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 wasmoney, 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.”
