I think back to Silas making fun of my earrings. Or my personality. Or my outfit. “If that’s your teddy bear, I’d hate to meet the asshole,” I grumble.
Mary London stares at me for a beat or two, then throws back her head and laughs. Half the patrons of this coffee shop turn to look at us. When she brings her head upright again, she has to use her napkin to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Wow. I’m shocked to hear that.” She swivels around to grab her phone out of the purse she hung on the back of her chair. “Give me your number so we can chat. If you have any more issues with him, you come to me, okay?”
Well, that’s sweet. I rattle off my number and she texts me hers. Once that’s done, she tucks the phone away again, studying her sandwich.
“I just don’t understand it. Silas likes everyone.”
If that was supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t. It also doesn’t surprise me though. Again, I know my limitations. I know I’m not a ray of sunshine, but I do have my good qualities. They’re just a little more hidden.
“Thanks.”
Mary London lifts her head, eyes sparkling again. “I know! Why don’t you be one of my models at the Battle of the Boutiques!”
I lose my appetite in a split second. I’m shaking my head before my mouth is able to form words. “No. No, thank you. I’m good.”
“No?” Mary London cries, grabbing my hand. “You’d be perfect! I won’t take no for an answer.” Her grin turns a bit wicked, which is the only reason I don’t keep arguing about the modeling thing. I’m curious to see what racy thoughts this angelic woman could possibly have. “If Silas doesn’t see what a gem employee he has, then I’ll show him!”
I shake my head, hating this idea immediately.
But what I find is that Mary London Winthrop is as stubborn as she is sparkly.
She really doesn’t take no for an answer.
CHAPTER SIX
Silas
Just when Ithought 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 makesmean ass for noticing and staring, but stare I do. The bell rings out as she pushes the door open andI 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.
