“Right, fix her up with some business casual since she works in an office, yeah? We’ll also take a couple of dresses, somethin’ proper-like for a night out. And while you’re at it, give us a look at your casual clothes.”
I opened my mouth to protest that I already had plenty of casual clothes, but he stopped me with a raised hand. “Nothing against your dad, love, but I’d appreciate seein’ you in somethin’ other than American football gear.”
Giselle tittered, and before I could protest again, Mick sat us down on the store’s tufted couch.
Giselle had two assistants also dressed in impeccable black pencil skirts and chic blouses like Isabelle. They magically appeared beside her once we took our seats and pushed flutes of champagne into our hands.
Shopping sprees, as it turned out, took way longer than their name suggested—at least at Je T’aime Tourdin.
After we sat down, actual models started filing out onto the store’s raised L runway, pivoting back and forth when they stopped in front of me to show off each dark and well-crafted outfit from the store’s current collection at every angle.
“What’d ya think?” Mick asked, after what felt like hours of this, when we were on our second glasses of champagne.
I goggled at him. Even though he was a blue-collar worker, he seemed completely at home and totally unbothered by this experience.
“I wouldn’t know,” I whispered so I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. “All those models are, like, a size zero.”
“Right, then…”
Mick set his glass down on a side table and walked over to the runway, where Giselle was standing with one of her assistants.
They had a conversation I couldn’t hear from where I was seated. Then Giselle nodded, clapped her hands together twice, and called out something to her assistants in French that had one of them rushing toward the back of the store to open a door discreetly tucked away in the shop’s farthest corner.
“What’s going on?” I asked as Mick passed by, following Giselle toward the open door.
“Gotta give her my shoppin’ spree coupon and all that,” he answered without stopping. “Be right back.”
Just then, a little old lady appeared with a length of measuring tape around her neck and a pincushion strapped around her wrist. She had me stand up and started taking my measurements.
“Wait—what’s happening?” I asked the assistant who’d stayed behind.
“Your . . . ah, friend said you are having trouble deciding, so he is choosing the clothes for you.” She pulled out a notepad. “Also, we will need your address so we may send you the clothes when they are ready.”
My eyebrows nearly hit my hairline. “Wait a minute. You’re tailoring whatever he picks out to fit my exact measurements?”
“Oui,of course,” the assistant answered as if we lived in a world where fast fashion didn’t exist and all clothes were made-to-order.
I had no idea what to say. On one hand, it was weird to have a man pick out my clothes. On the other, it was Mick’s shopping spree, so he should be allowed to spend the money however he chose. I guess…
Mistaking my conflicted look for concern, the assistant hastily added, “And do not worry about the dress. We will have it expedited and couriered to your hotel.”
* * *
That wasn’tthe only prize-package delight Mick had in store for me. After the not-so-short spree came to a close, Mick escorted me to the car Tourmaline had given him and directed the driver to take us to the Palais-Royal.
I’d seen the famous landmark sitting across from the Louvre yesterday, but there was so much to squeeze into my trip after Mick left, I hadn’t thought I’d get the chance to visit.
To my surprise, not only would I get to see it, Tourmaline provided us with a private tour guide.
As the winter sun dipped below the Parisian skyline, casting a golden hue over the city, I found myself walking with Mick through the Palais-Royal’s iconic entrance courtyard, which was dotted with black-and-white columns of various sizes. A knowledgeable historian from a local university gave us the lecture of a lifetime as he walked us through the historic structure, whose interior technically wasn’t open to the public since it housed France’s Ministry of Culture.
A bunch of council offices, grand rooms with even grander chandeliers, and roped-off salons filled with antique furniture later, my head was practically swimming in the building’s history, which used to serve as an epicenter of French culture.
“I can’t believe you were going to skip this to watchCoronation Streeton your laptop!” I hissed behind the tour guide professor’s back as we followed him back to the entrance courtyard.
“In my defense, none of this shite sounded more appealin’ than aCoronation Streetcatch up before I met you,” Mick answered with a hapless shrug.
Did this guy have any idea how swoony every word out of his mouth sounded, even when he wasn’t intending to be the most romantic vacation fling in all of history?
