Where You Least Expect (2 page)

“Since when do love seats, a dresser, a TV stand, and two dozen boxes qualify as a ‘few things,’ Verna? And why haven’t you taken this out in the three weeks you’ve been here?”

“Some of us don’t have as much free time as you, Joe.”

The dig did not go unnoticed. So what if Joe was a little at loose ends? After more than eighteen years in the military, he was entitled to a break. Still, he didn’t like the fact that Verna seemed aware that he was unoccupied most days.

“Let’s get this done so I can relieve myself of your presence,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, yeah. And be careful with those boxes. They’re fragile,” she said as she pulled out the first of the items.

Joe bit back his retort and grabbed a box. He and Verna worked quickly—and with limited conversation, much to his pleasure—and within a half hour, the unit was empty. After they’d finished, she wiped her brow and then offered her damp palm.

“Oh, you gonna leave me hanging?” she said after he looked askance at the extended appendage. “Well, come to the restaurant whenever; next breakfast is on me.”

With that, she returned to her house and closed the door, leaving him standing on the porch before he even got another word out.

••••

Verna made it to the restaurant with five minutes to spare, or twenty-five minutes late according to her father Vernon. He was strongly of the belief that people needed to be thirty minutes early or they were late, and he had no qualms about reminding his youngest child of this fact. Repeatedly. Not that Verna listened all that much. She hated feeling rushed, and if she went by her dad’s schedule, she’d always be crunched for time. Of course that had never mattered to him, and he’d be especially unsympathetic if her reason for being “late” in any way involved her decision to leave home.

So she hadn’t explained why she’d missed breakfast today or why she was scurrying around to get her supplies set to her liking before lunch.

And the truth was—as much as she hated to admit it—Joe had saved her ass this morning. She might be nice and give him a break for a few days as a thank-you.

Or not.

Worming her way under Joe’s skin was one of her favorite pastimes, and that it was oh so easy only increased the pleasure that she took in doing so. And, there was the hard-to-ignore reality that when she hit the target
just
right, pushed him far enough that he had to clench his jaw and curl his hands into tight fists with the effort to restrain himself, he was the hottest, sexiest, most appealing man she’d ever seen. When he was on that edge, the energy that rolled off him was electric, his large, powerful body coiled tight with his rage, but he never, ever lost control, so she just couldn’t help herself, her need to see that side of Joe overriding her natural tendency to be accommodating and polite. She let out a smile at the thought but then jumped at her father’s shouted, “Verna!”

Joe and everything else, but providing the best possible service, fled from her thoughts as she moved through her shift. The cafeteria had been a part of her life forever, and even though she hadn’t decided what, if anything, she wanted to do when she grew up, she truly loved the business, loved chatting with the customers, providing good food and good service, hopefully making every patron’s day a little brighter. It was hard work, harder than most probably thought, but she found some measure of satisfaction in it, especially when she ignored the fact that she was nearing thirty and had absolutely no direction in life.

About an hour after they’d closed for the day, Verna’s mother came in and settled at one of the tables.

“Verna, dear, how are things at the new place?” she asked.

“It’s going okay, Ma. I’m getting settled.”

“That’s good.”

An awkward silence fell between them. It wasn’t unusual, and Verna had come to expect it. She was an oopsie baby, or so her mother liked to say, more than a decade younger than her brother and sister. Her mother loved her, but by the time Verna had arrived, the woman had been tired. Between the other kids and managing the house while her father ran Love’s, her mother had been stretched thin, and Verna had sort of fallen through the cracks.

“Well, you know you can come home if you need to.”

“Is she asking to come home already?” Vernon interjected, walking over to the table where they sat.

“Thanks for the confidence, Ma and Daddy,” she said, trying to keep her tone light, but a touch of bite seeping through.

Her father scoffed. “Don’t start. I couldn’t believe you actually left, so it wouldn’t surprise me if you wanted to come back. It’s a lot tougher out on your own, and you don’t know how to take care of yourself.”

Verna stayed silent. Arguing with him, pointing out that she practically ran his business and had more than contributed at home, would be useless. Vernon Love believed what he wanted to and no amount of cajoling, whining, or pointing out what should have been self-evident would change his mind, so she didn’t even try.

“Okay, Daddy,” she said instead, and then she jumped up to finish the rest of her chores.

Chapter Two

Verna parked her car, got out, and walked toward the mall, a spring in her step despite what had been a very long day. These bimonthly trips had been one of the highlights of her life for several years now, and she wouldn’t let something as commonplace as exhaustion interfere.

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.