“Rosanna!”Mybossbeamsat me from behind the counter as I hurry into the warmth of the furniture shop from the bite of coldness outside. “Good morning, dear. And how are we today?”
I muster up some enthusiasm because this man has been so good to me and doesn’t deserve for me to word-vomit the happenings of last night and this morning onto him. “Morning, Mr. Wright. Sun’s shining, but I’m ready for winter to get here so we can get through it to spring. It’s colder than a witch’s ti—er...it’s pretty cold,” I finish weakly.
Oops. Mr. Wright would probably die of shock if I didn’t curb my language around him. I swear, he’s one of the cutest old men I’ve ever seen, but extremely proper. He’d fit in any of those old musicals with no problem at all as a gentlemanly shopkeeper. “And how’s Mrs. Wright?”
The first time I heard their names, it was all I could do not to burst into laughter. But now bittersweetness stings my heart when I see Mr. and Mrs. Wright together. If ever there were an epitome of love, it would be these two. I want what they have, but I don’t think it exists anymore. Not like this.
At the mention of his wife’s name, concern colors his face. “The missus wasn’t feeling too well. She doesn’t even think she can make it to bingo today.”
“Oh, no—that’s terrible! I hope she feels better soon. Do you need me to stop by and cook something?” In keeping with the times he was born in, Mr. Wright isn’t much help in the kitchen, so if his wife is down for the count, that’s it. I’ve offered up my culinary skills a few times since their kids don’t live in town.
His countenance brightens. “Would you? We’d both be so grateful.”
“I sure will, Mr. Wright. Do you mind letting me ride with you, though? Silas needed the car today for an interview.” An interview. Likely story, but I had neither the time nor the mental fortitude required to argue with him this morning. Especially with him being hungover.
“You didn’t walk here, did you? With it being cold out?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad. A little nippy, but not that bad with my coat.” Mentioning it makes me realize I’m still wearing it. “At least for now,” I say as I pull the zipper down to reveal my short-sleeved shirt. My boss keeps it a bit too warm in here during winter, almost stifling, so I’ve learned to adapt by not wearing long-sleeved shirts or sweaters unless it’s really cold. “But I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
Mr. Wright’s chest puffs up in disdain. Silas isn’t really a favorite of his. “In my day, a gentleman would never do such a thing, letting his sweetheart walk on her own.”
There’s that word again—sweetheart. Just can’t catch a break from my problems, even at work. And, oh, to live in earlier times when courtships were something to be treasured. Unfortunately, those days are long gone. Now we women work just as hard—sometimes even harder, as evidenced in my case—as men do. Men such as my boss are a dying breed. At least, that’s what it seems to me. I give him a sly smile. “I’ll bet you were always aperfectgentleman, weren’t you? Even when courting Mrs. Wright.”
“Well,” he stammers out with the faintest hint of red coloring the paper-thin skin of his cheeks, “at times.” Pushing his glasses up his nose, he answers my earlier question. “Of course you can ride with me.”
“Awesome! What do y’all feel like? Chili or chicken noodle soup?”
“I wouldn’t turn my nose up at your chili. It’ll be a nice way to warm up.”
Speaking of warm, he looks a bit too warm right now, judging by the beads of sweat peppering his face as he dabs it away with a handkerchief. Maybe that wasn’t a blush from me embarrassing him. Maybe it’s... “Did you move furniture by yourself again? I’ve told you to wait until Seth or I can help you,” I tsk. Seth is our part-time worker, but he’s still in high school.
His look of chagrin tells me I’ve caught him, but he changes the subject. “Ah...I’ve been meaning to tell you—there was a nice young man I spoke with last week who builds custom furniture and asked if he could display some here. He’s supposed to be here sometime this afternoon. Connor Shay.”
Connor Shay.
Nice name.
Chapter two
Rosanna
Chinproppedupbyan elbow, I fight my heavy eyelids. The store’s empty, as usual, so I pass the time by swiveling on my stool from behind the counter and randomly pushing around some paper clips.
Pick one up. Now drop it.
Pick two up. Now drop them.
Wright’s Furniture Shop doesn’t get a lot of foot traffic in general, but today is even quieter. Like a ghost town. I’vebeen known before to use my lunch break to catch a quick nap in the back office, but I can’t just yet because, sweet man that he is, Mr. Wright left to check on his wife.
I’m exhausted. Before he left, we cleared a space in the back room to fit three to five pieces of furniture, depending on size, for whatever custom things this Connor Shay wants to show. But now that I’ve stopped exerting myself, my overly warm body lets me know it’s craving rest. Between Silas’s snoring, the lumpy couch, and worrying about Baby Bean, I didn’t get the best of sleep last night.
A yawn cracks my jaw as I fold my arms into a cocoon and bury my head inside. The phone hasn’t rung in ages, and no cars have passed on the street. The warm stillness and quiet tug at me, humming a sweet lullaby that promises peaceful sleep.
I’m just going to close my eyes for a little bit.
Just a little bit.
Nobody’s gonna know.
