Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Silas
“I’m fixin’ to pick you up around seven,” I call to Betsy as she sweeps up her purse from behind the register and heads for the door.
“Sounds good.” She doesn’t even wave goodbye or give me a backward glance. The sound of the bell over the door ringing out as she leaves sounds like a death knell.
I stare after her, my gut churning. She’s been different all week.
Quiet. Withdrawn. More like the pessimistic, perpetually grumpy woman I met when she first moved to Heaven.
Sure, she’s gone through the motions, smiled at customers, given me lukewarm hugs and joked with me, but something under the surface is wrong.
I can feel it. Like an iciness has taken root even with the summer temps soaring outside.
We’ve been busier than ever, working our tails off from the success of the Battle of the Boutiques.
Women from out of town have flooded the boutique as their daughters and sons have arrived for the fall semester, buying game day outfits and things to wear for the Greek life events.
Someone posted a video of our champagne-and-strawberries event that went viral.
That helped drive traffic to Harp and Hemline too.
If sales keep this same volume for the next few weeks, I’ll be able to pay Betsy the bonus I promised her and keep up with the mortgage long term.
It’s all going perfectly to plan.
So why do I feel like shit?
I close up the shop, lock the door, and head for home.
The whole time I shower and get dressed in a navy-blue suit I bought two years ago from Deuce’s shop, my brain is swirling and my gut is forming knots.
On Monday, I asked Betsy if she’d go to dinner with me this Friday.
She said yes, but in a tone so somber I almost regretted asking.
Add in her dark mood all week and I’m not sure this date is going to go well.
I planned to tell her I love her and want to date her for real, but I’m nervous now that’ll send her running back to the West Coast.
Could her silence this week be due to all the hard work we’re putting in at the boutique?
As her boss, I should give her a day off.
Maybe only schedule her a few days a week.
Or maybe I said something at Jasper Lake that pissed her off?
Shit, maybe the sunburn she got made her body freak out.
That would be on brand for Betsy to have an adverse reaction to sunshine.
I wish she’d just talk to me about whatever’s bothering her.
“Women are hard, Mama,” I say to our last family picture framed on the fireplace mantel as I scoop up my keys and head back out to my truck. I wish to high heaven she was still here to offer me some advice.
When I pull up to Nana’s house, I slide out of the truck with two bouquets. I knock on the front door and adjust my tie while I wait. God, I don’t know that I’ve ever been this nervous before on a date. Then again, I don’t think I cared as much about a woman as I do for Betsy Mae.
Nana answers, her sweet smile easing just a little bit of the nerves. “Hello, handsome! Come on in. Betsy’s almost ready.”
She opens the door further to let me in.
I hand her the spring mix bouquet and watch her mouth open in surprise.
Her eyes go misty behind her glasses before she buries her nose in the blooms. When she lifts her head, she holds her arm out for a hug.
I sink into the embrace, wishing my grandma or mama were still around to give hugs too.
“Lawdamercy! Thank you, Silas.” She lets go and heads for the kitchen. I follow, still holding a bouquet of red roses. Nana finds a vase in a cabinet and gets the flowers arranged in it, still eyeing me with that sweet smile. “You look finer than a frog hair split four ways, Silas Winthrop.”
Well, that’s high praise indeed. I smooth a hand over my yellow tie. “Thank you. Figured Betsy was tired of seeing me in a polo every day.”
Nana winks. “She’ll take you any which way she can get you, let me tell ya.’”
That makes me feel better. I hear the click-clack of heels behind me.
I spin around to see Betsy dressed in a pale yellow dress that cinches in at the waist. The top of the dress has a scalloped neckline and the hem falls just an inch above her knee.
Her skin has a hint of color from the lake and her legs look longer in a pair of black high heels.
She’s kept in all her piercings but her highlighted hair has been curled just like my sister wears her hair.
A hint of spicy-sweet perfume adds a touch of femininity that looks damn good on her.
She looks like an archangel and the devil had a baby, half sinner, half saint.
“You look…” I have to swallow hard to get the words out. “Breathtaking.” I hand her the flowers and lean in to kiss her cheek. She stiffens under my touch, but her hand reaches for me, gripping my bicep through the suit jacket.
“Thank you,” she whispers, pulling back to stare at the roses like she’s not sure what they are.
I’ve pulled out all the stops tonight. I plan to treat Betsy how every man should have been treating her all along.
How I should have been treating her from the get-go instead of teasing her about her piercings or black clothing.
I should never have accepted a sex-only relationship when she’s worth all that and much more.
She’s funny, smart, hardworking, and a big ol’ softy underneath that scowl.
I want to know every single detail about her, the good, the bad, and the hilarious.
She’s someone I want to get to know over the rest of my lifetime.
I hold out my elbow and she takes it. Nana steps up and takes her flowers, promising to put them in water and bring them to her room for when she gets back.
I hold the passenger side door open for her and help her climb up into my truck.
I reach in and help her with the seat belt, even though she huffs like the help is irritating and unnecessary.
We keep up steady chatter all the way to the restaurant in the Square. My nerves ease a bit. She seems more relaxed, more engaged in conversation with me than earlier in the week. Maybe I’ve overworked her. She’s been working as feverishly as me and it’s not even her family’s boutique.
When we pull into The Velvet Throne parking lot, Betsy’s jaw drops. “You got a table here?”
I shoot her my winningest smile. “Only the best for you, Betsy Mae.”
Her mouth snaps shut and she blinks like an owl.
