“That might happen now,” I admit, food sinking in my stomach.
We meander through the mall, peeking into shops and pausing at center kiosks to chat with vendors. There’s no clear path, hallways crisscrossing and circling around each other, and we get lost twice before we navigate back to an area we recognize.
A shop full of simple, beachy clothing catches my eye, the light creams and earthy tones drawing my focus.
“Let’s go into that store,” Jett declares.
He whisks us into the small shop, arm looped in mine. It’s nice, I’ve decided, to have someone else make the plan. I’m simply along for the ride instead of being the driver.
Soft indie music plays out from the speakers, customers milling through the racks of linen tops and flowy skirts. An employee’s eyebrows lift in surprise when we enter, calling out a quick greeting before disappearing.
Clothing covers the walls on each side—long maxi dresses and short silk slips and bright blouses. Earthy tones meet groovy seventies vibes, and I can’t work fast enough to identify all the items I love.
A flowy pink sundress. A matching set with a green floral pattern. A white top with bow ties in the back.
By the time we reach the back of the store, I’ve cataloged twenty items I want to try on. Jett follows, pausing on a button-down shirt in the men’s section, dark green and covered in small brighter leaves.
“You should try it on,” I say. “The color would bring out your eyes.”
The hanger clanks against aluminum as he rips it off the rack. “What are you going to try on?”
I glance at the price tag of a green maxi dress decorated with tiny polka dots, and wince. Maybe I’ll try everything on and then decide on one or two items.
Ten minutes later, Jett has a massive pile of fabric perched in his grip, two dozen different options I’m going to have to narrow down. This is why I hate shopping. I don’t want to choose. I want it all.
“Do you like that one?” he asks, pointing at a black slip dress trimmed at the hem with intricate lace.
It’s gorgeous, sexy, but not something I would wear at work or on a work trip. A first date, maybe. Or a night out at a bar. I give it my attention for a second too long because Jett takes it as a yes—which it is—and pulls one off the rack and drapes it over his forearm.
“That’s enough,” I tell him, already dreading the inevitable decision of what will return to the rack. “Let’s find a dressing room.”
Jett tries on his three items first, each with quick efficiency, popping out to show me. He strikes a pose, hand landing on his hip with flair, and my giggle bubbles to the surface. The grin he offers me is a cocky, pleased thing—a surprise from him—and when it causes another fit of laughter, it doubles in size.
“I like all three,” he declares, exiting the dressing room and making way for my dozens of items.
With the door shut, I hang them in order of “I’m okay with leaving this” to “highest likelihood of purchasing.”
I’m pulling the first blouse over my shoulders when a knock rattles the door and “Supermodel” by Taylor Dayne filters from his phone speaker. “I expect a full Lizzie McGuire fashion show,” Jett says. “I’m ready when you are.”
He’s seenThe Lizzie McGuire Movie?
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all bewildered eyes, and take stock of the shirt. My midriff shows when I raise my arms, the blue cotton top riding up. I’m not sure this is appropriate to wear or my style, but when he knocks again, I sigh, take a deep breath, and open the door.
Jett stands inches away when the flimsy wood flings open. A quick up-down of my body, and he shakes his head. “No.”
Waving his hand, he shoos me back into the dressing room, stunning me. I agree with his assessment, but that doesn’t make it any less surprising. We go through a few more pieces that elicit a similar response before I make it to the pile of clothing I’m afraid to try on because I know I’m going to fall in love.
While he’s distracted changing the song, I try on two swimsuits—a cheeky one-piece covered in a groovy pink seventies pattern and a black string bikini that leaves little to the imagination. In my panic to pack business casual, I forgot the parts of our itinerary in, on, or near water.
They’re more revealing than I’d like, but they are the only options, so I set them in the purchase pile.
The polka-dot dress is next, the fabric soft beneath my fingertips as I examine myself in the mirror. Soft contentment trickles along my skin, and when I step out, Jett’s lips part.
“Yes,” he breathes. “That one.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I retreat, trying on the white blouse, then the pink dress and the matching set. Each outfit is graded with a “gorgeous” or “beautiful” or a simple yet effective “absolutely” that leaves me in a state of euphoria by the time I try on the black dress he selected.
It slips over my head, and I know it’s perfect. Light, comfortable, and tight, but not so much that it’s like a second skin. The lace hits my mid-thigh, and the thin straps cross along my back. My heartbeat flutters as the door cracks open and Jett’s head pulls up from his phone.
