At least, until my eyes fall to the floor.
There’s broken glass all over, freshly fallen from some of the shelves and ornate displays lined up all around the shop. Expensive liquid soaps pool on the floor in puddles, some of the sparkling colors swirling together and changing color as they mix. In one corner, one of those fancy chalky balls you throw into a bath has fallen over, and it fizzes and pops in the liquid soap spill.
There’s something almost beautiful to the big mess, I have to admit.
I can see brightly-colored footprints leading back and forth from the door to the back of the shop. The space near the checkout counter seems to have been recently cleaned up.
And no sooner has the front door closed behind me than the back door swings open, and the afternoon light filtering in behind me falls on her.
Serena.
I have to keep my jaw from dropping.
Her dark blonde hair shines like gold in the sunlight, playing against her shoulders as if she were posing for a painting. It’s grown out a little since we were younger, and it suits her beautifully. Her hazel eyes could be jewels, gazing at me, taking in my form in that first split-second. Her olive-toned skin gives away the Italian blood running strong in her. And as the years passed and the sun kissed her skin, time has been very, very good to her. The Serena I knew as a teenager was a beautiful work-in-progress, and what I’m looking at now is a masterpiece that takes my breath away.
But then I see fear flash through her eyes. An old, familiar fear I’d hoped never to see again. Does she recognize me?
I then realize the sun is behind me, half-blinding her. I must look like little more than a 6’2” silhouette, clad in jeans, a tight-fitting white shirt, and a worn leather jacket that’s seen better days.
“Are you...closed?” I say slowly, trying to keep my Italian accent buried.
“Oh, oh no,” she says, and I can see the worry melting away from her face. An anxious smile replaces it, and she brushes a strand of hair from her face. I notice she’s carrying a large bucket of cleaning supplies in her other arm, and she sets it down on the counter. “Just, um, taking care of a little mess, nothing to close early for!”
“What happened?” my deep voice rumbles as I carefully step into the shop, trying not to step in the bright blue and violet rivers of moisturizer creeping along the tile.
“Well, you know,” she laughs nervously, tearing off a few paper towels to gingerly step over to the colorful chalk-ball and pick up the remnants of it. “It’s kind of a messy business!”
“I...see.” I arch an eyebrow, watching her drop the fizzy thing into a garbage bag. “There are worse things to spill everywhere.”
“Yes,” she says, as much to herself as to me, visibly trying to keep calm as she looks around at the damage surrounding her. “Yes, there definitely is. Yeah. I’ve got this. No problem.” As if remembering she has a customer, her eyes flutter back toward me, and she bites her lip apologetically. “I’m so sorry, just give me a minute or two and I’ll have all this cleaned up!”
She starts to dig through her bucket, but I’ve already made my way across the shop to the mop leaning against the wall and picked it up. A look of horror crosses her face when she sees me start to drag the thing through the mess.
“Oh-no, you don’t have to do that! Really, it won’t be long.”
I want to glance up at her and silence her with a wink, but I keep my head down as I get some of the fragrant slop pushed into a more manageable puddle. “I came in here to try some soap, didn’t I? This can be a test run. What’s this one called?” I ask as I dip the mop into a puddle of bright blue.
She’s stunned to silence for a few moments, but she finally says absently, “...that’s Blue-bury the Hatchet.”
“Good one,” I say, suppressing a grin on my face, and I can feel hers from across the room.
“Thanks.”
Not even a minute with her, and I already feel like we’ve never been apart. But I can’t let her feel too comfortable around her. I’m a stranger, after all. I have to play the part.
“Don’t you have any other help around here?” I ask, glancing at the back. “It can’t be just you running this place alone.”
“Just me,” she says, emptying the bucket of supplies onto the counter and carrying the bucket to a sink to fill with water. “I’ve usually got a handle on everything—I promise I’m not that much of a mess,” she laughs off, and as her back is turned, I can’t help but look up at her.
Her ass looks even better than I remember. I feel myself thickening between my legs, and I look back down to the mess as she brings the bucket over to set next to me.
“Usually isn’t this bad, I just...had a really bad spill this time,” she says, raising her eyebrows as she hesitates. I know what she looks like when she’s holding something back. She always was a proud girl, and now she’s a proud woman.
The years haven’t taken her spirit. Nothing could do that.
I dip the tip of my mop into the water and wring it out. I feel her watching me, and it makes me want to work all the harder. But I didn’t come here just to clean up.
“Just think of it as free advertising,” I say as my strong forearms work the handle. “People will be smelling this from a block away.”
I hear her gentle laugh, so full of life and quick wit, and it makes my heart just a little lighter to be able to draw that out of her so easily.
“It certainly helps draw in burly strangers to work for free,” she quips, and I grin as she breaks out some paper towels and spray to start scrubbing the floors in detail where I’ve already passed by. But I still have my suspicions to chase down.
“From the looks of this place, I’d say burly strangers are the last thing this shop needs—let me guess, did a football team come through here and get a little rowdy?” I’m probing to see how much she’s willing to tell me about what happened, because I have a feeling this isn’t the kind of mess that happens on accident.
“No, no,” she says with that slight flippant scoff that tells me she’s lying. Even after all these years, I can read her like a book. Thankfully my new look, the bright light and the rough voice cigarettes gave me keep her from recognizing me. “Just...you know, someone bumps into one of the displays, things start falling, and it’s one big chain reaction.”
“This is a big chain reaction,” I say, glancing at the various bits of broken glass across the shop.
“Tell me about it,” she says under her breath.
I’m not convinced for a second, but I let it go as we work together. It goes fast, both of us working as a team—it happened almost wordlessly, but it feels so natural. She still works quickly, thinking I’m a new customer and not wanting to embarrass herself, but I take my time to make sure the job is done well.