Chapter One — Software Engineer Barbie

*AI-assisted authorship. The story, characters, and creative decisions are the author's.*

By the time Tim Johnson decided his car was an asshole, the mechanic had reached much the same conclusion. The mechanic discussed timing chains with an enthusiasm Tim reserved for finding a bug that had been corrupting production data for six months. Tim wrote software; the mechanic enjoyed dismantling engines. Civilization worked because people had different hobbies, and Tim had just paid a great deal of money to keep it that way. He surrendered his keys, negotiated a repair estimate with moderate profanity, and went to find a bus home. Regency Hill was an agreeable place to be stranded if you ignored the cost of everything in its shop windows.

The storefronts were spotless, the trees had apparently been instructed to shed their leaves decoratively, and the sidewalks were broad enough to accommodate people who had never been forced to squeeze past a stranger. Across the street, a restaurant was preparing for dinner. Beside the bus stop, the boutique Maison Belle displayed three dresses with so much space between them that Tim suspected the empty air was also for sale. His bus was late. The app confirmed this twice, which was useful only if the transit authority hoped to establish a record of consistent disappointment.

Tim put his phone away and shifted the laptop backpack against his shoulder. He had spent approximately six seconds getting dressed that morning: jeans, T-shirt, jacket, sneakers. The backpack was practically formalwear by comparison. His long hair had received somewhat more attention, mostly because letting it tangle around the straps made him swear. Tim was petite and fine-boned, with narrow shoulders, a slim waist, and high cheekbones. Someone had once told him he had the sort of androgynous face that could model both menswear and womenswear.

He'd wondered whether the compliment came with a paycheck. His phone recognized his face either way, which was more immediately useful. “Your commitment to disappointment is impressive,” a woman said nearby. Tim turned toward the voice and lost track of the bus altogether. The woman standing beside him wore a fitted skirt suit that made his jacket look as though it had surrendered before leaving the closet. Jewelry flashed at her wrist when she adjusted the strap of a handbag, and her makeup was precise enough to suggest she understood the purpose of every brush sold at Sephora. Tim's knowledge of designer shoes was negligible, but the heels were beautiful and looked capable of injuring anyone who underestimated them.

Tim spent an embarrassing amount of time admiring the shoes before remembering that the woman wearing them might expect a response. “Hi,” he managed. She glanced at his hair, then down at his clothes, with the concentrated expression of an engineer considering a design that might be salvageable. That, at least, was a look he understood. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Possibly,” the woman said. She stepped close enough that Tim caught a hint of perfume, then took another leisurely inventory of his face. “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked. She waited while he considered the question, her expression far too amused for an innocent inquiry. Tim had been asked stranger things by people selling extended warranties, but never by someone wearing shoes like those. “Is that a pickup line?” he asked. “Because I should warn you, I have no idea what the correct answer is.”

Her mouth curved at the challenge. “That depends on whether you have someone to go home to.” Tim glanced at the empty street, wondering whether the late bus counted as a long-term commitment. It was difficult to keep his eyes on the timetable with her standing so close. He shifted the backpack higher, buying himself another second. “At present? A bus, which seems less committed to this relationship than I'd hoped.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “It's fine,” Tim told her. “The mechanic will recover. The car might, too.” Tim indicated the road with his phone. “I'm beginning to suspect public transportation is an elaborate practical joke.”

“Perhaps the mechanic is an optimist,” she suggested. Tim considered that possibility for about half a second. “Or he's making boat payments,” he replied. That earned a surprised laugh from her. The change was small, but it did interesting things to her immaculate composure. Tim had been staring at the expensive suit and spectacular heels; now he found himself watching the woman inside them.

That seemed considerably more dangerous. He raised an eyebrow when her attention returned to his outfit. “I’m starting to feel like I should’ve brought a résumé.” The woman tucked her handbag against her hip. “What's your name?” “Tim Johnson,” he replied. “And yours?” “Allison Kensington,” she answered. She offered the name with the assurance of someone accustomed to being recognized. “Nice to meet you, Allison.”

Tim checked the bus stop sign, although he'd ceased caring what it said. “Is this where you tell me you're recruiting for a secret government project?” Allison, undeterred, asked, “Are you married?” Tim looked back at her. “Your agency has a very strange interview process.”

