I turn to her, feeling like it’s pulling teeth to get her to talk. “So, where’d you move?”
She turns away from me, digging into the box of hangers, taking an inordinate amount of time to come back up with three hangers. “I moved into my car.”
“Betsy,” I say on a disappointed sigh. Not disappointed in her. Sad that it came to that. Here is this spirited, highly intelligent woman and she had to move into hercar?
“It’s not that big a deal, Silas.”
I put down the blouse I had in my hand, get in her space, and take the hangers out of her hands. I slide my hand up to her face to cup her jaw gently. She’s looking down, refusing to look at me.
“Storm cloud,” I whisper. Her eyelashes quiver, but that stubborn streak is a mile wide. “Look at me, please.”
After a moment of hesitation, she does. It just about kills me to see moisture collecting in those wide blue eyes. “Hey. I’m sorry that happened to you. It’ll never happen again though.Here in Heaven, we take care of each other. You find yourself without somewhere to stay, you come to me. Understand?”
She licks her lips, and goddamn my traitorous eyes, they trace the movement with something akin to hunger. “Okay,” she whispers.
I nod, my gaze darting around her face, trying to figure out this insane pull I feel toward this woman. She’s the exact opposite of every woman I’ve ever wanted. Nowhere in my little-boy dreams did I envision a pierced, pissed-off, people displeaser as the one woman who would catch my attention.
And yet here she is in my hands. In my boutique. And I have a suspicion, sneaking into my heart.
I let her go and step back, putting some much-needed space between us. She sniffles and looks away, collecting herself.
“So anyway, I decided right then and there that love was not for me. I would go for women, but sadly I’m not gay. I wish I was. I guess I’m only looking for a good time with a man when the mood strikes me, you know?” Betsy attempts a lighthearted laugh, but I can still hear the hurt in it.
I return to hanging up clothes, happy she confided in me. “I do know. I’ve dated every single woman in the three closest counties and still haven’t found The One. Pretty much given up on that dream of a wife and kids and a white picket fence.”
“White fences are stupid.” Betsy snorts. “Black wrought iron is way better.”
That’s so on point for Betsy. We both chuckle, and I realize that wearefriends. The thought makes me feel oddly settled.
“So you want a good time with no strings attached. And I’ve given up on finding love.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s about right.” Betsy turns to hang up three more blouses on the rolling rack. The bell from out front rings out, interrupting our time together.
I stroke my chin where my beard has grown in enough to be annoying. “I find that very interesting.”
And with that, I leave the storage room and greet my customer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Betsy
“Good morning, storm cloud,”Silas drawls the next morning, unlocking the door to the boutique and gesturing for me to go in first. I’ve finally gotten used to him holding doors for me. It irritated me at first, this idea that I needed a man to open a door when I’m perfectly capable, but I’ve grown to appreciate it for the kind gesture that it is. Silas knows I can open my own freaking door. The quintessential nice guy just does it to be nice.
He’s wearing a button-down shirt with a collar today, which throws me for a loop. It’s still paired with shorts, though today’s pair looks like some fancy material you’d find on a pro golfer. The sleeves of the shirt are that perfect amount of tight, where it hugs the bulging biceps but doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard.
I gape at him from inside the air-conditioned boutique while he gets busy opening up the store. He must feel me watching him because his head pops up and he lifts an eyebrow in question.
“Oh my God! You’ve grown up, Silas Grey! I can’t call you frat boy now.”
He glances down at his outfit like he forgot what he put on this morning. When he lifts his head back up, he looks sheepish. “You seemed to like Deuce’s suit the other day. Figured I could level up a little from frat boy.”
My face goes warm at the intimate smile on his face as he looks at me. It’s like I can see his brain dipping back into what I’ll forever dubthe incidentyesterday. He’s picturing me half naked, I can just tell.
I’m about to flip him off—my default gesture whenever I’m feeling uncertain, or angry, or tired, or not properly caffeinated. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I flip people off due to practically anything these days. Every time a Southerner calls someonehoney, I feel the middle finger itching to be unleashed. But he’s saved by the bell, more specifically, my phone ringing.
I dig it out of my purse and see it’s Mary London calling. I pick it up, wondering if there’s an emergency. Surely a text could have sufficed for anything else.
“Hello? You okay?”
