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“Dude, they’re not open yet,” I protest, alarmed that he thinks we can just waltz in a full day early. I don’t think state regulations allow the governor early access to estate sales. If they did, I’d have snagged myself a governor a long time ago.
“Dude?” His brows rise in amusement.
“Sir?” I offer, and then, yeah, my thoughts spiral right into kink-town in which I imagine Warren spanking my ass, but like in the fun way.
“You’re blushing,” he whispers, giving me a little push towards the door.
I am, so I don’t fight him again on the fact that this sale is not open.
“This feels exciting,” Warren says as we reach the front door. “I’m getting to see you in your element.”
He’s being nice and humoring me. I appreciate it, but I’m still distracted by my filthy imagination. Which is his fault, because when he talks I look at his mouth and when I look at his mouth I have flashbacks to where it’s been. On me.
And now I’m full-on flushing, I’m sure.
The door flies open and a woman about his mother’s age greets him, immediately pulling him into a hug and gushing over how long it’s been since she’s seen him.
Holy. Crap.
We are in the right place on the right day. He’s getting me early access. I think I feel lightheaded. Early entry is the ultimate fantasy of estate sale shopping. I quickly learn the woman is an old family friend. The house belonged to her parents and everything that’s left is available. The estate sale group is working their way through the house pricing and organizing, but my new best friend tells me to go ahead and grab whatever I’m interested in.
“Have at it,” Warren adds, and then he winks.
No. No winking. Winking distracts me. I turn towards the stairs and take a deep breath.
“Everything for sale,” my new best friend calls out, “including the furniture.”
I nod. I don’t need furniture. I need vintage clothing. Clothing I can work my magic on and make my own.
I float through the house. The first room has mostly furniture, but there’s also a table lined with the jewelry. Most of it is costume, but some of it will serve my purposes very well, like a couple of 70’s-style bracelets that could be cool with the right dress and an old brooch I could sew into a belt on a dress.
Then I move onto the next room, and that’s where the clothes are. Some are hung up on racks, but others are piled in boxes. God, I love a discard box. So much potential. Boxes require digging, and not everyone’s willing to get their hands dirty. Not like me.
I dive in and find an immediate reward in the form of a thick, navy blue wool coat. One check on the tag tells me this coat is one hundred percent real wool and probably made in the early 1960s. It’s a little stained on the front, but good wool isn’t easy to come by, so I hang onto it.
There are a couple of silk chemises that I really wish I could save, but the fabric’s shattering, so I have to keep digging through the box. I find a couple of sewing patterns and a few vintage silk scarfs at the bottom and snag them. These I can definitely use.
Then it’s off to the racks. Like I suspected, most of it is 80’s bad, but I find a couple of 40’s-style dresses. Nothing designer, but still good stuff to work with.
The rest of the upstairs is old bedding and furniture. Nothing that will help me with new projects. There are a few old quilts that I debate taking, but in the end, I know they’re not my jam and so I leave them, hoping the right buyer comes along for them.
I head back downstairs and that’s when I see Warren. His arms are full to the brim with clothes.
“Where did you find all of that?”
“Basement,” he says. “Where you told me to go.”
“I did?”
“In the car. When you were outlining our game plan, but you called it a game shot.”
Oh, wow. He was actually listening.
“These are really good finds,” I tell him, sorting through his pile. These clothes are gorgeous. I’m talking the richest fabrics known on this earth in colors like sapphire, burgundy, and gold.
“I told Mrs McGinn what you do with clothes, and she wants to hire you to upcycle a few of these for her. They were her mom’s but they’re so out of style she couldn’t see any potential in them. I assured her you could.”
My mouth falls open. He believes in me? He got me a customer? And for such a beautiful and meaningful job? I’m speechless which, well, never happens. Like, ever.
“Also,” he says, “I mentioned you were interested in getting into wedding gown redos.”
