by Lydia Rowan
About four years ago, a developer had decided to build the midsize mall about twenty minutes outside of downtown Thornehill, the reasoning being it’d make a good shopping alternative for those who didn’t want to drive all the way to Charlotte. It had been wildly successful, and people from neighboring suburbs and towns flocked to the area looking for diversion or hard-to-find items that wouldn’t be in smaller local stores.
It was here that she’d fallen in love.
She could remember it vividly, walking through the mall with Quinn, yammering about whatever, when, out of the corner of her eye, she’d caught a quick image of a storefront. La Femme, the store’s sign had proclaimed, the bold black-and-gold letters and gold-curtained windows and black door making the space stand out amidst the more bland chain stores. Her interest had been piqued, and she’d been drawn to the door, anxious to see what secrets and treasures hid inside that enticing exterior.
Stepping across the threshold into La Femme had been like the realization of a fantasy that she hadn’t even known she’d had. Everywhere she’d looked, textures, colors, unique designs, clothing that ran the gamut from simple to extreme had bombarded her, and she’d felt as if she’d fallen into some dreamland. She’d been so enamored, she’d told Quinn she’d find a ride home and pored through the racks of tastefully designed clothing, and then when she’d discovered the pattern books and high-fashion magazines tucked in back, she’d spent hours poring over them and uncovering a whole new world.
And since that day, she’d made it a point to return at least every two weeks when the owner, Mrs. Wallace, refreshed stock. At first, she’d been shy, coming in but not really talking to anyone or making eye contact, trying to pretend that she was invisible. But over time, she’d thawed and had begun chatting with Mrs. Wallace about design and her thirty-year career as a seamstress and store owner. The woman had told Verna of her old dream of designing her own line and how she’d realized that design wasn’t for her but that she loved discovering new talent and selling it in her small boutique.
Mrs. Wallace was kind, encouraging, and she showed Verna a warmth and tenderness that her own mother had rarely had occasion to muster. It was under her new friend’s very gentle prodding that Verna had, tentatively at first, but then with increasing ferocity, begun sketching her own original designs, and once she’d started, it was like a switch had been flipped. Ideas flowed, and soon Verna was drawing stuff she’d never even considered she had the capacity to create. Her drive had only increased when she’d started actually bringing her designs to life, fiddling with sewing and fabric selection in her spare time and then embracing designing and sewing with a passion.
She’d shared her creations with Mrs. Wallace, who had insisted that she sell them in La Femme or at least consider it, but Verna had flatly refused. The older woman had been persistent, though, and just two months ago, after years of pressing, she’d finally relented and agreed to stock a couple of proof-of-concept pieces in the store. Though she hadn’t actually sold anything yet, the thrill of seeing her clothes hanging on a rack hadn’t faded a bit, and as much as she loved seeing the other designs, her gaze was always drawn to her own pieces first.
Today was no exception, but when she glanced at her little rack after waving at Mrs. Wallace, she noticed there was an actual living person examining her pieces. Thoroughly. The other woman’s body was wound tight, like her petite curves were rigid with her concentration as she held the fabric close to her face for examination, tracing the seam of the basic black pant like she was demanding it reveal some closely guarded secret. The woman turned on a heel and strode over to Mrs. Wallace, her steps equally spaced and precise.
“Are you able to modify these?” she asked.
Mrs. Wallace looked over at Verna where she hovered near the door, a little smile on her face, and Verna’s stomach dropped.
“The designer is right there. I’m sure you two can come to an agreement,” she said.
Verna scowled at her friend, but the expression dropped when the newcomer pinned her with a laserlike stare and strode over to where she stood with those same short, precise steps.
“Blakely Bishop,” she said, extending her hand. “And you are?”
Verna shook the other woman’s hand, idly wondering how someone who was probably a foot shorter than her had the ability to stare her down.
“Verna Love,” she said, her voice quiet.
“And you made these?” Blakely lifted the pants.
“Yes.”
“And you can modify them to my exact specifications?”
“Umm, yes?” Verna said, swallowing.
Her first in-person sale was feeling like an inquisition.
“You aren’t filling me with confidence, but I’m desperate. I need five pairs, this basic pattern, two black, two gray, one navy, but with a stronger bias cut and a shorter hem. Can you do it in three weeks?”
“Um, yes?” Verna said again, hoping she didn’t sound as confused and timid as she felt.
“Of course she can,” Mrs. Wallace interjected. “She’ll take your measurements right now and follow up with fabric samples tomorrow. Won’t you, Verna?”
The other woman’s words snapped her out of her semistupor.
“Yes! That won’t be a problem at all, Ms. Bishop.”
That was a total lie; between her shifts and the end-of-the-month bookkeeping, Verna would already be taking a hiatus from sleep, but that didn’t dampen the moment at all.
She’d made her first sale!
“Blakely, please. And let’s get those measurements. Here’s my card,” she said, smoothly producing a business card from somewhere, likely the designer handbag that rested on her wrist.
As they wrapped up their business, Blakely leaving a deposit with Mrs. Wallace and Verna then taking her measurements with promises to call the next day, Verna felt like she was floating on air. That feeling didn’t fade a whit, not when she practically screamed and crushed the older woman in a hug after Blakely left. The look of pride in her friend’s face was almost as pleasing as the sale, and it just added to Verna’s mood.
