Definitely not normal.
A tiny spitz of orange light flashed in front of me, and I knew my assessment was accurate. I needed to get my coffee and get the hell out of here.
Jesus, get a grip, Lila. Smile and take your latte . . .
“Thanks, Tessa,” I managed—and even threw in a cheery, “Smells great! Have a good day!” The pretty barista frequently spent her paycheck in the boutique, and she deserved my extra effort—even if I’d have preferred to just grab the damn cup and high-tail it for the door.
Thankfully, it was a quick walk to work. One block south toward Market Street and one block west toward the river, and then I was cocooned by musical thunks of bamboo and warm scents of hemp and silk.
At the sound of the wooden chimes, Maureen looked up from the blueprints spread across the counter.
“Another bad night?”
“Not really, why . . . ?” Her answering hesitation lasted a beat too long, and I hurried to fill the silence. “More changes to the layout?” I should’ve at least tried to de-puff the bags under my eyes, but I’d put the last of the cucumber in my daughter’s lunch bag.
Perfect brows lifted behind artfully blonde bangs. “The ceiling’s high enough for a mezzanine . . . ?”
“Sounds fancy. Marble staircase or glass elevator?”
My boss scrunched her nose and resumed studying the plans. “If we build out a loft, we could keep the office up there, and paperwork and boxes out of sight.”
Her attention successfully redirected, I stowed my purse under the counter and joined her. “Good idea, and then we could expand the accessory section here . . . ”—I should’ve asked for an extra shot in my latte—“ . . . and add another display for handcrafted work.” The new location would open in a couple of months, and I needed to rally enough energy to help her get to the finish line. “Your margin is greater on the jewelry from the Kure artists’ collective. Or you could—”
The chimes interrupted to announce our first shopper, and I was saved from further brainstorming. Helping elderly Miss Kate freshen her wardrobe was simple enough, and an hour later I had hopes that the rest of the day would be just as easy. But right as she settled the plump shopping bag at her bony elbow, the door opened again. Gray sweater man.
His muscled body filled the entrance, yet he seemed completely oblivious to Miss Kate’s cheeky, wrinkled grin as the diminutive lady edged around him. Once on the sidewalk, she peered back through the storefront window with an exaggerated “Oh. My. Gawd!” and a theatrical hand flutter at her chest. There isn’t a sheet of glass in existence that’s thick enough to block her Southern drawl, and Maureen struggled to turn a giggle into a welcoming smile for the man.
My own smile, however, was as false as a streak of lipstick. Had he followed me here? Maureen glanced my way, no doubt wondering why I wasn’t greeting our new customer, but she recovered with a bright expression and stepped around the counter.
“Welcome to The Urban Nymph! May I help you find something special?” Her tone was too vibrant—and why did she look sideways at me when she offered to help him find something?
I busied myself with rolling up the plans, centering the rubber band over the A in the contractor’s name.
“Perhaps a gift?” she prompted.
“No.”
My head bobbed up at his monosyllabic answer, and I saw Maureen swallow.
“Well, you’re more than welcome to look around . . . ”
She took a small step backward, and an angry huff rose in my throat. Manners!
His attention shifted to me, and then back to Maureen, a small frown marring his bland expression. “I appreciate your invitation . . . ?”
“Of course! We’ll be right here if you need anything.” Maureen seemed happy to let the moment slide and turned to straighten a rack of blouses, but I kept an eye on him.
As if memorizing a maze, he spiraled outward from where he was standing, pausing at each grouping of items, occasionally trailing one finger down a sleeve, or across a fold like he was incorporating a tactile sensation to mark his path.
“He’s hot,” Maureen whispered when she rejoined me.
“He’s not.”
“No ring . . . ”
“No manners.”
“Oh, come on, Lila!” she hissed, flashing a warm smile in his direction. “Even Phil says you should—”
“Not. Interested. I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
Heavy tussah curtains separated the dressing and storage area from the front of the store, and now the thick silk shielded me from Maureen’s exasperation. With the boutique nestled in downtown Wilmington’s pricey historic district, our square footage was limited, but a previous owner’s overzealous gut-job had left plenty of space among the exposed pipes and ductwork overhead. Two dressing areas were defined by hanging muslin, and along the back wall, from eight feet high to the shadowed recesses of the ceiling, were rows of wood shelving. Stacked with neatly labeled containers and made accessible by an antique rolling library ladder, this was where we kept overstock items.
The ladder’s massive oak frame was my refuge now, and I pushed off with my left foot and climbed the rungs while the ladder moved along its track. I loved the rumble of the cast iron wheels against the rail overhead, and knowing that Maureen could hear the gravelly scrape of metal on metal made me feel better. She’d know I was working with inventory, and maybe, just maybe, by the time I reappeared she’d be focused on plans for the new
