Wait.
He’s still watching.
Oh God.
OH GOD.
He’s not glance-watching.
He’s not flirty-watching.
He’s watching-watching.
Not blinking. Not smirking. Not pretending to do anything else.
Just... watching.
Like I’m the only thing in this store.
And I’m not ready.
I don’t know his favorite color.
I don’t know his patterns.
His tells.
I haven’t studied his socials.
I don’t know if he likes dogs or uses 10-in-1 body wash.
What if he’s in a committed relationship with minimalist decor and only drinks kombucha?
What if…
Oh God.
What if the hot pink bra is wrong for him?
He looks like he’d like black. Or maybe red. Something darker.
More dramatic. More…
What if he chews with his mouth open?
No.
No.
Juliet, pull yourself together.
I can’t approach him. I won’t.
Not until I know.
I put the bra back.
Carefully. Like it’s fine china.
