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Paisley huffs and tips her chin up. Her eyes are misty and filled with regret.
“Drink?” I fall into bartender mode and scurry behind the bar to get two shot glasses.
I hadn’t gotten far in drowning my sorrows when Paisley interrupted me. The bottle of rum I’d taken a swig from in my office lies on the table near where she’s standing.
“Sure.” She nods, wiping under her eyelashes and sniffling.
I snag a few cocktail napkins in case of emergency and pat my back pocket for my phone. Paisley’s puffy princess garb is cute and whatever is happening is entertaining. However, the moment the waterworks start in earnest, the closest ride share is bailing me out.
“Why are you closed on Valentine’s Day?” She sits when I motion to the table.
“You’ll never believe it. I was at a wedding, too.” The whole Sweet Caroline’s crew received invitations. I’d do anything to make the bride happy, even shut my bar down on a night my staff usually makes excellent tips. Even give the bride away.
“Your own?” She laughs a little tinkling and misbelieving sound.
“Nah. This woman I’m not worthy of. Not that I think Cass is either, but that’s who she married,” I say, pouring for us both.
“Cary Cass? With the car dealerships and thevroom vroom?” Paisley pretends she’s steering a car. Her arms flop to her lap and her nose scrunches. “Are you talking about Holly?”
“Perceptive. Does being a bride mean reading the engagement announcements in the society columns, or do you happen to know my former manager?” I lift my shot, pointing a pinky like I’m drinking tea. Empty, I refill the glass and toss the second shot like a man.
“She’s in my store a lot. Holly doesn’t buy much, but her girlfriends could keep the boutique in the black. They’re incredibly nice.”
“Girlfriends like Kimber… and Sloan Galloway. And you arethatPaisley,” I state.
“Yes, I am that Paisley.” Her fingers make half a yin and yang symbol in the air the same shape as her shop’s logo—something I have no choice but to know since half of my female employees also keep Paisley’s boutique in business.
She slouches in the barrel-style chair cushion and lifts her forearms to rest on the semi-circular arm that flows from the back of the chair. I bought plush seats to keep my customer’s asses comfortable. I wanted them captive, so they’d waive a cocktail waitress over instead of ordering drinks at the bar. But I can’t help noticing Paisley has curiously short legs. Her skirt swishes as her knees move and bent heat the rustle of fabric her feet skim back and forth over the carpet. Then she makes an awkward harumph, pulls her dress up, and wiggles her coral painted toenails.
“I hope you don’t mind. I stepped in a puddle.” She reaches up her dress, rips a stocking off, and holds it up for inspection. The sole is shredded and I surmise the other foot is, too.
“So you didn’t love him?” I ask while she fumbles to take off the second stocking without giving me a glimpse of her wedding undergarments.
“I love him. I love him a lot.”
What a damn dirty shame. “But you don’t want to be married to him.”
“No, I do. Well, sort of. We have a difference of opinion. If we got married, I’d lose the argument by default.”
“A difference of opinion isn’t a matter of life or death.”
“Ha! That’s your opinion.”
“Had to have been something significant.”
“It was. To me, anyway. However, Jake Ballentine doesn’t need my sob story.” A smug Paisley has heard all the nasty rumors of how I’ve used some of these stories against people.
My respect for her ticks up a notch.
“How old are you?”
“Considerably over twenty-one.” She smiles, pouring a finger of rum.
“That’s still too young to get married.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m not dead yet.”
