Betsy
“You gotta be kidding me,”I mutter, spinning as far to my right as I possibly can to yank on the voluminous skirt that wrapped around my legs and got caught in my car door when I slammed it shut.
My cheeks burn as I imagine some of those people eating their brunch on the patio of Heavened Eggs—which I’m pretty sure is a play on words for deviled eggs—are watching my comical battle with my skirt. I’m regretting parking right in front, even though it was the only parking space open directly on the square. I yank even harder and it still won’t budge. Not one to be bested by a polyester blend not fit for summer in the South, I grind my kitten heels into the pavement and yank for all I’m worth. With a mighty rip, I’m free.
Unfortunately, that means I’m now sporting an unexpected slit in the dark gray skirt I borrowed from Nana’s closet. Thank God I shaved this morning.
Okay, borrowed is a bit of a stretch. She threatened to kick me out if I didn’t take off my black, ripped skinny jeans andwear something more feminine. The poor woman looked like she was about to faint straightaway. I don’t quite understand what the big deal is, but Nana is important to me. I ended up compromising with a gray skirt, black tank top, antique turquoise-and-silver belt, and some kitten heels that are just a smidge too tight. Nana muttered under her breath about my piercings as I left the house this morning, but I’m fairly confident I’m not homeless. Yet.
Without lifting my head to see who’s been watching my outfit struggles, I march away from my vehicle and head straight for Harp and Hemline, two storefronts over from Heavened Eggs. My pinkie toes are begging for mercy already, and I’ve broken into a most unladylike sweat. I grind my molars together and paste a smile on my face. The front door of the boutique is clearly antique. Layers upon layers of paint have been swiped across the old wood. Even the square window panes on the top are wavy, meaning the glass is originally from early 1900s. It’s charming, I’ll give it that.
I turn the brass handle and push the door open, a loud bell ringing out over my head. Panic and nerves surge, stealing my breath. Why are the lights on and three customers already in the boutique? I planned my morning meticulously, getting here with ten minutes to spare so I wouldn’t be late. Even with my wardrobe malfunction.
I blame the panic for my limbs spasming into action, as if hoping I can find the owner in the next three seconds so I won’t be late for my first day of work. Except I’m not a Southern belle full of grace and charm. I’m a thirty-four-year-old clumsy single girl with more knowledge in her brain than she knows what to do with. I’m also not used to wearing heels. So it’s no surprise these damn shoes catch on the threshold, putting on the brakes better than my car. Sadly, my forward momentum does not put on the brakes.
Suddenly I’m shooting forward as if I’m Superman, one arm forward, legs behind me, but no ability to fly. I take a header right through a rack of hanging clothing, none of which breaks my fall in any way. Hangers scrape and ping and fly through the air. My one outstretched arm takes the brunt of my fall, cushioning the dull thud of my body on the hardwood floor only slightly. Every single molecule of air in my lungs vacates in a gutturaloof. The rack clatters to the ground above my head. Clothes land under me, over me, and around me. Various feminine gasps echo through the boutique.
And Lord have mercy, I feel a breeze finally. A lovely air-conditioned breeze that my body delights in. Until my brain kicks in and I realize my skirt has flown upward in the tumble. That breeze I feel is most likely from flashing the entire boutique.
I scramble to a seated position, pulling clothes off of me and forcing down my skirt. The top hook of one hanger is now stuck in my shoulder-length hair. If my hands weren’t trembling so badly, I could unravel the knot, but as it is, I’m having trouble.
Silence descends and I realize the gasps are preferable to this ominous nothing. Then a man’s hand extends down into my vision. I have to look up through the hanger that is now laying claim to the top of my head. The hand is attached to an attractive forearm laced with sinewy muscle and the barest dusting of light brown hair. The arm leads to a broad chest covered by a pale yellow polo shirt.
“I know the sign outside says we’re having a door-busting sale, but I didn’t think anyone would take it seriously.”
A titter of laughter fills the awkward silence, and I could kiss the man for defusing the situation. I lift my eyes just a bit more and see that his smile is warm and friendly. His blue eyes are crinkling at the corners, as if he’s letting me in on the joke. The golden-brown hair looks a bit like a halo given theoverhead light directly above him. He looks oddly familiar, but also good looking, which has me glancing away quickly. I slide one sweat-covered palm into his and let him help me to my feet, still sporting the hanger on my head like a jaunty hat. I’m also standing wonky, having lost one kitten heel somewhere in the mayhem.
“Let me help you,” the man says gently, removing my hand from the hanger and unwinding the strands from the metal.
My face and neck are so hot you could cook a heavened egg on them. I dare a glance around the boutique and see all three ladies pretending to shop while darting curious glances at me. I try out a smile and a stupid wave, which only makes one of them giggle. I’d laugh my ass off too if I’d witnessed someone diving into the store like I just did.
The man puts the hanger back on the rack and is currently rehanging the clothing items I attempted to destroy. I find my other shoe in a hurry, slip it on, and crouch down to help, my hands still shaking.
“It’s okay,” the man says kindly. “I’ve got it.”
I shrug and hang up the purple sweater vest. “I’m pretty sure this is my job anyway. First-day jitters I guess.”
The man’s hands still. I can feel him staring at me. I lift my head to find his gaze darting all around my face. Then his eyes bulge.
He points at me. “Wait. You’re my new employee? Betsy Sue’s granddaughter?”
My fake smile slides right off my face. I swallow hard. “You’re the owner?”
The man stands and suddenly I have to crane my neck way back to see him. He’s wearing khaki shorts and white tennis shoes. I’m not really one to obsess over men’s legs, but this tan pair had to have won the best legs designation in his high school yearbook. Hell, if his hair was just a few shades lighter I’d swearhe looked just like the Ken doll my mom bought for me at the thrift store when I was a little girl.
“You’re the one who flipped me off yesterday.” His voice has gotten a little louder. The chatter of the women instantly ceases.
Well, shit.
I stand, picking up a pair of linen trousers. “Um, that doesn’t sound like me at all,” I lie.
He snaps his fingers, as if he’s putting all the puzzle pieces together. “And you nearly ran me off the road last night when I went for a run.”
I shake my head, face still burning. “Nope. Definitely not me.”
“You drive a white SUV, right?”
I roll my lips inward and struggle to find a dignified way out of this. As it stands, I’ve flipped off my new boss, nearly ran him off the road, then literally crashed into his shop, late, on my first day on the job.
