat and what you leave behind when I bring in lunch.”
Betsy’s ears have gone red, which pleases me to no end. “You’ve been watching me. Like, a stalker?”
I just smile and use the tongs to put a filet on her plate. “Like someone who cares about you.”
“Hmm.” She digs into the food. She doesn’t say anything but I see the way her eyes close as she savors each bite.
The slight side-to-side sway that tells me she’s wholeheartedly enjoying my cooking.
Mama taught both me and Mary London how to cook, saying it was a human’s job to know how to make good food, not just a woman’s.
When Betsy eyes the potato dish and I see she’s cleared her plate, I don’t ask. I just scoop up some more and plop it on her plate.
“Thanks,” she growls.
Now I can’t help but chuckle. That growl of a thank-you is music to my ears. She doesn’t speak until she’s halfway through her second helping of potatoes and sits back in her chair, hands over her belly.
“What did your father say?”
Oh. That. I forgot everything once I got her in the chair and eating my food. I’m not too proud to take a pity date if that’s the only way to get a meal with Betsy.
“He implied he might start letting the women of Heaven know that the boutique will be closing. Said they need to give our customers a heads-up and perhaps we can at least clear the debt if we have a big going-out-of-business sale.”
Betsy slams her upper body into the table as she sits up suddenly. Water glasses slosh but don’t spill. Her palm smacks down on the tabletop, making the silverware jump. “He did what?”
I shrug. It’s true. That’s exactly what he said. It was just a couple days ago and not the reason for me luring Betsy over here.
Betsy blows out a breath, cheeks rounded like a chipmunk. “I’m trying not to say what I really think of your father, Silas.”
“Can’t be any worse than what I think in my own head.”
“How dare he?” she hisses, banging her hand on the table again. I rescue my water glass.
She sits there and stews on it, purple fingernail tapping against her plate until her face suddenly clears. “We have to beat him at his own game!”
My brow furrows at that. “We have to be even bigger assholes?”
“No.” She shakes her head, hair flying against her cheeks.
“We have to make this boutique such a stunning success that he looks like the absolute asshole he is for suggesting it will fail. We’ll pull on the heartstrings of every Heaven local, remind them of your mother’s dream, and give them the clothes they’re dying to wear all while making them pull out their wallets again and again. ”
I was obsessed with her before, but hearing her champion the boutique, defiantly defending me against my father…well, it makes my ribs ache. I look across the flickering candlelight and see a gorgeous lioness, protecting what’s hers. She’s been hurt in the past, but she still loves fiercely.
And I think I may just love her back.
Which is why I need to change course. I don’t want her fighting my battles. I’ll fight my own battles and take on hers too. She deserves that after how she’s been treated. I lean across the table and take her hand in mine.
“I don’t want you to worry about my father. He’s my cross to bear.”
Betsy snorts. “I hate that phrase. So Southern and stuffy and sanctimonious. How about you share the load with the people who care about you?”
My heartbeat stops on a dime. I’m scared to say it out loud, but I have to. “Share it with you?” I ask quietly, needing her to admit her feelings.
Her blue eyes scan mine for a long moment. I fully expect her to retreat behind the steel-enforced wall she’s built around her heart, but she proves that I can still be surprised.
“Yeah. With me.”