A couple at the door give Nana a hug and shake my hand, kind smiles in place. I take one step across the threshold and brace for impact.
But nothing happens.
Nana pulls me over to the left side of the church to sit midway up the aisle with a gaggle of gray hairs already occupying two whole rows of wooden pews. I only recognize Birdie, who gives me a hug and introduces me to everyone else.There’s zero hope of me remembering any of their names, but I don’t think anyone even notices. They launch back into the latest gossip and I’m forgotten.
Dozens of middle-aged women join the crowd with their families or friends, and I study them, trying to pick out the prettiest most popular of the bunch to see what she’s wearing. I catalog any of the items I see that correspond with the interviewing I did at Mary London’s. Speaking of Mary London, I see her and Silas with their father on the far right side of the church, about four rows from the front. The service starts as the pastor takes the pulpit, but I can’t seem to pull my gaze from Silas.
He’s wearing a collared shirt today, the blue pinstripes set off perfectly against his tan skin. The man really is handsome, if you like frat guys or Ken dolls with brains and more brawn. His golden head swivels and suddenly those piercing blue eyes are locked on mine. He lifts his hand in the barest of waves, instant smile tugging on his lips making butterflies take off in my stomach.
I go to lift my hand to wave in return when a sharp elbow gets lodged in my ribs. I break eye contact to look at Birdie. She’s got a smug look on her face. She leans in and whispers with the volume of a person who forgets to turn on their hearing aids on the regular.
“I saw that boy wave at you, Betsy Mae. You can’t go wrong with Silas Winthrop.” She winks at me while I slouch in the pew, ready to slide right into a hole in the ground and never come out. A snicker from behind us only makes things worse. Clearly everyone in a two-row radius heard Birdie’s ridiculous matchmaking.
I stay slumped down the rest of the service, refusing to look over to where Silas is sitting and hoping instead of being smited. Maybe God has decided to give me the gift of invisibility. I realizeI have no such luck when the service ends and Silas’s father makes a beeline for me.
He’s handsome too, the grown-up, silver-fox version of Silas with more swagger and deeper pockets. He holds out his hand, and when I go to shake, he uses his other to cover mine in an intimate hand sandwich.
“’Ere she is. The woman I’ve heard so much about. You mus’ be Betsy Mae. I’m Clayton Winthrop, but my friends call me Clay.” His drawl is deep and slow and so Southern I wonder if he practices it in the mirror every morning.
“Hello, Mr. Winthrop. Lovely to meet you.” I try to pull my hand back, but he doesn’t seem ready to release it just yet.
Birdie wedges herself between us, and for once, I’m grateful for her busybody nature. “I don’t need any thanks, of course, but my suggestion of Betsy Mae workin’ for Silas seems like a match made in heaven, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mr. Winthrop—because there’s no way I’m going to call him Clay—seems irked at Birdie’s intrusion, but hides it smoothly, letting go of me to give air kisses to both her weathered cheeks. “I do agree that boutique needs a woman’s touch.”
Mr. Winthrop’s gaze slides back to me, but this time, he seems to take in the whole of me, black dress, earrings, and kohl-rimmed eyes. He opens his mouth again, but gets cut off by Silas pushing his way into the row. There’s not enough room between these pews for all four of us, so Birdie plops down into the seat and Mr. Winthrop is forced to take a step back into the aisle.
“Just the woman I was looking for. Do you mind if I steal Betsy away to talk shop?” He doesn’t wait for anyone to answer, just puts that big hand on my lower back and frog-steps me out of the row. He doesn’t let up until we’ve marched down the center aisle and out the door of the church.
The air has turned downright hell-like since we’ve been inside. Humidity and heat combine to make the air so thick it’shard to breathe. I don’t mind, however. Something about Mr. Winthrop made me unsettled.
Off to the side of the church in the shade of a magnolia tree, Silas releases my waist and steps back. “Sorry about that,” he mutters.
He’s in dress pants today, covering up his muscular legs in fabric that looks like it’s straight from a fashion show in Europe. Who knew frat boy had it in him?
I tilt my head toward the church that’s quickly emptying. “What was that about?”
Silas’s easy smile is nowhere to be found. For a girl who doesn’t care for smiles all that much, it makes me unreasonably sad to see it disappear. “You should stay away from my father. Don’t tell him anything about the boutique, okay?”
I rear my head back. “Got daddy issues?”
Silas huffs a laugh that lacks humor. “Don’t we all?”
“I guess we do,” I admit, nodding my head.
“Where’s your father live?” Silas asks, clearly trying to move the subject away from Mr. Winthrop.
“No idea,” I answer truthfully. That fact used to hurt me—hell, it used to fuel some of my worst habits—but I’ve spent a lot of money I don’t have on therapy. Now it just saddens me to know what we both missed out on.
Silas sighs, then swipes his hand across his forehead. It’s hotter than hell’s sauna out here. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know where mine was, but then I feel guilty. I already lost one parent, I shouldn’t wish away the other.”
“Relationships with parents are tricky, I know.” I reach out and put my hand on his arm. His bicep is round and bulging beneath my fingers. “I won’t say a thing to your father, I promise.”
And then I walk away, because nothing good can come from bonding with my boss over shitty parents. It’s better if I keepSilas at arm’s length. I already had one man break my heart, I don’t need to get displaced feelings intertwined with another who’s even more wrong for me.
“You look pretty today, Betsy Mae,” I hear Silas call after me.
I don’t turn around. I don’t acknowledge his statement in any way.
