All the more reason to shower that Southern charm on her like sweat flying off a frat boy during an August afternoon football game.
Okay, the analogy is gross, but the idea is perfect.
The customer leaves with a purchase and Betsy immediately goes to straighten up the fitting room. I head back there and hold the curtain up so she can pass through unimpeded with the go-backs in her arms. Her eyeballs track my assistance, but she doesn’t say anything. I wait for her to be done putting the clothes back on the rack, pretending to work on the computer up at the register. When she comes near, I snag her hand, twirl her around like we’re in a ballroom, and then pull that hand up to my lips to place a kiss on the back.
“What the…” she mutters, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I shoot her a wink and go back to working. I can feel her staring at the side of my head for a beat or two, but I don’t acknowledge her. She huffs and gets back to work. I have to roll my lips inward and clamp down with my teeth to keep from laughing.
She has no idea what’s about to hit her.
See, the thing that Betsy doesn’t know, being from the West Coast, is that a real man in the South treats his woman like aqueen. We may have an unhealthy obsession with football, beer, and hunting, but we know how to make a woman feel special. We know how to treat her right and show her every single day how important she is. I’ve been refraining from showing that side of me because of the limitations Betsy’s tried to place on our not-relationship, but I’m done with that crap.
I’m fixin’ to woo the sourpuss out of Betsy.
When it’s quitting time, I hold the door for her, as usual. Betsy sails through and waits while I lock up.
“Holy hot sauce,” she grumbles, already blotting her top lip. “It’s so hot today.”
“It’s August, honey,” I answer, smiling at her even when she scowls at me for the term of endearment. “Got plans tonight?”
She loses the scowl, her eyebrows lifting. “I don’t think so….” She’s trying to be coy, maybe to lure us into another round in my bed or perhaps my shower, but I don’t bite.
“Well, have a good one.”
I turn and walk away. I’m grinning like a madman, thinking of her gaping at my back for leaving so abruptly. God, she’s not wrong. It’s hotter than a skillet fresh out of the oven as I walk across the blacktop to my truck. The heat’s liable to melt my loafers if I don’t keep moving.
The truck’s even hotter, having sat in the sun all day. I have to roll all the windows down to let out the hot air, along with cranking the air-conditioning before I drive home. I have work to do. A plan to set in place.
It’s over two hours later before I put down the potholders and grab my phone. I scan the various dishes on my countertop. The kitchen is an absolute wreck. I hope Betsy responds the way I think she will. If she doesn’t, I’m going to be eating off these leftovers all week.
Me: Hey, I have some clothes here I forgot to bring in to the boutique. Can you swing by and see if they’d look good on Palmer?
Palmer, one of my sister’s friends, finally agreed to model for us. Took some convincing that we didn’t care about baby weight. We are a boutique for middle-aged women, after all. If we can’t find beautiful clothing for women of all sizes, we have no business being in business. It doesn’t take long for a bubble to bounce across my screen.
Betsy Mae: Right now?
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s being difficult about it. I wouldn’t expect anything else. Then again, itislast minute. Normally I wouldn’t spring a dinner date on a woman this late, but Betsy requires some finessing.
Me: Only if you have time.
Betsy: Ok
Me: Still in your dress from work?
Betsy: What the hell?
Me: Yes or no
Betsy: …yes?
I throw down my phone and get busy doing the dishes. I want this place spotless when she gets here. Thankfully, she takes her sweet time getting here because I end up in the attic grabbing abox full of Mama’s old china set. The plates are porcelain white with pink and blue hydrangea flowers and a gold ring around the edge. I had time to change my shirt to a pale yellow polo, which just so happens to match the dress Betsy was wearing today. I’m just lighting the candle in the middle of the table when the doorbell rings.
Betsy stands on my porch, arms crossed over her chest, face already set in a frown. She’s still in her yellow dress, thank goodness. She takes one look at my matching shirt and narrows her eyes.
“What’s this about?”
I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her gently into the house and closing the door. “Lettin’ all the cool air out, honey.”
