“Thoughts?” she asks, already posing.
“Strong,” I say. “If you’re going to do red, this is the one. The cut’s clean, and the fabric photographs beautifully at night.”
“He hates fussy,” she repeats. “But does he hate red?”
“I don’t know Mr. Kozlov’s preferences,” I say, remembering the blood-red fabric of the hidden ribbon tied around my wrist.
“I was talking to myself, dear,” a trace of condescension to her tone. “Of courseyouwouldn’t know.” She studies me in the mirror. “You’re not exactly his type.”
Charming.
My smile remains frozen on my face. “Would you like to try the black?”
She waves a hand like she’s granting me permission to breathe. “Please.”
I bring her a black crepe column with a razor of sparkle at the shoulder and a pale silk that’s not chartreuse but close enough to earn a smile from Sylvie, if she were watching.
Raquel slides into the black, then out of it. The pale silk is beautiful, but even I can tell it surrenders too easily to her. She wants to be seen. Red it is.
While I hold the hangers, she lets the conversation drift like fog. “Damien’s party is intense, not for the faint of heart.” Her eyes flick to mine.
She goes on, not really talkingtome so much asatme.
“He’s been particular lately. Short on patience.”
“Miss Chesterfield?” A cheerful, French-accented voice carries through the shop. Relief rushes through me at not having to handle Raquel all on my own anymore.
My boss, Sylvie Allard, materializes from the back with a garment bag, shooting me a look that says she’s sorry she left me alone with Raquel. She’s tall and Parisian by birth, with a tight chignon and an accent that makes even the most mundane of words sound romantic.
“Miss Chesterfield,” she purrs, “you’re radiant.”
“Radiance is work,” Raquel says. “Ask my chemical peel guy.”
Sylvie’s eyes flick to me, silently asking, “You good?” I give her the smallest nod. She turns back to Raquel. “Are we purchasing today or sending on approval?”
“Sending,” Raquel says dismissively.
“Of course.” Sylvie glides away to start the paperwork. She is unflappable, which I can’t help but admire.
Raquel studies herself one last time, then steps behind the screen, red silk whispering down to her ankles. “You’ll steam the dress,” she calls over the screen, “and I want a backup in case a seam decides to betray me. Make it the chartreuse.”
“Done,” I say.
“Good girl.” She emerges, laying the red dress over my arm. Then, as if tossing a bone to a dog, flings the black crepe at me. “Not that one. It reads nervous.”
“We’ll hold it for twenty-four hours,” I tell her. “In case you change your mind.”
“I never do,” she replies and heads for the door. “Thanks, Cassidy!”
“Cassandra,” I correct, pleasant as can be.
She pauses and turns. For a slip of a second, interest dims into irritation—tiny, sharp, gone. The smile snaps back into place, camera-ready. Then she’s gone.
The boutique exhales. I hang the black dress back where it belongs and go to the steamer. The red sighs under the heat, falling into perfect obedience. Sylvie comes to stand beside me.
“She’s a hurricane.”
“Something like that,” I mumble.