Her spirits stayed elevated as she drove home, and didn’t relent when she parked and got out and saw Joe standing next to his stupid truck, the fading late-afternoon sun giving a hint of lightness to his usually dark brown hair and framing his large body in an ethereal glow, the sleeves of his tight T-shirt only emphasizing the strength of his biceps and the sculpted muscles of his chest.
“You look happy today,” he said gruffly. “Think of some new way to irk me?”
“Ha. That’s just simple sport, the kind I won’t have much time for anymore. As of an hour ago, I’m a bona fide fashion designer, Joseph,” she said happily, adding a little lilt to the end of her sentence.
“Name’s still just Joe,” he said, his lips turned down in the beginnings of a scowl. “So you convinced somebody to buy your crap, eh?”
Joe was one of the few people who knew of her interest in sewing; her parents had rarely ventured into the basement when she’d lived at home, and Verna hadn’t volunteered any information. But when she’d moved into Quinn’s, she’d made Joe help her get her machine upstairs and talked his ear off about it all the while. He hadn’t appeared too interested at the time, displaying his standard eagerness to leave her presence, but it seemed he’d retained some of the information she’d spewed.
“The likes of you would call it ‘crap,’ but I know you don’t know any better, so I won’t take it personally,” she said, though her overall happiness took any bite out of the words. Still, she couldn’t help but lean against his beloved vehicle, nor did she make any attempt to hide her smile when his eyes practically bugged out of his head.
“And the best part is, I didn’t even have to convince her!” she said, reaching over to place a hand on his rock-solid forearm. “It’s like, she just saw and wanted it all on her own. It was fuckin’ awesome!”
“Well, congratulations. And get off my truck,” he said
gruffly, though his almost scowl softened a bit.
She laughed. “Fine, be that way. But you’ll be able to say you knew me when. Have fun polishing your tool,” she called over her shoulder as she walked toward her house.
••••
The next morning, Verna was up at four and out the door by four thirty, and though it was ungodly early, the sun not even a faint shimmer on the horizon, her happiness at having made a sale still had her in a state of bliss that was better suited for skipping through a field of sunflowers as opposed to preparing for another long day on her feet. Since Blakely was meeting her at the cafeteria this morning to look over some fabric samples, she’d pulled a few she thought would work and was carefully packing them in her backseat before she left for Love’s.
“What’s got you out so early?”
“Argh!” Verna screamed and jumped, hitting her head on the roof of her car as she did. When she recovered, she turned around to glare at the interloper.
“Dammit, Joe! You’re gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack,” she said, rubbing the sore spot on her head.
“Just paying it forward,” he said, a smile of pure glee spreading across his full lips.
As much as she was loath to admit it, enraged Joe was not the only appealing version. When he wasn’t being a tightly wound jerk, he was still really quite handsome, his brown eyes and heavy, masculine jaw giving him classic, chiseled good looks. She glanced down quickly, taking in yet another tight T-shirt, this time paired with running shorts, and trying to ignore the hard muscles of his large masculine form, which was nearly impossible given his attire. A rush of heat flooded her, and she immediately returned her gaze to his face. It was much safer to look at it; well, safer to look at when Joe happened not to be fully clothed.
“Why doesn’t the Air Force pay you enough to buy clothes that fit?” she blurted, at a loss for anything else to say.
“Navy, Verna,” he said, his smile fading, much to her relief. It was way too early for her to handle a smiling, half-naked Joe.
They stood silent for a few moments, Joe staring at her, his expression somewhere between neutral and displeased, though he seemed in no particular hurry to leave.
“You’re out for your ‘PT,’” she said with a dismissive roll of her eyes.
“Yep. Wanna join me?” he said, his voice slightly harsh.
The harshness she heard could have been her imagination, but the admiration that she’d felt moments ago shifted on a dime.
“Fuck you,” she said much more coolly than she felt, narrowing her eyes.
Based on the brief flash of surprise, followed by understanding, that crossed his face, he picked up on the implication of his statement.
He had the decency to look embarrassed, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he shifted topics entirely. “I’ve seen you out here this time of morning before. What do you do so early?”
She threw him another nasty glare and then softened her expression. He did sound sorry, and genuinely interested, and she was in too good a mood to let Joe MacAsshole ruin her morning.
“We lost the biscuit guy, so I’m filling in. It should only be temporary.”
At least her father had said so. Two months ago.
“Huh?” Joe said.
“Our biscuit guy, you know, the guy who makes the biscuits? He moved, so my dad figured I could step in until he found a replacement.”
“Wow. So you go this early and work through lunch, what, six days a week?”
She shrugged. “It’s no big deal. And once I get the biscuits on, I can work on the books until we open, so it’s a win-win. Anyway, I gotta go,” she said, the awkwardness of the situation hastening her retreat. “He’ll raise hell if I don’t have the first batch done by six. Try not to terrorize any more innocents this morning, Joe Ellen,” she said as she walked around to the driver’s side and got into her car.
