“You know, people don’t usually go in dressing rooms just to try on scarves.” I point to the purple scarf draped over her arm.
She turns over her shoulder and eyes the pile in my hands. “People usually don’t wear their new clothes out of the dressing room.”
I laugh. “Touche`.”
“Actually,” —she shifts her eyes to black fabric hanging haphazardly over one of the displays a few feet away— “I had a dress I was going to try on, but all of the dressing rooms were taken, so I decided to forget about it.”
“I offered for you to share mine.”
Her smile tips. “I shared a dressing room with a man in the last store, and he took all the cute clothes, leaving me with nothing. I just couldn’t chance it again.”
“I would’ve let you have the first choice on the clothes.”
Her grin widens. “A real gentleman.”
“I try to be.”
“I really am sorry about bursting in on you like that.”
“It was the best part of my day.” Well,thatand recovering the computer chip for Sienna.
“I bet.” She playfully rolls her eyes.
“So, who’s the scarf for?”
She holds it up. “A present for my mom.”
“You don’t have a clue what to get her, do you?”
Her lips purse together. “That’s not true. You’d have to know my mom to know why this is the perfect gift.”
I like how she’s trying to convince me as if it’s my opinion that really matters. “If you say so.”
“Well,”—she shrugs—“I’ll stop by Bath and Body Works and get her some lotions or something to put with it. Just in case.”
“Yeah, because Bath and Body Works screams personalized present.”
“You’ve made your point.” She laughs off my sarcasm. “I’m bad at gift-giving.”
“It’s a skill very few possess.” I gesture for her to step forward in line.
“Okay, then. What are you giving your mom for Christmas?”
My chest used to tighten at that question, but I was trained years ago not to show any real emotion. I don’t have a mom to give a gift to, but that’s the kind of personal information I don’t share with anyone.
“An old vinyl record of my mom's favorite band,” I lie.
“Which band?”
I glance out the store window just as two other men working with Fabrice pass by. “It’s U2’s War album.” I saw them all together earlier. They’re clearly looking for whoever killed their partner and stole the chip from inside his jacket.
“Wow, your present blows mine out of the water on the thoughtfulness category.”
My gaze shifts back to her. “As I said, it’s a skill very few possess.” I grab the scarf, trailing my fingers down the fabric. “But this is really soft. I’m sure your mom will love it. I feel bad that you’re not buying that dress you wanted.” I release my hold on the scarf. “Do you really need to try it on? Can’t you just guess your size?”
“Well,”—she grimaces—“I’ve had a rough three months and have eaten my way through all ninety-eight flavors of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. So naturally, there was an uptick on the scale, and I’m in between sizes right now.”
In my opinion, the uptick is doing her all sorts of favors.
