was tiny. “Who could wear something sized like this?”
Jilly shrugged. “Collectors don’t generally wear their clothes, and a costumer might just use it as the basis for a pattern. But I—” She clamped her mouth shut and her cheeks turned pink.
Rory looked from the dress to Jilly, then back to the dress again. Yeah, she’d fill out the full bodice sweetly, but even with her small waist…“This wouldn’t fit you.”
“Not without a corset,” she agreed, her cheeks even pinker.
A corset. Rory remembered that intriguing category listed on her Web site, “Victorian Undergarments.” As if it burned, he dropped his fingers from the dress, but that didn’t stop a vision of Jilly, her waist made even smaller, her breasts thrusting forward. And what was burning was him, burning with the kind of lust he’d promised himself to control.
Drawing in a breath, he swung his gaze in the opposite direction of that devilish dress and Jilly. Clothes filled the store—dresses and blouses on racks, stacks of sequined sweaters on shelves against the wall. Hand-lettered signs indicated time periods and types of clothing. There wasn’t a Victorian undergarment in sight.
Thank God.
Damn it.
But he wasn’t ready to look at Jilly yet. He wasn’t ready to leave yet either. He needed thecamouflage of the racks to hide what the idea of a corseted Jilly had done to his body.
Taking another deep breath, he turned his back on the clothes and looked out the window into the evening darkness. Across the street was another neon sign, this one a moon and stars announcing the presence of an astrologer’s parlor.
“So, um, what made you settle on this location? Another suggestion of your astrologer’s?”
“Another what?” she asked, her voice puzzled, but then she caught herself. “Oh. Oh, no. This had been my mother’s shop. I inherited it when she passed away.”
Rory looked at her now. “I’m sorry.”
“I was really sorry, too.” Jilly dropped her gaze and brushed at something on her skirt.
He tried to change the subject. “So…what made your mother go into the vintage-clothing business?”
Jilly brushed at her skirt again. “I don’t know exactly. I never had the opportunity to ask her.” She looked up at him, that pink veil masking the expression in her eyes. “I was raised by my grandmother. She didn’t quite…approve of my mother. I’d guess you’d say they were estranged. I never knew my mother until…until I opened the door of this shop, I suppose.”
Something lurched in his gut. “When was this?”
“Four years ago. Four years ago I left my grandmother’s.” Her thumb jabbed in the direction of the ceiling. “I live upstairs.”
“So you just came here on your own and took over your mother’s business?”
“Yep.” She absently straightened a blouse on a nearby hanger. “I was twenty-one and determined to prove something.”
She’d been just a kid, Rory realized. A kid who hadn’t known her mother, a kid who’d opened the door to a different world and then stayed there.
Not so different from himself.
He shoved the thought away and tried to ignore the spurt of admiration he felt for Jilly, too. As similar as their stories might appear, they’d chosen different worlds. Unbridgeable worlds.
He leaned over to pick up the box that held the dress. “I came to give you this,” he said, moving toward her.
Her brows drew together, then lifted. “The dress!” A smile broke over her face. “Thank you. I was in such a hurry to leave yesterday, I forgot all about it.”
She moved toward him now, her mouth soft and her eyes bright as she held out her hands. A lick of annoyance burned in his belly and he drew back the box. “Why in such a hurry yesterday?”
“What?”
“Did you have a date or something?”
She made a face and grabbed one end of the box.
He didn’t let go. “Well?”
She tugged on the box. He still held on. “Did you?” he repeated.
Jilly rolled her
Jilly shrugged. “Collectors don’t generally wear their clothes, and a costumer might just use it as the basis for a pattern. But I—” She clamped her mouth shut and her cheeks turned pink.
Rory looked from the dress to Jilly, then back to the dress again. Yeah, she’d fill out the full bodice sweetly, but even with her small waist…“This wouldn’t fit you.”
“Not without a corset,” she agreed, her cheeks even pinker.
A corset. Rory remembered that intriguing category listed on her Web site, “Victorian Undergarments.” As if it burned, he dropped his fingers from the dress, but that didn’t stop a vision of Jilly, her waist made even smaller, her breasts thrusting forward. And what was burning was him, burning with the kind of lust he’d promised himself to control.
Drawing in a breath, he swung his gaze in the opposite direction of that devilish dress and Jilly. Clothes filled the store—dresses and blouses on racks, stacks of sequined sweaters on shelves against the wall. Hand-lettered signs indicated time periods and types of clothing. There wasn’t a Victorian undergarment in sight.
Thank God.
Damn it.
But he wasn’t ready to look at Jilly yet. He wasn’t ready to leave yet either. He needed thecamouflage of the racks to hide what the idea of a corseted Jilly had done to his body.
Taking another deep breath, he turned his back on the clothes and looked out the window into the evening darkness. Across the street was another neon sign, this one a moon and stars announcing the presence of an astrologer’s parlor.
“So, um, what made you settle on this location? Another suggestion of your astrologer’s?”
“Another what?” she asked, her voice puzzled, but then she caught herself. “Oh. Oh, no. This had been my mother’s shop. I inherited it when she passed away.”
Rory looked at her now. “I’m sorry.”
“I was really sorry, too.” Jilly dropped her gaze and brushed at something on her skirt.
He tried to change the subject. “So…what made your mother go into the vintage-clothing business?”
Jilly brushed at her skirt again. “I don’t know exactly. I never had the opportunity to ask her.” She looked up at him, that pink veil masking the expression in her eyes. “I was raised by my grandmother. She didn’t quite…approve of my mother. I’d guess you’d say they were estranged. I never knew my mother until…until I opened the door of this shop, I suppose.”
Something lurched in his gut. “When was this?”
“Four years ago. Four years ago I left my grandmother’s.” Her thumb jabbed in the direction of the ceiling. “I live upstairs.”
“So you just came here on your own and took over your mother’s business?”
“Yep.” She absently straightened a blouse on a nearby hanger. “I was twenty-one and determined to prove something.”
She’d been just a kid, Rory realized. A kid who hadn’t known her mother, a kid who’d opened the door to a different world and then stayed there.
Not so different from himself.
He shoved the thought away and tried to ignore the spurt of admiration he felt for Jilly, too. As similar as their stories might appear, they’d chosen different worlds. Unbridgeable worlds.
He leaned over to pick up the box that held the dress. “I came to give you this,” he said, moving toward her.
Her brows drew together, then lifted. “The dress!” A smile broke over her face. “Thank you. I was in such a hurry to leave yesterday, I forgot all about it.”
She moved toward him now, her mouth soft and her eyes bright as she held out her hands. A lick of annoyance burned in his belly and he drew back the box. “Why in such a hurry yesterday?”
“What?”
“Did you have a date or something?”
She made a face and grabbed one end of the box.
He didn’t let go. “Well?”
She tugged on the box. He still held on. “Did you?” he repeated.
Jilly rolled her
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