“It’s still just Joe,” he said as she slammed the door.
He watched her pull out of the driveway and then began jogging in the opposite direction, and Verna couldn’t help but stare after him through the rearview mirror as he went, the sting of what she’d decided was an unintentional insult fading with his retreating form. It was a crying shame that a man as capital-H hot as him could be such an asshat, though she chose not to question what it said about her that she so enjoyed taunting him.
Quinn had sung his praises, always talked about what a nice guy he was, and he may have been to her. But beyond his physical appeal, Verna had always felt uneasy around him; he was so damn serious all the time, and when she’d discovered that any old thing she did got under his skin, she hadn’t been able to resist picking.
Though in truth, it was a bit of a front. She’d never admitted it to anyone, not even to Quinn, that she’d practically drooled the first time she saw him. She’d been working away at the restaurant as usual, and he’d strolled in, a huge mountain of a man, muscle on top of muscle. And when he’d spoken… God, that deep voice, one that fit him so perfectly, had made her lose her own, and Verna Love was seldom at a loss for words.
He shouldn’t have had that effect on her. Thornehill Springs was crawling with military men, some even more handsome than Joe, and, if such a thing were possible, she’d thought herself immune to them. Not a single one of those guys would have looked at her twice, but still, if she’d seen one handsome soldier, she’d seen them all.
Or at least she’d thought so, until she’d seen Joe. And when she’d found out he lived next door to Quinn, it had been a blessing and a curse. Pathetic though it was, she’d lived for those glimpses of him, and when they’d finally been introduced, she’d felt like a giddy teenager.
And, much like her teenage years, the meeting had gone disastrously.
She couldn’t even remember what she’d said or done, but she’d glimpsed into his eyes, seen the discomfort there and the tight, disapproving expression on his face. He’d clearly thought her uncouth, obnoxious, especially when compared to Quinn. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction, one that she’d thought she’d long ago grown accustomed to. But something about seeing it from him had hurt deeply; the ache in her chest it had triggered had been one she hadn’t felt for years. So she’d lashed out, and she’d gotten a reaction from him, one that replaced that faint whiff of disapproval with outright anger.
And so the parameters of their relationship had been set: she was rude; he was rude back; and all was right in the world. She’d come to look forward to their little exchanges, secretly consoling herself with the fact that though he might find fault with her—and who wouldn’t?—he’d never forget her name. It was childish attention-seeking, but she’d more or less come to terms with it. It was safer that way. Joe really was one of the good guys; she’d seen it in the way he dealt with everyone but her. He was kind, giving, and so goddamned dreamy it made her heart hurt. So yeah, she went out of her way to provoke him, certain that if she kept him mad enough, the constant sight of his anger, even if it only enhanced his attractiveness, would be enough to keep her from doing something stupid like developing feelings for him.
And it was working so far. At least, that was what she told herself.
••••
“You okay, man?” Cody Sommers asked.
Joe glanced over at the younger man that ran beside him and then shrugged slightly. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You’re not your usual jovial self this morning is all,” Sommers said with a laugh, the topic of Joe’s sometimes-serious demeanor a common point of discussion among his friends.
A decade younger than Joe, Sommers was a good kid, had all the enthusiasm and fresh-faced optimism that Joe had only recently realized that he himself had lost. It was actually kind of tough to be around Sommers, because his youth and energy was a living embodiment of what Joe used to be and of what he, deep inside, didn’t think he’d ever be again. Still, Joe had seen the guy’s potential and thought that he had the tools to be a superior SEAL, so he’d taken Sommers under his wi
ng.
“Leave the psychoanalysis to Poole and focus on what you’re doing, Sommers.”
Joe sped up, intent on showing the whippersnapper that he still had a step, and Sommers laughed and kept pace. Joe was happy that he’d successfully diverted attention from his mood. In truth, he was a little distracted this morning. Seeing Verna had left him disoriented. He’d cursed himself for his faux pas, and for the hurt and anger that had flared in her eyes because of it, even though it had been entirely unintended and very much regrettable.
But other than that dicey moment, he’d been unexpectedly pleased and genuinely happy for Verna, both yesterday and this morning. She was a challenging person, that was certain, but she was also a hard worker, one of the hardest he’d ever known, and he knew she deserved her success. But it bothered him that he even cared, and even more that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all night.
None of his mental energy should have been devoted to Verna Love, especially when she wasn’t even in his presence, but he hadn’t been able to shake the thoughts of her last night, and the trend had continued this morning. She’d radiated pure joy, and it had lit her face and body—and given her a glow that he’d found surprising and appealing. Far too appealing, especially since Verna was, well, Verna. Thinking about her as anything other than his annoying neighbor shouldn’t happen.
“You up for it, Mac?”
He looked over at Sommers, shocked that he’d been so consumed with thoughts of Verna that he hadn’t even realized the other man had been speaking. Apparently, his distraction hadn’t gone unnoticed, for Sommers said, “So? Last one to the post up ahead buys breakfast?”
“Sure,” Joe said as he took off in a dead sprint, snorting at the look of surprise that crossed his friend’s face at his underhanded tactic. It wasn’t clean or noble, but he’d take any advantage he could.