Page 12 of Bleeding Heart
“Why the hell would you do that?” I ask, not waiting for his answer.
Sweet Caroline’s neon pink sign won’t light up for a few hours. I use the rear exit, avoiding the staff that’s already here from dragging me into another ridiculous conversation.
My father had a strategic plan when building Sweet Caroline’s on a main road. The club is a hop, skip, and a jump from the slums, yet still close to the middle-class neighborhoods that it’s visible to the fancy shoppers driving toward Brighton’s charming little shops. Its unoffensive, unassuming brick facade is woven into the downtown fabric. Nobody can’t forget it’s here, but the building isn’t a glaring reminder. Only the flashing pink neon sign is.
Despite the brisk weather, the sun in the sky warms my back along my walk. My Italian loafers buzz past a new store called Mind Your Own Beeswax, chuckling at the inventive name, and into Baked Beans for two Americanos.
Does Paisley drink coffee? This is how I’m finding out.
With our beverages—see how I did that? Not mine. Ours—I stroll into Paisley’s Boutique. Shoppers turn their heads my way when the bell jingles. Whether Paisley’s clientele isn’t used to shopping with men or they’ve developed an interest in me makes no difference. I have my sights set on the girl behind the checkout counter.
“I’ll be right with—” Paisley stops mid-fold, wrapping a shiny piece of jewelry with some tissue paper.
Her jaw lowers and damn that quivering full bottom lip draws me in. I have a free pass in my pants pocket to kiss this woman, and I plan to take full advantage.
“Take your time,corazón.” I assure her, reaching past the customer she’s waiting on, and leaving her drink beside the register.
The lady she’s helping turns into the emoji with the heart eyes. So, I’ve leveled up with my off-the-cuff choices of Baked Beans and a cute nickname. My guys all have some term of endearment for their wives. I heardcorazónin a past life. It’s stuck with me and Paisley doesn’t seem like she’d appreciate “boo-bear” or “honey bunch”.
Paisley peeps a polite “thank you” and hastily goes back to wrapping. I’m glad she’s speeding up for me. I’m not a guy who has a ton of patience.
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The boutique was hopping the entire time I spent tense and hiding out at home instead of relaxing on my honeymoon. It’s midweek after most of my customers have cashed in their Valentine’s Day gift cards from their significant others and exchanged gifts that didn’t suit them.
I opened alone for my first official shift back at work today, figuring the trend would slow and inventory would garner my attention. However, I’m wondering which of my employees let the cat out of the bag that I’d be here. The foot traffic continues at a swift pace. Except it’s without the unexpected and slight uptick of post-holiday sales it should have brought. The looky-loos outnumber the regular customers who’ve come in to browse. But thankfully an occasional regular winds up buying something.
Considering the nasty posts I hid from viewers on the store’s social media feed, I’m grateful to have a shop at all. Although maybe the regular customers are ensuring they use up their store credits before I go under? I heard someone mutter they couldn’t wait for a storewide clearance. Sure, the boutique has seasonal sales. But marking down everything in stock with a red slash through the price tag is something I’ve never considered. It’s obvious because of the bad press, people expect a going-out-of-business sale.
The bell jingles. I look up from an exquisite pair of dangle drop earrings that a local artisan crafted. Keeping a good relationship with other small businesses has been key to my success over the years. I have a hands-on approach catering to my customers while they are in the store, too, and check in with them often. Some search racks and fill their shopping bags with scores of finds from the hangars, while others want the full personal shopper experience and for me to bring them new styles.
“I’ll be right with—” the words die on my tongue when I see Jake Ballentine step inside.
Avoiding him in perpetuity isn’t possible, but I’d done a damn good job of it so far.
“Take your time,corazón.” He reaches toward the register and his arm skims the customer’s whose purchase I am wrapping.
Unsure if Jake’s here to empty the till or to make me squirm, I make an unladylike noise. I’m glad that neither of them notice because these are the same frustrated sounds I make in bed when I can’t quite get there.
I’m polite, thanking Jake for whatever is in the Baked Beans cup and clearing my throat. My current customer is enamored with Jake’s soft-spoken, but commanding appearance. I want her to remain happy and for Paisley’s Boutique to be the first place she thinks of when she needs a new piece for her wardrobe. Two other ladies left in a huff when Jake entered. They must’ve been under the impression the rumors were nothing but. Now that they see it’s for “real”—that I actually left flawless Gavin for faulted Jake—they won’t spend their money here.
Another woman in her late twenties sidles up beside my demon lover. She flashes Jake a flirty smile and bats her eyelashes, saying she loves coming here.
“Then I hope youcomebackoften,” he replies, using the same tone.
The subtle innuendo grates on my nerves.
Jake holds the door for my last customer, flipping the sign in the window from “we’re open” to read “back in five”. I ring up the flirtatious woman without telling her to come back soon.
It’s not my smartest move to bleed three customers in an hour. At present, word of mouth is not my friend and these customers can spout off that they had a negative experience in my store.
“Okay.” I fold my hands in front of me and ease out from behind the checkout counter. “Why are you here?”
“I missed you, isn’t enough?” Jake flips the lock, sealing us in. His gaze bounces from one security camera to the next, finally landing on me.