“And we’ve got a combined age of over one hundred and fifty, so if you don’t want to be taking a detour to the ER, slow down, Jo Ellen Wylie.”
“Okay, okay.” She slid her arm under Maggie’s. “I got you.”
“You’re as old as I am,” Maggie muttered.
“Just move and don’t lose sight of her.”
“As if I could in that screaming yellow top.”
The young woman turned on the next street, making Maggie hope she was headed for the closest restaurant. She passed a sushi place—thank you, Lord. Maggie hated the smell of the stuff—and an eyeglass store, a jewelry store, and a café.
“Where is she going?” Jo Ellen whined.
Finally, she paused, turned on a side street, and disappeared.
“Faster, Mags! We don’t want to lose her.”
Maggie picked up the pace, considered swearing under her breath, and squeezed Jo’s arm.
“Southern ladies do not run in public, Jo Ellen.”
“Well, we Yankee girls can make time. Move it, Mama.”
They whipped around the corner, catching sight of the Bee disappearing into a store. Reaching it, they both paused as they looked at the sign.
“Second Skin?” Jo Ellen read. “What is…oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” Maggie bit her lip and peered into the pink-hued display window where three faceless mannequins wore…not much. Something black, something pink, something…that could bring a married man to his knees.
“Buying an outfit for after dinner?” Jo Ellen mused while Maggie grunted. “Come on, Mags, let’s go in.”
“And do what? Shop?”
“Spy!” She yanked the heavy glass door open and stepped into a surprisingly large boutique. Instantly, the outside world disappeared.
The air seemed hushed inside, as if all the silk, satin, and sin absorbed the noise. Wide-plank pale oak floors felt warm underneath low lighting designed to flatter every skin tone.
They spotted Bumble Bee toward the back, perusing a display of underwear that could also function as shoelaces. They hovered behind a rack of silk camisoles in colors that looked like Easter candy.
Ready to be…nibbled.
“Act casual,” Jo Ellen murmured, sliding the hangers as if she fully intended to pick a camisole to wear.
Bumble Bee moved to a bra display, lifting a scrap of white lace with padding, examining it with interest. Maggie squinted.
“A Kleenex would be cheaper,” she whispered. “And cover more.”
“Hush,” Jo Ellen said. “She’s talking.”
A young sales associate had drifted up to Bumble Bee and smiled. “That one’s one of our most popular styles,” the woman said warmly. “Very minimal, but incredibly comfortable.”
Minimal was one word for it.
“Do you have it in a thirty-two B?” Bumble Bee asked.
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Thirty-two?” she mouthed.
Jo Ellen slapped her arm.
