Page 18 of Basil

SUMMER

“That’s all your stuff.” I pointed to the box I’d filled with his cologne, razor, shaving cream, clothes, and condoms.

Yeah. Condoms.His. I wasn’t going to use an open box with a new lover. Hell no. I was going to break in a new box.

Sure, Summer, you’re gonna get a loverrealsoon. Your heart hurts. And all you want to do right now is crawl into Basil’s arms and ask him to hold you,so stop with the new lover nonsense. Also, the yeast infection,i.e. heartbreak,needs to pass!

The depressing truth was that I was hung up on this handsome man with his shaggy sexy hair, cute dimple (and I mean thecutest), blue-blue eyes, and hands that were made to give a woman pleasure.

It had been four days since we broke up—and I counted the day we broke up as one of them. He’d sent me several text messages asking me how I was, if we could talk, if he could come over,blah, blah. I read each one about ten times before deleting them.

Being in love sucked big time when the person you fell in love with was a moron.

“I didn’t come for my things,” he whispered.

I stood behind the counter, which was an antique table that I had refurbished. It wasn’t much of a distance from him, but it was some, and thanks to the incense burning, I couldn’t smell his cologne.Small mercies. Not that it was much help because pathetic me had had a crying jag last night and then I sprayed his cologne on my sheets so I could pretend he was there.Oh, go ahead and judge me. I loved this man. Completely and totally. And he broke my heart and my soul…he broke me. It was so unfair because if he hadn’t we would’ve been so good together.

But the universe just liked shitting on me. No one gave me a damn chance. I didn’t get adopted. I didn’t get good foster parents. I didn’t get good boyfriends…well, until Basil, who I thought was awesome, and look how that turned out?

“Then why are you here?” I asked, tilting my head, letting my bitch out.

“We need to talk, baby.”

“We do?” I asked my voice dripping sarcasm.

He let out a ragged breath. “Sunshine, I?—”

The door jingled open and two women walked in.

Thank the Lord!

“Excuse me,” I said to him like he was a customer and welcomed the ladies.

They were older, probably in their sixties. One had silver-streaked hair piled into a loose bun, and the other wore a flowing linen dress that looked like she spent her summers in Provence. They immediately gravitated toward the handmade silk scarves displayed near the window, brushing their fingers over the delicate fabric.

“These are exquisite,” the bun-haired woman marveled, holding up a deep indigo scarf with golden swirls. “Hand-painted?”

“Yes.” I walked up to the display, holding my breath as I passed Basil so I wouldn’tsmellhim like a bitch in heat.

Jesus!

“A local artist hand-dyes and paints each one so every piece is unique.”

The other woman, the one in linen, held up a soft green silk scarf with a floral design. “I can’t decide—they’re all so beautiful.”

“That’s the best part.” I forced a smile, pretending Basil wasn’t standing behind me, watching,waiting. “No one else will ever have the same one. It’s almosthautecouture.”

The women exchanged delighted looks, and after some debating and friendly bickering over who got what, they each picked one.

As I rang them up, Basil’s phone dinged again. He didn’t check who messaged. He just stood, silent, patient—annoying the hell out of me.

I narrowed my eyes. “You should probably get that.”

He didn’t move.

“Might be Drew,” I added, my voice saccharine sweet. “Wouldn’t want to leave your COO waiting.”

I shoved the receipts into the shopping bag and handed it over. “Thank you so much. I hope I’ll see you again, soon.”

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