Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye - Jacquelyn Middleton Page 0,20

one would look lovely on you,” he said quietly before walking away down the aisle, leaving her to peruse without interference.

She studied his square shoulders and broad back, smiling to herself as she returned the hanger to the rack.

Transactions for the day balanced, Simon joined her. Wandering through his boutique, he answered Leia’s questions about schooling (he had a BA and Master’s in Fashion Design Technology from University of the Arts London), financial investment (a bank loan and an early inheritance from his parents in Montréal), and how long he’d been in business (since summer 2015). Originally, he sold clothes by other designers alongside a few pieces of his own, sewn in his workroom upstairs. But as months passed, shoppers began to swoon over his pretty dresses, and eventually the small corner they occupied grew to the entire boutique. Four years on, Simon now outsourced the production of his collections to a trusted factory in South London and had a steady stream of devoted customers. More recently, he had begun winning over fashionistas in New York—two of his dresses were big sellers on the Bowery, and much to his delight, he was courting interest from three additional retailers in New York and Montréal. He regaled Leia with stories about taking his destiny into his own hands, booking meetings in the Big Apple during a holiday the previous summer, and how his ‘fake it till you make it’ boldness was paying off. His clothing now earned him a comfortable living, and along with the rent from the apartment above his shop, he was paying back his loans. Simon was a risk-taker, and Leia found his career path both hopeful and inspiring. She also liked him immediately, his Canadian warmth, wry humor, and love of ketchup potato chips making her feel right at home.

Forty-five minutes and thirty dresses later, the trio decamped to the Prince George pub and a table by a crackling fire where Simon bent Leia’s ear with questions about her upcycled outfit—a belted black shift dress made from reclaimed scraps of silk—and her New York fashion experience. She told them about her Master of Arts in Fashion and Textiles Studies from Manhattan’s Fashion Institute of Technology, and in between bites of her grilled harissa chicken and caramelized onion pilaf (so delicious!) shared stories about interning at one of the city’s most prominent design houses.

Opening the Frill-Seekers website on her phone, she showed off her lookbook of dresses, prompting Simon to ignore his potato gnocchi to scroll and pause, scroll and pause, his grin growing as each new image settled on the screen. “Beautiful.” “Bad ass.” “How on earth…?” As bon mots fell from Simon’s lips, Leia’s smile stretched wider and wider.

Waiting for the designer to come up for air, she enjoyed her meal and made small talk about London across the table with Tarquin. They danced around anything deep, and Leia sensed he was carefully taking his conversational cues from her. If she veered off course, he’d probably follow gladly. He’s charismatic and confident and has the most captivating smile. I bet he has charmed half the women in London.

“It’s great you’re loving it here,” said Tarquin, cutting a bite-sized piece of steak, cooked medium rare. “If you have time, I’d recommend the Fashion and Textile Museum in Bermondsey. It was made for you, Leia. You could happily get lost in there.”

“I’d love to check it out.” She nodded. “But I also want to get a bird’s-eye view of the city. What do you think—London Eye or the Sky Garden?”

“No! Go Shard. It’s higher, better—bigger! Bigger is always best.” A naughty glint in his eyes, Tarquin lowered his fork and raised his ruby-hued boulevardier for a sip. “Or so I’ve been told.”

Cheeky! Leia laughed and swept her hands through her hair, twisting it into an improvised bun before letting it fall around her shoulders. His playfulness is such a turn-on. Maybe I should relax my no-guys-into-Star Wars-rule. Just this once? “I guess I’d have to see it to believe it.”

Tarquin admired her for a few seconds before he licked his lips and pulled away. He set down his drink and picked up his knife and fork, but Leia’s eyes lingered, stealing every chance to check him out. His hair was unruly, thanks to the wind outside and his failed attempt at taming it when they sat down. The scruff he had sported at IKEA had been shaved, and strangely, Leia missed it. Tarquin made an effort. It can’t be