The sound of wooden hangers knocking together is blocking my brain function.
I squint at the dress in my hand, trying to focus.
It's hopeless because my attention is soon taken by the conversation of the girls standing at the next rack.
"Red lace on a first Tinder date, really?" one of them says, "Jeanine, build up to the red dress. Come on."
Sighing, I put the red lace dress I'm holding back on to the rack and begin rifling through the clothes again.
The bright lights of the posh place are almost giving me a migraine.
Almost.
Everything on the rack in front of me is lace and after what Jeanine's friend said, I have a good mind to wear wool on my date.
"May I help you?"
A black shirt comes into my periphery.
I turn my head to see a grinning personal shop assistant dressed from head to toe in black - black shirt, black trousers, black shoes, black blazer. His hair is styled like he did it with granddaddy's money and he smells like the Paco Rabanne samples you get in magazines. Only, the Patek Phillipe on his wrist tells me that he might actually own the bottle.
I look him from top to bottom and try to return his almost smug grin. "I think Kleinfeld's is a few blocks down."
Tom Ford grins at me wider. "Even if I worked at Kleinfeld's, I'd still want to help you."
My eyebrow raises, and I sift through the lacy pieces on the hangers in front of me, trying not to seem like I can feel his warmth even through my clothes. "I don't really know if you should be so blatantly flirting with your customers."
He shrugs. "It's not like they can fire me."
I snort. "Why? Do you have tenure?"
"They can't fire someone who doesn't actually work here."
Putting back the hanger in my hand, I turn to fully look at him. The first thing that I notice is his icy, bluish grey eyes, staring intently at me.
"Let me guess," I say, leaning against the rack, scanning him from top to bottom and to top again, "Your dad owns the store, so you can just waltz in here and do whatever the hell you please."
The man lowers himself, mouth close to my ear, voice gravelly and says, "The store has been in my family for generations and I am available to do whatever the hell you please."
Pressing my legs together, I lift my chin. "Don't be so bold. You have no idea who I even am."
He raises himself to his full height. "You're shopping for a first date, and not really getting anywhere."
"I could be shopping for an anniversary dinner."
"You have gone through pretty much every single kind of clothing item we stock, from casual, to business-like, from rompers to sundresses to lace. If it were an anniversary dinner, you'd know what to wear. Your indecision is because you don't know what to expect from the evening," he tells me, off-handedly, "I would love to dress you."
The words, "Oh, I'm sure you'd prefer to undress me," are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Eyes wide, I look up at him, to see him smirking. "We'll start with the dressing," he tells me, before turning around and picking up random items from different racks and walking in the direction of the changing rooms. "Come on, we'll try these first."
He walks into one of them and hangs all the items he picked, before coming back out and nodding for me to get started. When I hesitate, he says, "The worst that can happen is that you don't find anything you like."
