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“Not enough?”

“Nowhere near good enough for you.”

Something shifts in those hazel eyes.

I gesture toward the dress.

“It would hide everything that makes your figure fascinating.”

Silence.

Layla blinks.

Once.

Twice.

The saleswoman looks like she swallowed something unpleasant.

Good.

“You need something more,” I continue, because apparently I've developed opinions about women's eveningwear in the last thirty seconds. “Something that appreciates your curves instead of pretending women aren't supposed to have them.”

Layla stares at me. I stare back.

Her cheeks turn pink.

Fuck.

I like that. Far too much.

“You're suddenly an expert on couture?” she asks.

“No.”

“Women's clothing?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then what exactly are you an expert on?”

My gaze moves over her.

Slowly.

Her blush deepens.

“You really want me to answer that?”

Her mouth opens. Closes. And there she is—Firecracker.

I almost smile. Almost.

Then I remember where we are. And why. I turn back to the saleswoman.

“What's your name?”

Her face changes.