The boutique was called Hemline, a narrow shop in SoHo with warm lights, heavy curtains, and a sales staff trained to be attentive. Sloane was the most attentive of all.
Sloane was a senior stylist. Twenty-eight. Blazer sharp enough to cut, smile warm enough to melt. She’d been helping me for months — “You have the frame for structured pieces,” she’d said the first time, and I’d been coming back every weekend since.
Today I’d brought a dress for my sister’s wedding. Size debate. The 6 was tight. Sloane had stepped into the stall with the 4.
“The store is full of customers,” I whispered, standing in my silk slip in front of the mirror, the new dress open at my back. Through the curtain gap I could see shoppers browsing, the manager at the register, Saturday afternoon in full swing. Sloane was inside the stall with me, her hand on my dress strap, her body blocking the curtain opening. “The curtain doesn’t lock. Your manager is three feet away. There’s a line for the fitting rooms. And your hand is on my strap, not the zipper. You’re supposed to be finding me a size smaller. Not stepping inside. Not closing the curtain with your back. Not—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just leaned in, her cheek brushing my jaw, her hand sliding from the strap to my bare shoulder, her thumb tracing the line of my collarbone with a slowness that made the store noise fade to nothing.
“If another customer pulls the curtain,” I breathed, my heart hammering against the silk, “they’ll see the sales assistant inside the fitting stall. They’ll see your blazer against my slip and the curtain trembling and the mirror showing everything and they’ll know that I’m not trying on a dress. I’m being tried on—”
She turned my face toward her with a hand on my jaw. Her mouth found mine. Slow. Fitted. A kiss that tasted like new fabric and a purchase I never planned to make but would absolutely keep.
“Everything fitting okay in there?” The manager’s voice. Right outside. Hand on the curtain.
Sloane pulled back exactly one inch. “Perfect fit,” she called out, her voice showroom-smooth. “She’s taking it.”
The footsteps moved on. Sloane looked at me, my dress still open, her blazer still buttoned — barely.
“Tell her it fits perfectly,” she whispered. “Because you’re not leaving this store without it. Or without my number. Or without knowing what the back room looks like after close.”
I bought the dress. I wore it to the wedding. Everyone said I looked stunning.
The maid of honor agreed. That was Sloane. We’d been dating three months by then, and the manager still doesn’t know why the fitting room curtains started getting closed so carefully on Saturdays.
