The grin spreads across my face in degrees until I feel downright giddy. “Damn, Betsy, you sure are getting the hang of the South real quick. Football Saturday. Listen to you!”
She rolls her eyes again. “Shut up. Nana is looking forward to showing me her Angels. She said it’s an exhibition game or something.”
“Yep, they play one every year against State. All the money goes to charity and the teams get a preview of what to expect during the season.”
I gesture again toward the door and Betsy looks at me in confusion. I sigh and reach around her to put my hand on her lower back. I give her a shove and she walks. I keep my hand there, even when it feels like she moves faster to get away from me. It’s like she’s never been on a date and had a man walk her out. Or open a damn door. I reach around at the last minute and push open the coffee shop door for her and she looks around in confusion.
Out on the sidewalk, I tilt my head in the direction of Harp and Hemline. “How about you swing by the boutique real quick and grab some gear before the game?”
“Gear?”
I put my hands up in surrender. “Listen, I don’t want to rehash the clothing thing knowin’ how sensitive the subject is for you, but you can’t wear that to cheer on the Angels.”
Betsy looks down at her outfit. “Why not?”
My head bobs side to side. “Well, it’s not purple or gold, Betsy Mae. People will think you’re cheering for State, and we can’t have that.”
She chuckles and the sound is surprisingly pleasant. “All right.”
We start walking to the boutique side by side in silence. Honestly, it’s better than listening to most of the things that come out of her mouth. When we get there, I unlock the door and hold it open for her. She slides inside, looking around. I’ve already cleared out a couple racks in anticipation of new clothes I hope to order this weekend.
“What’s with all the middle-name business?” Betsy asks out of the blue.
I shrug and head straight for the Angels gear on the far side of the shop. There’s a light sweater vest in purple, gold at the shoulders, and logo embroidered in the middle, that would look great on Betsy with her pale coloring. I also have an Angels sweatshirt that I’ll send home with her for Betsy Sue.
“I’m not sure. We just like ’em, I guess.” I pull the two items off hangers and fold them up, heading for the register for a logo’d gift bag. “You mind giving me your number?”
Betsy’s sharp gaze flies to my face. “What for?”
“So I can send you the login for the backend purchasing app. I want to send you some of the items I put in my favorites. See if you think we should order them.”
Gosh, if that’s how she reacts every time a man asks for her number, I can see why she’s single.
“So, when do you want me to come back to work? You’re closed today?” Betsy looks around, then stops by the register,eyeing the bent pages on the clipboard that I’ve been combing through like a madman. Her handwriting is scrawled all across them.
She suddenly picks up a pen and grabs my hand, carving her number into my palm. My grin feels lopsided as I watch her write. I haven’t had a girl write her number on my palm since junior high at least. When she’s done, she releases my hand and glances around like she’s nervous. I finish with the clothes and keep talking to try to put her at ease.
“Yeah, every place in town closes up for game day. At least when the Angels are playing. And tomorrow’s the Lord’s day, so we’ll be back open on Monday. You available to come in early so we can place an order?” I hand Betsy the bag, clothes all wrapped up nicely in tissue paper.
Betsy takes the bag and peeks inside. “What do I owe you?”
I wave the question away. “On the house. I can’t have my employee wearing all black on game day. It reflects poorly on management.”
Betsy pulls her mouth to one side, but doesn’t argue. “I’ll pay you back for the clothes out of my bonus at Christmas.”
“There’s the spirit!”
She holds the bag aloft. “Thanks. And thanks for the job back, Silas Grey.”
My eyebrows slam together. How does she know my middle name?
Betsy spins on her ugly boots and stomps out of the boutique.
“You been talking to my sister?” I shout after her, genuinely curious.
A tinkle of amused laughter trails behind her, but she doesn’t bother with an answer.
I sigh and shake my head, hoping I’ve done the right thing. I stare down at my palm, memorizing Betsy’s number. There’s a weird feeling in my stomach from either too much caffeine atCloud Nine this morning or from the woman who just stomped out of my shop.
