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Spinning around, I said, “That is something you’ll find out at the wedding tomorrow.”
“Wait. I just spent three hours dress shopping, and I can’t even know which one you’re wearing?” he asked, pretending to be hurt, his hand over his heart.
“You should’ve negotiated those terms before agreeing to take me,” I teased as I slipped into the back room to change out of the dress. The saleswoman was there, and I told her what I wanted packed up and delivered to the resort the next day.
When I returned to the front of the store, Mayson wasn’t where I had left him. Had he grown tired of waiting? Did I offend him with my comment about negotiating? It was possible. I was in a foreign country, and I could tell that the saleswoman's demeanor changed with Mayson sitting there. I’d thought Anya’s description of Tabiq may have been overexaggerated, but now, not so much. The saleswoman had been very pleasant, but I could tell she wanted me to make a choice, and for us to leave.
Maybe it wasn’t me who said something. Maybe it was her.
I pulled out my cell phone and debated calling him or the resort. Either way, I needed a ride. As I did, I noticed Mayson had sent me a text message.
HAD TO STEP OUT TO MAKE A CALL. I’LL BE BACK SHORTLY.
That made much more sense. I sat down in the seat that he’d been occupying during my so-called ‘fashion show’. The saleswoman came out and seemed surprised to see me there.
“You’re alone?” she asked.
I nodded. “He had a few things to attend to. Would you mind if I waited for him here?”
“You may be waiting a long time,” she stated.
Odd.
“Why would you say that?” I inquired.
Turning her back to me, she said, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have said such a thing.”
But you did. Why?
“No need to apologize.” That didn’t mean I was going to let that slip go. “You were very helpful. And thank you for taking so much of your time out of your day helping me find the right dress.”
“It is my job. This is my shop.”
But you still weren’t happy having us, or me, here.
“May I ask you a question?” I could tell by her body language that she wanted to say no, but as the customer, she was torn abouthow to answer me. So I asked my question anyway. “Did you want me to wait somewhere else?”
She spun around and blurted. “Nonsense. You sit here and wait.”
I prodded, “But you don’t want me here. Or am I wrong?”
She sighed. “It is not you. I don’t care for Mr. Moyer.”
Ah. It was him, not me.
“May I ask why?”Because I just did. “Did he do something you don’t approve of?”
“The way he looks at you. It’s none of my business, but it isn’t...appropriate.”
Half the time I had been too busy looking at myself in the mirror to notice, but a few times our eyes met briefly. What had she seen that I didn’t?
“In what way?” I questioned.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. It really isn’t my place.”
“But I want to know,” I pushed.
She walked over and sat down in the chair beside me. “How long have you known Mr. Moyer?”
