Page 15 of The Business of Love Box Set 1: Books 1 - 4

VANESSA

T he dress shop opened at nine-thirty every morning except for Sundays when it didn’t open until eleven.

I rolled in at nine on Tuesday morning and struggled to extract myself, my piping hot vanilla almond latte, my purse, and my lunch bag from my car.

I closed the door with my hip and promptly spilled open my purse, which vomited lipsticks, loose change, straw wrappers, two tampons, a compact mirror, my phone, and four restaurant breath mints onto the asphalt.

“Damn it.” Crouching down, I collected everything and crammed it back into the open jaws of my purse, silently telling myself to do the zipper up from now on.

This was not the first time I’d made a hot mess of myself in the parking lot outside the shop.

It probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

I wasn’t the most graceful person. And I certainly wasn’t all that organized.

As I straightened, my coffee sloshed in the cup.

A great mouthful managed to spring up out of the mouth hole and splattered right against the front of my white button-up.

I hung my head and groaned.

This was not my day.

I trudged along the side of my car, stepped up onto the sidewalk, and stopped at the front door of the dress shop to precariously shoulder all my bags and balance my coffee while I fished out my keys.

I unlocked the door and pushed my way in before setting everything down on the sales counter to turn off the alarm, lock the door, and flick on one set of lights.

I preferred to spend the first half-hour before the shop was open to customers in half-darkness.

I took the time to sip my coffee, sweep the floors, count the float, power on the sales system, and make sure all the clothes on the table displays were neatly folded.

I fingered my way through the racks and ensured everything was facing the front of the shop, as per my manager’s mildly OCD request. Although I couldn’t deny it made everything look better.

Then I searched desperately for something I could put on because there was no way I could work the entire day with a giant coffee stain on my chest, spreading from nipple to nipple like a giant uni-boob.

The jeans I was wearing were high waisted, as were all my jeans for obvious reasons.

All I needed was a shirt big enough to fit over my boobs.

If it was too short, it wouldn’t matter because I could tuck it in.

I flipped through rack after rack until I found a floral-printed blouse.

It was a silky white fabric with big green palm leaves and pretty pink tropical flowers on it.

I stepped into a change room and tugged it on.

It fit. It wasn’t great, but it fit, and for me, that counted as a win.

I stared at my reflection in the fitting-room mirror. I had to open the shop in four minutes. The shirt clung a bit to my boobs. It showed my tummy and the roll of fat under the strap of my bra on my back and my sides. Looked like I wouldn’t be lifting my arms today if I could help it.

Or I could try to find a cardigan to throw over it.

Cardigans fixed everything.

Having a fat day?

Cardigan.

Don’t want to show your arms?

Cardigan.

Perpetually single and desperate for love?

All right, well, a cardigan couldn’t fix that. But neither could anything else I’d tried.

With a heavy sigh, I left the fitting room and went about turning on the rest of the shop lights.

I unlocked the door and dragged the sidewalk sign outside.

I propped it up and retreated back to the warmth of the shop, where I lit a blush-colored candle on the sales counter that smelled mildly of lilacs and what I imagined diamonds would smell like if they produced a scent.

Then I bided my time until shoppers began making their appearance, which never usually happened until after ten thirty, once they’d had their morning coffee or breakfast dates.

Even then, we weren’t especially busy on weekdays.

We had plenty of special-order pickups and that sort of thing but not many people coming in just to browse, so time passed sickeningly slowly.

And when time passed so slowly, it was impossible for my mind not to spiral.

And it spiraled right down the rabbit hole I’d been trying to stay out of for the past three days: Rhys Daniels.

He’d told me he would call me after we exchanged numbers when he left me standing outside Caprizee on Friday night. It was now Tuesday and I hadn’t heard a peep from him.

I was starting to wonder if he regretted his decision to take me to my reunion.

Maybe he’d had more drinks that night than I thought. Maybe he’d forgotten altogether.

That seemed most likely. I wasn’t the most memorable girl. Kim on the other hand? She was the definition of memorable in her sexy red number.

I sighed and watched the three flames of the bougie candle flicker and dance like ballerinas.

I wasn’t sure how long I stared at those flames, but I was pulled out of my reveries when my stomach started to growl.

Not a single person had set foot in the shop all morning, so I pulled out my lunch bag which I stored in a cubby under the sales counter and opened it.

