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She busies herself behind the counter and avoids eye contact. However, I see right through it. Tatum has a ten-foot wall around her ninety-five percent of the time, but right now, her body language is screaming what she won't say aloud.
I don't have a revolving door of women coming in and out of my bedroom, and she’s noticed, but she also doesn't like the idea of me dating either.
Stepping forward, I rest my arms on the countertop, then inch closer. “As much as I appreciate that, I don't need help.”
“Then why are you single? I thought women in their twenties would love a secure, responsible man. I half expected I’d be pulling them off you.”
I snort. “While you aren't wrong, I actually don't like women my age.”
She wrinkles her nose as if she just smelled rotten eggs. “Oh.”
It takes me a moment to realize what that implied. “Wait, no. Not minors. I didn't mean that. I prefer older women, someone who isn't going to clubs every weekend and getting shit-faced.”
“Ah, see, now I don't think that's your shop’s demographic so I’m not sure that sign will work. Most of your customers are under twenty-five.”
“Shit, you're right. Okay, marker please.”
She hands it over, and I go back to the sign, adding a disclaimer.
Must be over the age of thirty-five to get phone number.
“Thirty-five?” She gasps when she reads it.
“Told you. I like my women older.” I flash her a wink, then work on rearranging a few displays.
A few hours pass and the shop is full of customers. There have been several comments about the sign, mostly college-aged girls who have begged to be the exception.
Tatum has rolled her eyes behind their backs at least a dozen times.
When it slows down, I order us food from a local cafe, and we take turns eating in the back. Since it's just the two of us until Aubree comes in for her shift, we can't eat together.
Just as I'm responding to an email from a vendor, Tatum rushes into my office and hides behind the door. She's breathing hard and looks frightened.
I immediately stand, worried she's having a panic attack. “What's wrong? Are you okay?”
“There's a man outside coming this way. If he asks about me, I need you to lie. Please. Tell him you've never seen or heard of me. Say whatever you can to get him to leave.”
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. I try to wrap my head around what she just said when I hear the bell from the door.
“Please,” she mouths, shaking her head. “I'm not here.”
I nod, then make my way to the front. A tall man in black slacks and a blue shirt looks around the store. I'd guess he's in his late thirties to early forties. As soon as he sees me, he approaches like he’s on a mission.
“Are you the owner?” he abruptly asks.
“Yes, Easton Belvedere. How can I help you today?”
He grabs something out of his jacket pocket and holds it out, showing me a flier of Tatum. “I'm Detective Justin Nichols from Nebraska. I'm looking for my wife, Tatum Nichols. She's been missing for the past two months. We're very worried about her. I got a lead that she was seen in the area, so I immediately flew here.”
I study the picture as I try to wrap my brain around everything he’s revealed in the past ten seconds. His wife? The last name on the paper isn't Benson—the one she gave me, but the photo is definitely her.
“Sorry, never seen her.” I stand taller, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You sure about that?” He pins me with his eyes. One moment, he acted sincere and genuinely worried, but now, he sounds like an asshole.
Tatum wouldn't ask me to lie if it wasn't crucial, so no matter what this detective—her husband—says, I'm not budging.
“Positive,” I reply sternly.
“Another shop down the road said she's been working here,” he states. “If that's the case, you could be liable for hiding a missing person.”
“Dozens of women with long hair and blue eyes come inside my store daily. It's possible they mistook her for someone else.” I shrug, not intimidated by this dickhead.
“I should warn you that I have connections with the local authorities. They got a tip, and that's what brought me here.”
“You're free to look at my payroll, Detective Nichols, but there's no Tatum Nichols on it. I don't know who that is. Sorry, but I can't help you.”
Justin glances around, his teeth grinding hard as I keep my stance. More customers enter, so I usher him toward the door.
“If you do see her or have any information, call this number,” he demands, pushing a business card to my chest. “Any hour of the day,” he adds before leaving.
What a fucking prick.
I greet and help the ladies who walked in at the perfect time, and when I'm done ringing them up, I go to my office.
