I pat at my hair and look to the side where Rogan is listening intently to whatever Brig is saying as he shows him something on his phone. “I don’t know. This is way too much for me to process.”
Taking me into her arms, Rylee gives me a hug while speaking softly. “Ruth, I love you so much, but it feels like you stopped living when your parents died. And I understand how devastating it was. Losing them together was horrendous, and then taking on their business as well. Extremely difficult. But it’s time you start experiencing life again and stop sitting on the sidelines. You have so much more to offer Port Snow than coffee. Make a change and who knows, if love starts to blossom while you’re taking that next step in life, so be it. Maybe you have to step away from the counter to finally be seen.”
Tears well in my eyes but I quickly tamp them down, because there’s no way I want to be caught crying in front of Brig and Rogan.
Sensing my bubbling emotions, Rylee speaks softly. “Deep breaths, Ruth. This is going to be amazing. I just know it is.”
Glad she’s so confident, because right about now, all I can think about it how utterly terrifying this is.
Chapter Three
BRIG
“Is your hair always that long?” I ask Ruth, taking in her long blonde locks.
“I mean . . . yeah?” Ruth answers as a question. “I don’t have extensions in or anything if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Nah, I can tell that’s real hair,” I say, feeling really fucking awkward. The girl hasn’t spoken a word since we left the coffee house, and Rylee had to shove her out the door.
Witnessing her resistance didn’t bode well for my confidence.
Now that we’re walking down Main Street together, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more uncomfortable in my life. I’m a pretty easygoing guy, and I can strike up a conversation with anyone about anything. But right now, I feel . . . tongue-tied.
I have no idea what to talk to her about and with every second that passes in silence, my body tenses further into a tangled-up ball of knots.
“Yeah, my hair is real,” she mumbles quietly, and from the corner of my eye, I catch her pulling on the tips, as if checking to make sure it’s still there.
This is going to be brutal.
I don’t know much about Ruth outside of the coffee house.
I don’t think I know anything about her, which is sad because we went to school together and I order coffee from her almost every morning. I know a lot about the people in this town . . . except for Ruth.
That’s sad. I must know something. Think, Brig, think.
Huh . . . she makes one hell of a cup of coffee and coffee cake.
She, uh . . . she says hi with a smile.
She knows how to put on an apron . . .
Jesus, that’s pathetic.
Oh wait, I know that her hair is real. I have that going for me.
“So . . . Piccadilly Parlor, huh? Has a nice ring to it. Where did you come up with the idea?”
She keeps her head tilted down as she speaks, and I can barely hear her because she’s maintaining a solid two feet between us as we walk down the sidewalk. “My mom.”
And . . . that’s all she says.
Okay. Not much of a talker.
Oh wait. I think her parents passed away.
They did, I mentally cheer for myself, remembering something about her.
Well, I’m not mentally cheering that her parents passed, but relieved that I know something other than her hair is real and she smiles when she says hi.
“Was it a dream of hers?” I ask, trying to keep my voice soft. Ruth appears to be very skittish and I’m not quite sure why, so I take it easy with her, holding back my normally outlandish self.
“It was.”
Nothing else.
That’s it.
Wow, okay.
I remember a time when Rogan used to talk to me using one-word answers, during his dark time. Is that what Ruth is facing? A dark time?
“Did you uh, used to—”
“You don’t have to try to make conversation with me,” she says. “I know this is weird for you. Rylee put this on you and I’m sorry, she never should have—”
“Hey.” I stop her, pulling on her arm. The deep brown depths of her gaze shoot to where my hand rests on her heated skin. She practically shivers under the strength of my palm. Maybe touching her wasn’t a good idea. I release her arm and shove my hands in my pockets, keeping to myself. “I offered to show you around. Rylee didn’t force anything on me. But if you don’t want to see the space, I can walk you back to Snow Roast.”
Not even coming close to making eye contact with me, she glances toward Main Street where there’s a small gathering in front of the deli. Franklin is putting his famous homemade mustard on sale. Lucky for me, I had insider information and scored a few bottles before the actual sale. Staring at the line, her teeth pull on the corner of her mouth. Indecision weighs heavily in her mind, and I wonder if her evasiveness has to do with me or if she’s like this with everyone.
Why is she so skittish?
Is it me?
Do I come on too strong?
Is she nervous about this entire venture?
Starting a business in a small town is nerve wracking. I have experience in that department. Maybe that’s it.
Going out on a limb, I say, “I remember when I opened up the garage. I was nervous as hell. I knew the town needed the service badly, but I was only twenty when I opened it. I had help from my parents thankfully, but it was still scary. Are you scared, Ruthie?”
She’s silent at first, studying the ground as if it has the key to her success carved into it. When she finally answers, she says, “I don’t want to keep you much longer than I already have. Let’s keep moving forward.”
Without waiting for me, she veers to the right where my garage is. Being located a street from Main Street has never negatively affected my business. But I think for Ruthie’s tea house, which needs more foot traffic, the location should still be close enough to make for a good storefront.
Silently—not from my lack of trying—we make it to the sewing shop. From my pocket, I pull out my keys and search for the one Mrs. Burberry left with me. Since my apartment is above the garage, she thought it would be helpful if I had a key to keep an eye on things.
When remodeling the storefronts, I made sure the garage didn’t look like an automobile shop from the front, but rather a welcoming tourist attraction.
White board and batten line both buildings that connect in the middle. Where my lettering is written in red and displayed in metal above the door, The Sewing Room has a teal awning hanging over the door with a large storefront window in which Mrs. Burberry has always kept mannequins decorated for every season.
After a few tries of wiggling the key around, I unlock the door, flip on a light, and let Ruth in. Mrs. Burberry has already started packing things up and moving them out. Her grandsons came down to help her after she found a store a few towns north that wanted to buy out her inventory.
“I’m surprised Mrs. Burberry’s departure hasn’t been in the newspaper,” I say. “Although, she’s been pretty quiet about it.”
I watch Ruth look around. She’s petite, has slender shoulders, and her hands are clutched together in front of her. She almost seems meek and unsure of herself, which is weird, because when she’s making coffee, bustling around her shop, she’s vibrant. I’ve heard her witty comebacks. But right now, she almost looks like she’s being held hostage by yours truly. And that’s just weird. I’ve known Ruth . . . well, who Ruth is, for many years. We grew up in the same town together. We’re not strangers. Yet here, an outsider looking in would probably think we are. Was she always this quiet? Introverted?