Page 236 of Spicy Ever After
And opening up shop here in Carencro wasn’t practical. Not a big enough customer base for what she’s got on offer.
So she’s leasing space in the Autumn Woods Shopping Center on Johnston Street. It’s a thirty-minute commute, but on days when she drives herself, she can take Highway 182, an easy, rural road that’s only two lanes until it passes under I-10.
Of course, she did her homework. After she sold her townhouse in January and moved in with me and Pop full time—after spending three or four nights a week there anyway—she spent three weeks looking at commercial properties. Between Albertson’s, the bank, and CC’s Coffee House, the shopping center draws customers all day. And for sewists and crafters from the Evangeline Thruway to Camellia Boulevard, it’s now the closest place to find fabrics and sewing supplies this side of Wal-Mart.
For the last two months, we—Hattie and I, along with a steady rotation of other helpers, including her one shop assistant Lyra, Margaret and Merrick, Hattie’s parents, Grif and Kennedy, Javier and his wife Ela—have put in the hours to get the space ready for today.
Opening Day.
March 14th.
Hattie’s 25th birthday.
The Birthday Girl sits beside me in my new truck, still managing to rock back and forth even with her back ramrod straight. Her hands are white-knuckling the edge of the bench seat.
“Do you think people will come?” she asks, staring straight ahead as we make the turn from University Avenue to West Congress.
“I do.” I reach across the seat and cover her hand with mine.
She whips her gaze to me, doubt and worry widening her eyes. “Really?”
“Love, since you hung up the Coming Soon sign, how many people have stopped to ask you about the place?”
I watch her gulp. “A-a lot… I guess.”
“How many since you started counting?” I already know the answer to this, but I want the reminder for her. So she feels the confidence and excitement she had last night—when we locked up the shop with every bolt of fabric and stitch marker in place. Every rolling stool tucked neatly beneath each workstation. Twelve of her spring designs—dresses, skirts, tops—angled just so in the front window. The whole store the picture-perfect embodiment of her incredible vision.
“Sixty-one,” she mutters.
I cup my hand behind my ear and lean in closer to her. “How many?”
I keep my eyes on the road, but I don’t miss her exasperated sigh. I know without looking that she’s rolling her eyes at me.
“Sixty-one,” she says again, only this time in her normal Hattie voice. Her strong, no-nonsense Hattie voice.
“That’s more like it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, but she doesn’t stop rocking. “Do you think I’ll make a sale? To someone I don’t know, I mean?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. There’s no doubt in my mind. “Within the first thirty minutes if you want to place a wager on it.”
She snorts. “I’m not betting against myself.”
I crack a laugh. “Good point. I wouldn’t recommend anyone betting against you.”
I take my eyes off the road to catch the curl of her smile in profile.
My Hattie. What a fucking Queen.
I let my voice go low and growly the way she likes. “It’s going to be a goddamn stampede, honeysuckle.”
And it is.
Jesus.
Hattie chose a bell over the door that’s sound is as soft and tinkling as raindrops, but four hours later, and she’s asked me to take it down. Just for now.
The sound was starting to get to her.
