“For your . . .?”
She waits for me to fill in the dots—husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, lover.
I shake my head. “I’ve been single for some time now, but that doesn’t stop my lingerie habit. I wear sexy undies every day because they make me feel fabulous. And I suspect they’ve played their part in making me feel like I’m finally ready to date again. But listen, I’m willing to bet that your guy doesn’t actually care what color your panties are.”
“You think he’ll be fine without the Green Lantern thing?”
I smile softly. “If he loves you for you, and I bet he does, he’ll be happy if you’re happy. Because pretty panties don’t have to be for him. They’re about what you like. What type of panties make you want to march up to him and rip off his shirt?”
“That’s a smart way to look at it. What does get me going?” She repeats the question like she’s thinking about it for the first time. “Besides, of course, when he cleans the kitchen and the bathroom.”
“That’s a turn-on, for sure. Keep thinking along those lines. And when it comes to lingerie, ask what style gives you the confidence of Athena? What look makes you imagine you’re a Botticelli? For some women, it is green lingerie. For others, it’s sapphire or ruby. I could bring you a cranberry-red set if you want.”
She shakes her head, and I keep going.
“Some prefer sheer nude. Others feel sexiest in a sports bra. Maybe it’s a cami and a tank and boy shorts. Or perhaps it’s a festive little novelty set.”
She points at me excitedly, like she’s found the winner in three-card monte. “Yes. That.”
I had a feeling I’d pique her interest. She likes unconventional answers, and I bet she’d want unconventional underwear. “Would you say you like numbers?”
“However did you know?” she asks dryly.
“Just a lucky guess,” I tease. “Okay, I’ve been on the hunt for some fun patterns. Let me grab something from a shipment that came in the other day that I think is perfect for you. I suspect you’re a big fan of purple.”
“Is that your lingerie ESP again?”
My eyes drift down to her handbag. It’s a bright shade of eggplant. “Or it could be that your purse was the giveaway.”
“Look at you, using observable possibilities.”
I curtsy. “But let’s make sure you like it first.” I step toward the back of the shop, then I stop, going for the pièce de résistance—the proof that I will always put my money where my ESP is. “And if you don’t feel gorgeous in this set, your next purchase is on me.”
Her eyes pop. “Whoa. Thank you.”
I send a silent wish to Grandma Mimi that I’m not wrong here with my lingerie magic eight ball as I fetch the items I have in mind from a box in the back. As I pass, I glance toward the shop floor where my sales assistant, Marley, is gift-wrapping a purchase for a woman in a camel trench coat. I bet it’s red and lacy.
I return to the dressing room and hand the silky items to Daniella.
A minute later, she gushes her praise from inside the room. “This. Is. So. Me.”
Yes. That’s what I want to hear—her own confidence in what she wears underneath her clothes.
That’s what matters. She doesn’t even need my seal of approval as long as she’s given it to herself.
She opens the door and strikes a ta-da pose, owning it. The lavender bra and panties decorated with numbers, formulas, and mathematical symbols fit her personality like a glove.
“There is a one-hundred-percent chance of me loving this and feeling hot in it.”
“Then I’d say it’s a sure thing that you’ll be ripping his shirt off when you see him, and he’ll love that too.”
Her eyes twinkle with naughty mischief. “He will. Because I’m not Wonder Woman.” She gestures to her body. “I’m a sexy statistician. Thank you for helping me see that.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’ll be up front when you’re ready.”
A minute later, she’s practically floating as she brings the new ensemble to the register. “Now I only have one thing I want you to remember,” I say as I ring her up.
She clasps her hands, waiting for my wisdom. “Tell me.”
My expression turns full-on serious. “As much as I want you to come back and buy a new set every single day, remember if Jamie rips this off you, you’ll be spending a fortune. Don’t do that crazy stuff unless you want to start wiring half your paycheck directly to me.”
“I do like your shop,” she says with a smile, glancing around You Look Pretty Today, settling on the other patterned bras I recently added. “But I’ll take the advice, and I’ll tell my friends all about this place. My best friend is a novelist, so I bet she’ll dig that typewriter-style over there.”
Cha-ching. “She’ll look like a decadent wordsmith when I’m through with her.”
As I fold tissue paper around the garments, Daniella tilts her head and asks, “What makes you feel like a Botticelli?”
Sliding one finger under the shoulder of my shirt, I show her a hint of the coral-pink lace bra. “Lace. It’s my kryptonite, and it’s my armor. I’ve worn lace every single day since my fiancé left me earlier this year. Lace helped me get over him, because every day I had a secret, and the secret was how I looked and felt.”
Daniella slowly claps. “When you get back out there, some guy is not going to know what hit him.”
I smile as I tuck the tissue paper—covered bra and panties into a bag and hand it to her. “A girl can dream. Thanks, Daniella. Go be the statistical goddess you are.”
“That’s the only kind I know how to be.”
After she leaves, Marley scurries over to the counter, beaming. “You sold the math bra. I thought for sure that was going to wind up in a pile of regrets.”
“Regrets are for haircuts and exes. Never underwear. Not if we can help it.”
She offers a hand to high-five. “You’re like the lingerie guru. Just like you were in your old blog.”
I high-five back as my chest twinges with a smidge of regret. Fine, regrets are also for shuttering blogs for the wrong reasons.
But I’m on the other side of those wrong reasons, and the other side of heartbreak, hurt, and doubt.
And there’s no time like the present to let the many months of lace work its restorative magic. Perhaps it’s finally time to ask out that sweet guy in my favorite yoga class. The one who spreads out a mat for me every time. The guy who also does the best downward-facing dog, and I’m not just saying that because his butt has been carved by angels.
Though those are the best kind of rears to stare at in yoga.
When the bell rings on the pink door, I set aside my yoga-guy musings. A leggy brunette in skinny jeans and a half shirt strides inside, her trimmed abs on display. A honey blonde in a leopard-print skirt is next to her.
My internal radar beeps, and I size them up based on first impressions alone. What would they like most from my store? I just stocked the cutest black-and-white animal print that I bet the blonde will go gaga for, and I have new demi-cup bras that I suspect the half-shirter will dig.