Page 68 of The Promise Of You

She takes me to the boutique side of her house. “I’d like to give you a welcome gift. Something you would wear… to relax, at home, when you’re in good company. If you get my drift.” She winks at me.

“Um… no, I don’t. I don’t plan on having that type of company anytime soon. Or, like, ever.”

“Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Nonsense. Turn around.” She holds my hand and twirls me around. “Build it, and they will come. Pun intended.”

“I don’t want them to come!” I chuckle but still look at her stuff. It’s absolutely gorgeous. There’re all sorts of shapes of bras, all in beautiful fabrics—lace and silk, see-through or padded, demi-cup, full cup. Matching panties with various degrees of reveal and more elaborate contraptions that might have been worn by the women who inspired Bridgerton.

“You’ll come around. Meanwhile, consider this. Wear beautiful lingerie for yourself. Every single day. You may be the only one to see it, but it will give you confidence, a sense of your worth. They say true beauty comes from within. Then wrap it up with a bow to match it.”

“I like the attitude.” I discreetly look at the price tags.

“There’s a forty percent discount for locals,” Cassandra says, then adds, lowering her voice as if there was anyone to hear us, “and I mean, us working people. Second homeowners consider themselves locals, bless their heart, but if I gave them a discount, I might as well close shop.”

Smart woman. At a forty percent discount, I’m sure she still has a margin, if slim. It keeps some money coming in. “Are there a lot of second homeowners here?”

“Oh, baby. Yesss. The Boston and New York creme de la crop. How do you think I can have a shop like this here? Them and Canadians. They come here on the weekends, and they shop like it’s their job. Which for some of them, it kind of is their occupation.”

She’s giving me a lot to think about for the restaurant. Data points I didn’t have. Creative ideas to bring in more money. No matter what Lynn may know or think she knows, I haven’t been tasked with closing the restaurant. But what she said put a fire in me, and I’m working double to make it profitable much earlier than planned.

Cassandra hands me a purple bag with Cassandra’s Lingerie written in golden ink. “I can see the wheels turning. Here’s a little welcome gift for you. Something to relax in after a hard day of work.”

twenty-two

Justin

The next morning, I call Randy, the florist, and we have a lengthy talk about the appropriate flowers I should send to Chloe, all this, supposedly, confidential.

“I get my deliveries only once a week—Wednesdays,” Randy says when we’ve decided what the flowers will be.

Shit. I’ll have to wait another week? This isn’t going to work out. I need to find another way to apologize. “I can’t wait another week.”

“I hear you. If you’re willing to reconsider what flowers to include, I have a wedding this weekend. I can put together something to die for. But I won’t have yellow roses or blue delphiniums.”

Thank god. “Do people really care about the meaning of flowers?”

“Not if they were born in the last fifty years.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been told it’s important.”

“If it’s important to you, I can have them delivered a week from today.”

Nope. “And you said you can do a bouquet to die for today?”

“She’ll be talking about it ’til Christmas.”

“Alright, deal.”

“And what should the card say?”

Right. I’m keeping that part private. “I’ll bring it to you.” I run to the bookshop, pick up a cute little card with a puppy holding a ‘Sorry’ sign. Then I put it back down. Pick one up that says, ‘Sorry’ in gold cursive. Then I put it down. Grab one that has a novel written inside, a bunch of cheesy crap. I can find my own words, thank you very much. I put it back down, but I’m at a loss.

“I’d take the blank one inside with the watercolor of the covered bridge,” Ms. Angela says. I hadn’t seen her when I came into the bookshop. She must have been between bookshelves. She was my second-grade teacher, and now she runs a bed-and-breakfast. She’s also in everyone’s business, but that’s okay.

A watercolor of a bridge? “I like it. Great imagery,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Good luck,” she cackles.

Yeah, totally in everyone’s business.

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