“Well, there’s only one old person in this boutique, so I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he grouses. “You’ve got more than half your life still ahead of you, so I don’t want to hear any more of this bullcrap about being old. Tell that to my arthritic hips, or the hands that shake doing anything, or the eyes that can’t see far or near, or the hair that’s up and left my head. Don’t get me started on my hemorrhoids!”
I absolutely will not be getting him started on that.
I hold up my hands. “You’re right. I’m not old. I just feel old because I’m heartbroken. And a little bit of my pride has been dented too. I’m sure I’ll get over it one day soon.”
Mr. Barrett narrows his eyes so much I can’t see them anymore. Then he slides on his glasses. “If you’re talking about getting over Betsy Mae, then no, you won’t be over it soon. Because she’s one of a kind and you fumbled her.”
Now my hands go to my chest to protect me from the arrows he’s throwing with expert precision. He’s not wrong through. I did fumble Betsy. I should have had patience and dated her over an extended period of time. I should have waited to introduce the L-word, not lobbed it at her when we weren’t even officially dating.
“Ouch.”
“But somehow she sees something in you.” Mr. Barrett picks up his cane, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if he means to beat me with it. “She asked me to come help you today and that’s what I’ll do. Where are the clothes to fold?”
I point to the curtain partition that leads to the storage room. “Through there.”
Mr. Barrett doesn’t even respond. He just thumps his cane and limps into the back. It’s actually kind of funny how muchhe and Betsy are alike. At least Mr. Barrett doesn’t hum off-tune while he folds.
The little bell rings out again. This time it’s Deuce barreling through the doorway, a covered suit slung over his arm and a white envelope in his other hand. His lip curls up in disgust before he’s even one foot into my boutique.
“Is that you that smells?”
I lift an arm and give it a whiff. Huh. “No, I don’t think so.”
He drapes the clothing over my counter, knocking off a stack of basic tanks I had folded there. “The fact you even had to do the whiff test tells me everything I need to know. That and that furry animal on your face.”
I roll my eyes, but that makes my headache bloom again. “Is there a reason for this pleasant visit? Because I have Mr. Barrett in the storage room and I’m sure he’d be happy to give me a beatdown. You can head on over to your boutique.”
Deuce, hair perfectly coiffed and impeccably tailored suit in place, gives me the smile that makes all the ladies simper and bat their eyelashes. It does nothing but make me hate him for being so full of life while I feel like crap.
“Today’s your lucky day. Betsy asked me to wait until this afternoon, but I made an executive decision to come first thing. Good thing I did too.” His eyes sweep up and down my person, which turns his expression into a grimace.
I ignore his obvious dig and focus on the one thing in that sentence that matters.
Betsy.
“Betsy talked to you about me?”
Deuce scoffs. “What are we, middle schoolers? Yes, Silas, she passed me a note and said to give it to you.”
“Shut up, asshole. I’m doing the best I can here. Cut me some slack.”
“No, seriously, she gave me a note to pass to you.” He brandishes the envelope that I forgot he was holding. It’s the expensive kind, thick linen cardstock with my name printed in swooping gold ink.
After a prolonged moment of soaring hope and then a mental smackdown to not get my hopes up, I snatch it from his hands. The flap isn’t sealed which makes it easier to slide out a single sheet of matching cardstock. It’s an invitation. My heartbeat’s pounding so loudly in my skull I can’t get my brain to focus on the words. I have to read through the gorgeous cursive twice before it sinks in.
I look back up at Deuce to see a devilish smile on his face. My heart is still pounding, fueled by the kind of hope that will crush me if I lose Betsy a second time. Waving the invitation between us, I ask the only question that matters.
“How many people got invited?”
Deuce’s grin intensifies. “I happen to know that’s a custom invite. One of a kind. No other in the world like it.”
Now I’m grinning too. “Fuck yeah.”
Deuce slaps me on the shoulder. “Now you see why I’m saving the day by getting here early. You look like shit, brother.”
Normally I’d hit back with a comment about his stupid suit and what he’s trying to hide behind being Mr. Perfect, but I don’t have time for that today. I’m pretty sure Betsy is making a gesture with this debutante dance, and I’ll be there for it no matter what.
“Quit the compliments and tell me you brought a tuxedo.”