Apparently, I’ve made her speechless. I park the truck and hustle around the hood to open her door.
She doesn’t try to get out without me, which is an improvement over when she first came here and looked at me bizarrely for opening her doors.
Her hand is soft and cool in mine. I bend down to kiss the back of her hand, noticing her nails are painted a soft yellow instead of dark purple or black.
She turns, expecting to walk into the restaurant, and in this heat, who can blame her? But I keep my feet planted, waiting until she turns back and looks up at me with a question in her eyes. My thumb strokes the back of her hand, my brain whirling with something I hadn’t thought of before.
“Betsy, I hope you know I don’t ever want you to change for me.”
She blinks again, then gives a soft shake to her head. “Okay.”
“No, I’m serious. I know I teased you when you first got here, but I like you just the way you are.
I can’t imagine you expected to be wearing a yellow dress, or heels, or painting your nails anything other than shades of black, but here you are, looking like a Southern debutante.
I just…” I pause, searching for the words that match how I feel.
“I know you feel like a misfit in life, but I want you to know that I like you just how you are. The clothes you wear are just the outer package. I’m attracted to the girl underneath. ”
“So…you like me naked?”
I don’t give her the laugh she wants to break the tension. I just smile patiently and try to give her what the other men in her life couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“I like you naked, yes. I like you clothed. I like you angry. I like you grumpy and I like you smiling ear to ear like you were when we won that award. I just like you, Betsy Mae.”
She stares into my eyes like she’s trying to figure me out. Then she squeezes my hand. “Okay.”
I nod. “Okay.”
We walk into the restaurant, the lighting dim and romantic, the tables spaced apart for privacy.
Candlelight dances on each table. The wallpaper is dark and moody, like a speakeasy from yesteryear.
The smell of sizzling food makes my belly rumble with hunger.
We have a seat at a table in the corner of the restaurant with a view of the bar and a large palm in a pot off to the side to offer a screen.
The server comes right over and takes our drink order: a bottle of champagne for the table. He scurries away and now it’s just Betsy and me.
“Are we celebrating?” she asks, seeming nervous.
“I think we should. We’ve accomplished so much with the boutique.” I swallow hard and gather my courage. I lean over the table and lower my voice. “And I’d like to celebrate you and me.”
Betsy’s pretty blue eyes narrow. “That sounds suspiciously like an ‘us.’”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am. I think we’re very much an us. I didn’t expect this when you flew through my front door.” Betsy lets out a choked laugh. “But either way, it’s happened.”
“What’s happened?” she asks on a whisper.
I meet her gaze and don’t drop it. Here goes nothing.
“I fell in love with you.”
Her eyes go wide.
I forge ahead because now it’s out there. “I have, Betsy. I didn’t think I’d be finding love at forty, but here I am. I love you, plain and simple. I love your attitude, your sense of humor, your heart. I could go on and on. You’ve charmed me six ways to Sundee, honey.”
“Silas,” she breathes, not dropping my gaze, but not smiling either.
“I know that’s not what we set out to do, but I want to be honest about how I feel about you. And I know you might be scared. Your last relationship didn’t end well, but I’ve promised you I’d never do that to you and I’ll continue to prove it to you.”
Our server comes back over and pops open the champagne with a flourish and pours two glasses. As he walks away, Betsy grabs her glass and downs it in three gulps.
Well, fuck. That can’t be good. The silence is making my skin itch.
“Silas,” she says again when she plonks her empty glass on the tabletop.
“Yes?” My gut is officially revolting. This is a disaster. Not only has she not said it back, she looks like she might puke or pass out. My ego is forever dented.
“I…ah…don’t know what to say.”
My head is bobbing up and down, mostly because I don’t know what to do to save this situation.
“Tell me how you feel?” I hold a hand up, hoping she doesn’t notice it’s shaky like a leaf. “I know you don’t feel the same way, but maybe just tell me where your head’s at? You’ve been quiet this week.”
Betsy licks her lips and it’s not in a sexy, flirting way. It’s an oh shit, how do I let this man down easy way.
“Silas.” Her voice cuts off and then her face transforms into a mask not unlike the looks she gave me on day one in Heaven. Angry. Closed off. Like she has to protect herself at all costs.
She scrapes her chair back and suddenly she’s standing, tossing her napkin on the table.
She storms out of the restaurant without a single word.
Normally, I’d go after her, at least offer her a ride home, but it’s the twin tracks of tears that ran down her cheeks that has my ass stuck to my chair in shock and not a little bit of horror.
I’ve never told a woman I love her—besides Mama—but leave it to me that the one time I do, the woman goes running out of the restaurant crying.
Fuck.
I whip out my phone and text Deuce.
Me: Hey, you around?
Deuce: Just closed up the shop.
Me: Can you find Betsy? She should be running out of The Velvet Throne right about now. She’s upset and needs a ride home.
Deuce: On it.
Deuce: And then you owe me the story.
Me: Just get her home, okay? Then meet me back at the restaurant. I have a bottle of champagne that needs to be finished and I’m in the mood to order another.
Deuce: Shit. I see her. Damn. She’s crying, dude. See you in fifteen.
The first bottle of champagne is empty by the time Deuce arrives and takes Betsy’s empty chair. He holds his hand up and the server immediately brings us another. Deuce loves a sophisticated drinking session. I just need alcohol to obliterate the entire conversation I had with Betsy.
I’m sure I’ll be a sad sack tomorrow, regretting all this champagne, but for tonight, I just need to forget her pretty face.