I skim my hands over the wrinkled skirt of my red dress. My hair is a mess. I’ve spent the better part of the last thirty minutes in the stock room rummaging through a box of satin boy shorts that were sent to this store by mistake.
The shipment was destined for our competitor who just opened a new location a block from here.
Trying to locate the purchase order that was tucked into the box with the hundreds of pair of underwear wasn’t an easy task.
The manager of this store called me in a panic right before lunch because she assumed this shipment was part of our winter line and she had no record of the order.
She wanted to know the unit number for the shorts in our point of sale software program.
I couldn’t find it so I told her I’d come down to sort things out.
I asked her repeatedly if the box was addressed to this Liore location. She assured me it was.
I didn’t realize until I looked at the shipping label that the delivery person is the one who made a mistake.
“These are for you.” Alexander pushes a large bunch of flowers toward me. “Thank you for what you did for my nephew.”
I brush the bouquet away with a swat of my hand. “This isn’t necessary.”
A gasp from a woman standing near us turns both our heads. “How ungrateful,” she mutters under her breath.
“It is necessary.” Alexander shifts his gaze back to my face. “You did something special for my nephew. I appreciate that.”
My first instinct is to deny that I’m the person responsible for the replacement jersey for his nephew, but he’s so sure of himself. Buck must have let it slip that I’m the one who went to Trey.
“You should thank Buck, not me.” I glance around the boutique and the dozen or so customers who are now staring at the two of us. I drop my voice to barely more than a whisper. “He’s the one who broke his promise to me.”
Alexander’s gaze follows mine. “Is there somewhere more private that we can talk?”
I run a hand through my hair. “There’s an office in the back. We can talk there.”
I lead the way, feeling every set of eyes in the boutique following each move we make.
***
“Don’t blame Buck,” Alexander says as I close the door of the office. He turns his phone screen toward me.
I stare at the picture of Trey and me in matching baseball jerseys and caps.
Dammit.
I remember the day that picture was taken. It was last spring, and we were having lunch in Boston on Mother’s Day.
Trey thought our moms would get a kick out of the two of us dressing alike.
They did.
My mom was the one who took the photo using Trey’s phone. He sent it to me, but I had no idea that he also uploaded it to his Instagram account.
“The only clue he gave me was that a female relative of Trey’s told him about my stolen jersey.” He shoves the phone back into the pocket of his gray dress slacks.
He’s wearing black shoes and a black V-neck sweater.
His dark hair is tousled in that sexy way that only men who look like him can pull off.
Get a grip, Olivia. He’s not your type.
Since I’m standing in silence, he goes on. “I thought it was a long shot when I started going through Trey’s old Instagram posts, but I struck gold when I found that picture of the two of you.”