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She reaches for the zip, and for a moment, I simply watch her hands slide it down her back, creamy skin coming into view as the material parts and the dress threatens to fall away.

Then I come to my senses, step out of the changing room, and pull the curtain closed as Alice yelps, “Oops. Sorry. Nearly flashed at you.”

“And all the other shoppers,” I add, trying to ignore the heat creeping across my skin.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a naked woman in the flesh. I’d sworn off women entirely, but I’m still a man, and men have needs. The idea of going out with the intention of picking someone up for a one-night stand just doesn’t compute for me. I don’t have a long list of pick-up lines, and my social radar barely extends past the local pub.

Which probably explains why the sight of Alice’s bare back has me sweating. It’s simply the first glimpse of a naked woman I’ve had in a very long time. Nothing more.

She could’ve been anyone. Any woman’s back would probably have me shifting awkwardly on the spot.

But she isn’t just any woman.

She’s Alice.

19

Alice

After almost flashing Owen in the changing room, which I thought I’d feel slightly more embarrassed about, we pay for the dress and head to Fellows, a menswear shop on the other side of the shopping zone. We have to walk through the city garden.

I can tell Owen is breathing it all in after tackling two women’s clothing shops. His shoulders have dropped, he’s finally taken his hand out of his pockets, and he just seems to be appreciating the greenery and the peace, because even with the handful of shoppers walking by, he doesn’t seem to notice them as we stroll together.

My thoughts stray back to him opening up about his teenage years. This is the first thing he’s shared with me about his past. It would be a great opportunity to try and find out a little bit more about this man of mystery. I want to ask him about his past relationships, my last conversation with Lori still burrowing in my head, but I feel this is a bridge too far, even for me, who normally just blurts things out without thinking. So, I stay on neutral ground.

“Where did you work before Kitchen City?” I ask.

Owen glances at me before looking straight ahead.

“I worked as a kitchen designer for Hobart’s.”

“Really?” I can’t hide my surprise. Hobart’s is one of the largest and most prestigious kitchen designers in the country, with most of our staff aspiring to work for them. For Owen to have moved from them to us is very much a comedown. “How did you end up with us?”

“Hobart’s was great, but very sales focused. I had to deal with the general public daily, and I just got fed up with it. I saw the advert for Kitchen City, and when I read up on how it works, that you guys do all the sales side and I just get to lock myself away in an office and go over the designs, it sounded like heaven.”

“I guess, when you put it that way, it does sound rather cool.” I smile.

“Hobart’s wasn’t about the design or the finish or the look. They just wanted the customer to spend as much money as possible, and I hated it,” Owen says.

“Sounds fair.”

There’s a beat before he asks, “What about you?”

“I’ve been at Kitchen City for over five years,” I begin. “My dad saw they were advertising for staff and made me apply,” I say, then realise that this sounds like my dad is some dictator who organised my life for me when, in fact, he was only trying to help.

“You didn’t want to work there?” Owen asks.

“No, it wasn’t that. I actually like working there. It was more to do with me hitting thirty and my parents telling me that it was time to stop flitting around and get a job with a little more grounding.”

I try not to directly quote my dad, but I have no other words to describe the predicament I was in other than the actual ones he used.

“Flitting around?” Owen repeats.

“I left university with a degree in English literature and absolutely no clue what to do with it. My mum suggested being a teacher, but the thought of spending my days with a bunch of kids terrified me, and it all felt too grown-up, too serious. I was young and wanted to enjoy being young, so I worked here and there while my dad suggested career paths. I was lucky, as they bought me my apartment—mainly because they wanted me to move out, but I guess they also wanted to see me standing on my own two feet. So I worked random jobs while pondering what I wanted to do with my life. I worked at a menswear shop, and I was a dancer at a bar in my early twenties.”

Owen glances at me. “A dancer?”

“Not stripping, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I put him right. “But it did involve me being scantily clad and a pole.”