look was definitely not Sylvie’s. She wore a super-modern wide mesh sweater and striped leggings. Chunky, metal Gemma Redux necklaces hung down in ropes.
What was she doing here? I quickly tried to sort through how to dress her in Sylvie’s flirty, bold, feminine style. The woman glanced up, and the most striking pair of sherry-colored eyes met mine. Her face was slightly narrow for those over-sized eyes, which closed in on me with such intensity I turned self-conscious. Shoot. Where was Anne? This customer was intimidating.
“Bonjour,” I said, omitting Mademoiselle , and trying my best to give off the haughty reserve preferred by the French in a shop assistant.
“Hi,” she answered in English. Dammit. I thought my greeting was perfect. She clearly had my number, and I worried I was being judged for my soft pink and white Sylvie wrap dress and flats. I was all rose petals. She was all platinum edge. “You speak English?” she asked.
“ Oui ,” I answered, trying to keep the upset out of my voice. I was going to have to work on my enunciation with my new tutor tomorrow.
“I need help please, to find a—” she inspected the store, frowning, perhaps realizing the error of her ways “—a dress.”
“Certainly,” I said, stepping forward, shoulders back. I could rescue this situation. This is what I do best. In my spare time at the shop I’d identified a few options that would look terrific on Tammy, who shared a similar style with this girl. “ Une minute, s’il vous plaît ,” I said as I gathered together some pieces. The Amazon followed me, and stealing glances at her body, I tried to figure out her size and decide what aspects to play up. Long legs for sure. I could feel her eyes on me, and thought it was odd that she wasn’t casually looking around herself.
“Do you not need my size?” she asked, quietly.
A few tiny black dots were scattered inside her vivid irises. Her heavy eyeliner jarred. A pungent odor of cigarette smoke mixed with a fresh fig scent clung to her. “No.” When she eyed me skeptically, I added, “Trust me.”
She dropped her eyebrows while motioning with her hands as if to say, “Well we shall see, won’t we.” I let that roll off of me—I knew what I was doing when it came to clothes—and grabbed a third option for good measure.
I led her to the change room, noticing that Anne was back behind the counter. My customer stepped behind the heavy velvet drape, and I told her in French to call for Fleur if she needed anything. I was determined to see this through. I checked with Anne nervously, whose face said it all: “She’s all yours.” Just then, the door dinged, Anne and I looked over, and my nerves sent a lightning bolt straight to my toes.
Bastien. I hadn’t seen him for almost a week, not since our date. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a blazer. His badge and his gun holster flashed as he tucked something into his back pocket.
“ Salut, Fleur ,” he said quietly.
Anne sat on her stool wide-eyed, apparently planning on tuning in on the pending conversation.
“ Bonjour ,” I offered, chilly. His smile didn’t falter. I asked, “ Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici ? (What are you doing here?)”
“ Ton français est meilleur . (Your French is better.)”
I glanced at the dressing room curtain, hoping the girl would come out so I could get rid of him diplomatically. He couldn’t linger if I was with a customer.
“ Je suis occupée avec une cliente . (I am busy with a customer.)”
“ Tu n’as pas répondu à mes appels . (You haven’t returned my calls.)”
I pursed my lips. It was like we were having two different conversations. My cheeks flushed and I looked to Anne for help. She was chewing on a nut (she kept a stash under the counter), eyes glued on Bastien. I had planned to surprise her tomorrow with a homemade southern BBQ flavored version. Now I would make them extra spicy.
I glanced back at Bastien’s face and took in his
What was she doing here? I quickly tried to sort through how to dress her in Sylvie’s flirty, bold, feminine style. The woman glanced up, and the most striking pair of sherry-colored eyes met mine. Her face was slightly narrow for those over-sized eyes, which closed in on me with such intensity I turned self-conscious. Shoot. Where was Anne? This customer was intimidating.
“Bonjour,” I said, omitting Mademoiselle , and trying my best to give off the haughty reserve preferred by the French in a shop assistant.
“Hi,” she answered in English. Dammit. I thought my greeting was perfect. She clearly had my number, and I worried I was being judged for my soft pink and white Sylvie wrap dress and flats. I was all rose petals. She was all platinum edge. “You speak English?” she asked.
“ Oui ,” I answered, trying to keep the upset out of my voice. I was going to have to work on my enunciation with my new tutor tomorrow.
“I need help please, to find a—” she inspected the store, frowning, perhaps realizing the error of her ways “—a dress.”
“Certainly,” I said, stepping forward, shoulders back. I could rescue this situation. This is what I do best. In my spare time at the shop I’d identified a few options that would look terrific on Tammy, who shared a similar style with this girl. “ Une minute, s’il vous plaît ,” I said as I gathered together some pieces. The Amazon followed me, and stealing glances at her body, I tried to figure out her size and decide what aspects to play up. Long legs for sure. I could feel her eyes on me, and thought it was odd that she wasn’t casually looking around herself.
“Do you not need my size?” she asked, quietly.
A few tiny black dots were scattered inside her vivid irises. Her heavy eyeliner jarred. A pungent odor of cigarette smoke mixed with a fresh fig scent clung to her. “No.” When she eyed me skeptically, I added, “Trust me.”
She dropped her eyebrows while motioning with her hands as if to say, “Well we shall see, won’t we.” I let that roll off of me—I knew what I was doing when it came to clothes—and grabbed a third option for good measure.
I led her to the change room, noticing that Anne was back behind the counter. My customer stepped behind the heavy velvet drape, and I told her in French to call for Fleur if she needed anything. I was determined to see this through. I checked with Anne nervously, whose face said it all: “She’s all yours.” Just then, the door dinged, Anne and I looked over, and my nerves sent a lightning bolt straight to my toes.
Bastien. I hadn’t seen him for almost a week, not since our date. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a blazer. His badge and his gun holster flashed as he tucked something into his back pocket.
“ Salut, Fleur ,” he said quietly.
Anne sat on her stool wide-eyed, apparently planning on tuning in on the pending conversation.
“ Bonjour ,” I offered, chilly. His smile didn’t falter. I asked, “ Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici ? (What are you doing here?)”
“ Ton français est meilleur . (Your French is better.)”
I glanced at the dressing room curtain, hoping the girl would come out so I could get rid of him diplomatically. He couldn’t linger if I was with a customer.
“ Je suis occupée avec une cliente . (I am busy with a customer.)”
“ Tu n’as pas répondu à mes appels . (You haven’t returned my calls.)”
I pursed my lips. It was like we were having two different conversations. My cheeks flushed and I looked to Anne for help. She was chewing on a nut (she kept a stash under the counter), eyes glued on Bastien. I had planned to surprise her tomorrow with a homemade southern BBQ flavored version. Now I would make them extra spicy.
I glanced back at Bastien’s face and took in his
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