There were two donuts in a sealed Tupperware and a bottle of Mountain Dew that was ice cold from the freezer pack at the bottom of my bag.

I twisted the cap off. It let out a soft pop before the carbonation hissed and fizzled.

I sipped gratefully before biting into the first donut, a chocolate delicacy covered in sweet icing.

I licked my fingers clean before moving onto the second, a scrumptious, powder-dipped treat that helped me drown all my worries about Rhys having forgotten our night together.

The bell above the door chimed.

Two women stepped into the shop as I crammed a bite of donut into my mouth.

They were in their late forties to early fifties, if I had to wager a guess, and they each carried brand-name bags in the crooks of their elbows.

They had perfectly manicured long nails.

One sported a flashy sports-car red while the other rocked a simple white glossy shade.

They each wore sunglasses that likely cost more than my last six months' worth of dress-shop paychecks could amount to, and they had their heads bowed together, laughing softly at a joke one of them must have told when they were still outside.

“Hello,” I said cheerfully.

Neither of them bothered to look at me. They continued laughing at their inside joke as the door closed behind them. Then their attention shifted to the racks and display tables, and they began picking their way through the merchandise.

I hurried to find a napkin in my lunch bag. I was sure I had powdered sugar on my lips. Or chin. Or nose. Or everywhere. I hadn’t managed to find it before one of the women glanced up. She had birdlike features. Everything was sharp and pinched, making her look almost predatory.

“Would you blow that candle out?” she asked. “I have a very sensitive nose.”

“Oh.” I hurried to blow the candle out and quickly covered it with the lid to eliminate the fumes. “I’m sorry. I can crack some windows while you shop to—”

“Don’t bother. It’s too cold out there. You shouldn’t have had it burning in the first place. It’s very inconsiderate.”

“Store policy.” Those were the only words I could manage that weren’t fuck off, you cow .

She arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow that I was certain had been dyed a darker shade of brown to cover some grays. “Pardon?”

“My manager insists on lighting seasonal candles to create ambiance and a sense of home for our shoppers.”

The half dozen gold and silver bracelets on her wrist jingled when she lifted her hand to remove her sunglasses. She moved toward the counter and her friend followed. “Does your manager also insist that you be defensive around high-paying clientele?”

“What?”

“Do you mean ‘pardon’?”

I felt my eyes narrow. Who did this bitch think she was? I didn’t get paid enough to put up with shit like this. And my day was already not going so smoothly. “No, I didn’t.”

Her eyebrows arched. I was surprised she could manage it. Up close, it was very obvious that she was an avid Botox supporter.

Her friend moved up beside her and tapped a white nail on the counter. “What’s your name, girl?”

You can shove my name up your uptight asshole, I thought bitterly, before saying, “Vanessa.”

I knew full well they were going to call and complain to my manager about me. I didn’t really care. They could call and complain all they wanted.

“And what’s your manager’s phone number?”

“I can’t give you that information.”

“And why not?” she barked.

“Because it’s against policy and safety procedures. You can call the store. The manager will be in tomorrow.”

“What’s the store’s phone number?”

“Google it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You get confused a lot, don’t you?” I asked. I was pushing it. I knew that. But my manager liked me more than the other four girls in his employ. He knew I was a good worker. And he also knew I had little tolerance for dickheads like these women.

She made a clicking sound with her tongue before lifting her chin in the air like a regal bird of prey.

Like a turkey.

“He will be hearing from me about your dismal service.”

“Sounds good.”

“And by the way,” she paused to offer me a sickeningly sweet smile and tapped the corner of her mouth, “you have sugar all over your face. No wonder you’re spilling out of your shirt. Come on, Lesley. Let’s get out of this sorry excuse of a shop.”

The two women marched off, leaving me reeling in their wake about the comments about my weight.

The most infuriating part about the whole thing was how right she was.

Donuts and Mountain Dew were my saving grace and my worst enemy all at the same time.

But on days like this, when the world turned its back on me and I was accosted by women with little to do with their time or their money other than shit on the people “beneath” them, they were the only things that made me feel any better.

I banished the tightness in the back of my throat by drinking my soda greedily, and I filled the hole in my chest with the rest of the sugared donut. As soon as it was gone, I wished I had another one.

Or six.