Betsy sighs, following me over to the counter where I have the preliminary flyer Mary London created last night. I slide the paper to her and give her time to read the details. When she lifts her head, she looks no less belligerent than when she was flipping me off a minute ago.
“I know you’re brand new here, but Heaven has four boutiques. Harp and Hemline, of course. We serve middle-aged women. Mary London opened Golden Halo right after she graduated college. She outfits the sorority girls. Then you’ve got Darby Kate Buckley, who runs Blessed and Dressed for her great-aunt, Birdie Buckley. You have to be at least sixty to step foot in there. And the fourth is owned by my best friend Deuce St. Legare. His is the only men’s boutique in town.”
Betsy blinks slowly, and I can’t help but notice the thick fringe of dark lashes over her wide blue eyes. I wonder what she’d look like without the thick black eyeliner.
“So, what’s this Battle of the Boutiques?” Betsy asks when the silence goes on a little too long. She gestures to the flyer.
I shake off all thoughts about her appearance and focus on the issue at hand. “It’s something Mary London came up with earlier in the summer. She thinks we can drive more traffic to all our boutiques if we put on a fun football fashion show with prizes and giveaways and things of that nature. August first is the date. Right before the start of the new school year makes the most sense for a promotion of this sort given that’s our busiest time of the year, other than Christmas.”
Betsy lifts an eyebrow. “Friendly competition, but you’re actually working together?”
I smile at her. “Exactly.”
She’s still frowning though. “I don’t get it. If you’re the only four boutiques in town, then I assume you have all the business already, right?”
I take a look around the boutique. It’s empty, even though we technically opened fifteen minutes ago. No one is beating down our door, that’s for sure.
“Forty-three percent of Americans buy their apparel off the internet, not in-store. I won’t even tell you the stats on purchases through big-box stores versus mom-and-pop stores. Don’t want to frighten you.”
Betsy taps her tennis shoe against the hardwood floors. She’s looking right over my left ear, eyes glazed, which is disconcerting. When the seconds drag out and she still hasn’t said a word, I get antsy.
“You okay? Vaped some bad weed this morning?”
Her gaze immediately comes back to mine, two divots forming between her eyebrows. She goes to lift her hand, most definitely with plans to flip me off, but I beat her to it, pushing it back down. I don’t allow myself to think about how soft her skin is.
“I know. You want to flip me off. We really need to break you of this bad habit, Ms. Coldreign.”
Betsy huffs. “Will you stop calling me that?”
“Isn’t that your name?”
Betsy rolls her eyes, grumbling under her breath. “Yes, but it sounds so dumb.”
I lean forward, trying to hear what she said. “Maybe you’ll find a husband in Heaven and you can take his name.”
Betsy plants her fist on her hip, back to being irritated. I could probably just breathe and she’d be irritated. “I can changemy name by filing with the court. No husband necessary. And besides, if I do get married, I’m going to hyphenate our names.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “But if you hate your name, why include it in the hyphenating?”
Betsy shrugs, lifting her nose in the air. “Because.”
I cough to disguise the chuckle. “Wow. That explains it all. Glad you’ve really thought it out.”
Betsy flips me off, quick as a snake.
I shake my head. “What did I say about that?”
Betsy smiles, but it’s the kind that makes you wonder if you close your eyes too long, she’ll shank you. “So, what’s your plan?”
“I was thinking about spraying your face with water every time you flip me off. That’s what they do for dogs.”
Betsy sucks in a deep breath as if she’s praying for patience. “I mean, what’s your plan for the Battle of the Boutiques? You said you wanted to talk about your plans. Remember? I know it was awhile ago, but I didn’t think your memory wasthisbad.”
I can’t help but laugh. Damn. This woman is spunky as all get-out. “Are you calling me old?”
“If the shoe fits.” Betsy shrugs.
Ignoring her quick barbs, I get back down to business. My sister is essentially throwing me a Hail Mary. A way to get eyes on my boutique and dollars in the register. I can’t let her or my mama down.
