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“No I’m not.”
“You are. Your whole face is doing it.”
“My face is just my face.”
“We’ve established that’s not true.”
Sage turned her face back to the window so Isabelle couldn’t see it — which meant Isabelle couldn’t see that the smile had gotten considerably bigger.
The boutique glowed.
That was the first thing Sage noticed as they walked down Main Street in the late afternoon gloaming. Soft snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, catching the light like tiny stars. Hallie’s windows spilled warm, golden light onto the quiet sidewalk, turning the fresh dusting of snow into something magical.
The whole street felt like it had stepped out of a painting — strings of soft white Christmas lights twinkling between the lampposts, wreaths on every door, garlands draped across shop fronts. The air smelled like heaven: fresh-baked sugar cookies, cinnamon, and hot apple cider carried on the cold December wind, and townsfolk getting ready for Christmas Eve waved or yelled Merry Christmas.
Sage was exhausted in the best possible way — boneless, her skin still humming from lotion and buffing, her hair soft and fragrant, her nails perfect. Some deep, animal part of her that had been braced for years had finally unclenched. She wore her regular clothes over skin that felt brand new, her belly full of that incredible meal, and her heart already turning toward home and Cal.
She was not prepared for what waited inside.
The bell above the door gave a cheerful little ring as they stepped in. Hallie was already coming around the counter, moving with purpose. Not toward Mary Sue. Not toward Isabelle. Straight toward her.
“There she is,” Hallie said, her wide, warm smile at full power, silver-feather earrings swinging with every step. She took both of Sage’s hands in hers and looked at her — really looked, that focused, delighted assessment that made Sage feel truly seen. Hallie’s eyes shimmered a little. “Oh honey. Look at you. You look wonderful.”
“I — hi, Hallie—”
“Aunt Hallie.” She said it firm and warm, like it was already written in stone. “I’ve been best friends with your mama for twenty years. That makes me your aunt, and I am not taking any arguments on that today or any other day. Do you understand me?”
Sage blinked.
“I—”
“Do you understand me?”
“…Yes ma’am.”
“Good girl.” Hallie squeezed her hands once, then pulled Mary Sue into a deep, familiar hug — two women who had walked through everything together. She stepped back and beamed at all four of them.
“How was your day?”
“Mary Sue pinched a massage therapist’s butt,” Annie offered cheerfully.
“Good for her.” Hallie didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been telling her to loosen up for years.” She caught Mary Sue’s expression and pointed. “Don’t you dare look dignified right now, Sue Ellen. I know you. Remember Vegas in 2007?”
“You know too much,” Mary Sue said, but her mouth was doing that thing it did when she was fighting a smile.
Annie leaned over and whispered to Isabelle, “Boy, I sure would like to know what happened in Vegas.”
Isabelle nodded. “Me too.”
“Twenty years,” Hallie confirmed with a wink. Then she turned back to Sage, her expression shifting — still warm, but now sharply focused, the same way it had been months ago in the dressing room when she’d first declared western gothic, trust me. “Now. I told you to come back and see me. I didn’t tell you why.”
Sage looked at her. “Why?”
Hallie smiled, slow and knowing. “Because I had a hunch the day you walked out of here, and I’ve been working on it ever since.” She tilted her head toward the back of the store. “Come with me.”
Behind the curtain, the dress waited like it had been expecting her.
Hallie had hung it alone on a single rack, spotlighted by a soft overhead wash of warm light. The fabric caught the glow and held it, deep midnight black that wasn’t flat or simple — it shimmered with subtle undertones of charcoal and crushed velvet, shifting like starlight on water every time Sage took a step closer. The bodice was structured and clean, the sweetheart neckline plunging just enough to promise danger while still whispering elegance. Delicate iron-stud detailing traced the waist like dark geometry, echoing the blackthorn branches of her tattoos. The skirt fell in heavy, luxurious folds that promised to move with weight and intention, not cling or hide.
