Page 31 of Blame it on the Bet
“Huh,” is all she can muster, unenthusiastically, reassessing me with less interest this time. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, according to your sister, I should pick up a few weather-appropriate accessories while I’m in town.”
“Dude, is that the warmest thing you brought?” she asks, wrinkling her nose at my trench coat.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have much need for a parka in California, you know?”
“Fine.” She sighs as if I’ve just disrupted all her plans for the day. I can’t help but notice that I’m the only customer in the store at the moment. “What are you, like a large/tall?” she asks over her shoulder as I follow her to a few circular racks of coats. “Just about.”
She walks around the hanging selections, occasionally looking up at me and then down again. She moves the hangers back and forth, shakes her head a few times, blowing a big pink bubble here and there. It takes about four minutes for her to finally pull an item off the rack.
“Here,” she says, holding out the navy blue parka for me. I’m about to complain that it’s too heavy, but her face reminds me that I don’t want to get involved in another O’Halloran debate. When I slip on the coat, I’m shocked by how well it fits. When I look in the mirror, I’m shocked by how good it looks. It’s just long enough to cover my thighs, and it has a big hood that should protect my head nicely. “Damn,” I mutter appreciatively, “you’re good.” “Yuh-huh. Okay, so what’s your shoe size?”
“Ten-and-a-half.”
“’Kay. You sit over there on that bench, and I’ll get you some boots,” she says with a gesture to the other side of the store. I’m about to suggest that I browse the selection first, but her coat pick was so good that I decide to trust her on this decision as well. And I’m right. When Bailey O’Halloran returns, she’s got two big boxes in her lean arms.
“So, these don’t come in, like, half sizes. Try the ten and the eleven, and see what fits better…and here,” she says as she tosses me a pair of thick wool socks. “You’ll want to see how they fit when you’re wearing winter socks.”
I pull the impressive footwear out of the box. The boots are big, with a rubber bottom and leather upper. They have a warm, felted liner inside, and when I put them on, my feet practically sigh in relief. I don’t need to try the elevens; the tens are a perfect fit.“Sold! Let me pay for these…”
“Nuh-uh, we’re not done yet,” she informs me.
I put the box under one arm and the parka over the other as I follow her from shelf to shelf. She picks gloves, a scarf, and a hat, as well as a half-dozen pairs of the socks. When she’s got all the accessories out of the way, she takes another appraising look at me.
“You got anything more casual than that suit?” “Why? Don’t they wear suits in Minnesota?”
“Sure. But not the ones who are trying to pick up my sister. She’s around suits all day. She doesn’t know it, but she’s looking for a casual guy. Casual guys need casual clothes.”
I’m sure my mouth must be hanging open.
“I-I’m sorry, but what makes you think I’m interested in your sister?”
Another roll of the china-blue eyes.
“Dude. Please. Hennessy knows the law, Jameson knows nursing, and Walker knows bartending. My superhero power? Men. I can read your thoughts, interpret your body language, and translate ‘Guy Speak’ to real-life English.”
“Ha!” I snort louder than I intended, and from the way her eyes narrow and her lips purse, I’ve offended yet another O’Halloran sister.
“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound skeptical…”
“The last one left you because you were married to the job and didn’t want to marry her, right? And then it was a series of irrelevant hotties who blurred together, each one just like the last. And now, here you are, out of the city where everything is fabricated—an optical illusion, if you will—and for the first time in a long time, maybe forever, you see something real. Someone real.”
Oh. My. God.
This kid—because that’s what she looks like in the hoodie, popping the gum—has better insight into my psyche than my three-hundred-dollar-an-hour psychiatrist on Rodeo Drive.“I…uh…”
“Don’t worry.” She shrugs with a bright smile. “Your secret’s safe with me. But trust me on this, you need some jeans. And button-down shirts. Maybe a little plaid so you look more Minnesota Rugged and less L.A. Pretty Boy.”
Before I can object to that characterization, she’s hauling jeans off shelves and lining up an array of plaid flannel shirts. I don’t bother trying anything on, for fear she’ll follow me into the fitting room and analyze my choice of boxer briefs. “Okay, now you’re good to go.” She smiles brightly as we head to the counter where the cash register sits. In an instant, she’s scanning and pushing the items back at me. “You’ll want to wear this stuff out. You can put your old shoes in the boot box, and I’ll bag them up for you. The total’s five-hundred twenty-two dollars and eighty-eight cents,” she informs me casually.
“What! Are you kidding me? For flannel and denim?” I gape—credit card paused in midair between the two of us.
The blonde plucks it from my hand. “Dude, this stuff is good, but it’s spendy, you know? Believe me, you won’t be sorry you made this purchase. Fitting room’s back there,” she says with a nod of her pretty chin.
“Are you trying to stick it to me because I want to buy the pub?” I ask suspiciously.
“Oh, puh-leeze,” she groans with an exaggerated eye- roll. “If I wanted to get back at you, I’d have sent you out of here wearing a camo jumpsuit with duck boots and a beanie,” she informs me with a self-assured snicker. “No, actually, Janet Lahti told me not to worry about the pub— that the fruits of the forest told her it’s going to work out great and lead to a new career path for me.”
