“You’re a goddess, Elsie Carmichael,” Noah says affectionately.
There’s a small table with two chairs, and two doors that lead to my office and the bathroom. The bathroom also has an entrance onthe shop floor. There wasn’t enough space to put in a separate bathroom for employees, but I don’t mind. Hopefully Noah won’t, either.
“This is my favorite part of the shop,” I tell him, heading over to the big workspace where I’ve already arranged more bouquets than I can keep track of.
There are cabinets beneath the matte black countertop and I open each of them, showing Noah where all the supplies are kept for arrangements – shears, scissors, floral tape, that kind of thing.
I’m in the middle of showing him the assortment of ribbons for tying around bouquets when an “Um, Elsie?” stops me short. I straighten, looking over at Noah.
“Yes?”
“Is there, uh…” He scratches the back of his head with one hand, the other planted on his hip. “Any reason I’m looking at a bunch of heavily tattooed individuals who appear to be working in a tattoo studio?”
I follow his line of sight to the big window – thatdamnwindow – where the lights have been turned on and the Immortal Ink crew is busy getting ready for the day. They changed their hours for opening day to coincide with mine, but they’re usually open 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., and they arrive somewhere around 10:30 a.m. every day.
“Oh, that.” I force a fake chuckle. “Funny story. This place used to be an old dance studio. My shop is where the kids danced, and the shop next door is where the parents could sit and watch the classes through the window. I, um, apparently chose a floor plan that didn’t include closing the window. We were trying to cut costs and I didn’t realizethatwas how we were cutting costs.”
I watch through the window as Declan carries a heavy looking box across the room. The way his biceps flex under his T-shirt has me momentarily distracted, until he drops the box on the chair hiscustomers sit in and begins rifling through it. I look back over at Noah, who’s been concerningly quiet.
“Noah?”
“I can’t tell if this is hilarious or horrifying,” he admits, finally turning away from the window. “What do your customers think?”
“Honestly?” I smile, thinking about the reactions I’ve witnessed over the last week. “They kind of love it.”
Almost every customer who’s come through the shop, or at least the ones who are from Port Myles, have mentioned the window. Most of them assume we left it on purpose, whether to show our support for each other’s business or to pay homage to the old dance studio. A few have wondered how I feel about watching people getting tattooed and pierced all day, but honestly, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t paid it much attention, which is exactly what I tell them.
I might sneak peeks of Declan here and there – or a few dozen times a day – but overall, the window connecting our businesses hasn’t been the huge problem I expected it to be.
When I explain to customers who ask that we plan to close it up eventually, about half of them protest the idea.
“Leave it open,” Lottie Hanson, who owns one of the bed and breakfasts in town, urged me just yesterday afternoon. “It’ll be good for business.”
At the blank look on my face, she’d demanded to know if I had two working eyes and could see how attractive the men next door are.
“They’re not my type,” I insisted, ignoring the part of my brain screamingliar!
“Honey,” Lottie said, shaking her head slowly, “men who look like that areeverybody’stype.”
As I watch Declan drop something on the ground and bend to pick it up, giving me a spectacular view of his butt in the jeans he’s wearing, I can’t help but agree.
The sound of a throat clearing snaps me out of my memory. I drag my eyes away from Declan and look at Noah, whose eyebrows are raised so high they might as well be part of his hairline.
“I know that look,” he says, chuckling. “Which one are you pining over?”
I look down, busying myself tidying up the countertop that’s already pristine, just as I left it when I closed up last night. “I’m notpiningover anyone. I just –”
I’m saved by the bell – literally – as someone enters the shop.
“Hey, girl,” a familiar voice calls. “Have I got news for – oh,” Ty says, stopping short when he sees Noah and I. He looks between us, assessing the situation. “Who’s this?”
“Hi, Ty. This is Noah. He’s going to be working with me starting on Monday. Noah, this is Ty.”
“Nice to meet you,” Noah says, reaching a hand out toward Ty. Ty hesitates for only a second before clasping Noah’s hand with his own.
“Likewise,” he says.
“Noah and I met in one of my classes last year,” I explain. “And Ty is the best friend of my best friend’s fiancé.”