“Answer the question,” Allison said. She was smiling now, but he caught genuine curiosity beneath the teasing. Tim blinked. “You barely know me.” “I'm working on that,” she replied. Her persistence was almost flattering. “Married?” she repeated, her eyes still on his face. Allison waited for the answer, looking more interested than she had any right to be after knowing him for five minutes. Tim was starting to enjoy the way she refused to be distracted.

“No. No girlfriend or boyfriend, either, in case there's a follow-up section,” Tim answered. Allison's evident satisfaction with this answer was deeply suspicious. “I really don't think this is about the bus.” He watched her reaction, wondering how a stranger could make an ordinary question sound like the opening move in a game. Whatever she wanted, the bus was no longer the most interesting thing happening on the sidewalk.

“It isn't.” Allison turned toward Maison Belle's center display. Tim followed her gaze, wondering what a store full of formal dresses had to do with his bus ride. “Whatever you're thinking, I feel like I should know about it before it costs me money.” She checked his face before answering, as though deciding how outrageous she could afford to be. The corner of her mouth lifted, and he had the unreasonable impression that she was trying not to look nervous. “I'm going to a wedding in Paris,” Allison said. “One of my old sorority friends is getting married.”

“Congratulations to your friend,” Tim said. He was still waiting for the connection to the dress shop, and Allison seemed to know it. “Thank you. My ex is another bridesmaid.” She delivered the news as if it were merely an unfortunate seating arrangement, but something sharper entered her expression. Tim knew better than to offer condolences for a relationship he knew nothing about. Allison looked back toward the window. “I'd like to arrive with a girlfriend.”

“Fair. Some people bring a date; some people bring a grudge and matching luggage.” Tim studied the shop window again. “What does that have to do with me?” Allison faced him completely. “I want you to be my girlfriend.” A bus passed on the other side of the road. Tim watched it go. When he looked back, Allison was still waiting with the kind of confidence usually reserved for people who had just placed an exceptionally good bet. “You're aware I'm a man?” Tim asked.

“Very.” Her gaze traveled slowly from his hair to his shoes and back again. That single word contained far more enthusiasm than he'd expected from a stranger. “I have eyes, Tim,” Allison said. She gave him another deliberate once-over, making no effort to hide her interest. “Yes. You've been using them rather aggressively,” Tim observed.

“Has it bothered you?” Allison asked. “That depends. Are you planning to stop?” Allison laughed, and the corner of his own mouth betrayed him. “Okay.” Tim held up a hand before she could elaborate. “I am surprised. I'm trying to understand how this makes sense to you.” He looked at Allison, waiting for something less rehearsed than the proposal itself. “My ex will be at Julie's wedding, and I would rather walk in with someone spectacular than spend the weekend letting Clara wonder whether I'm still pining for her.” Allison paused, watching his response before adding, “Ideally, I'd like Clara to wonder how I managed to do better.”

“You've thought about this,” Tim observed. “For an unreasonable amount of time,” Allison admitted, with a cheerfulness that made Tim like her more. “A competitive breakup. Got it.” He considered the kind of woman who would approach a total stranger at a bus stop with a strategy involving another continent. The proposal was getting better by the minute, which probably said something regrettable about his judgment.

“You want an exceptional girlfriend. And you've chosen this?” He gestured down his jeans and T-shirt. “I'm not insulted, Allison. I just don't see what you're seeing.” “You're a smokeshow who dresses like an accountant,” Allison said cheerfully. Tim blinked at her.

“That's the strangest compliment I've had in years.” Allison stepped beside him and pointed toward the window. “Look at yourself.” “The face, the hair, those cheekbones. You're petite, you're narrow through the shoulders, and your waist is already there. You could walk a runway in menswear or womenswear. The only thing working against you is that dreadful jacket.”

Tim studied their reflections. She seemed absurdly pleased with her discovery. “That jacket and I have been through a lot together,” Tim protested, still studying the reflection. “I can tell,” Allison answered. “It's time you both saw other people.” He laughed despite himself. Her certainty was dangerously contagious.

“I noticed you first,” Allison said. “You were reading the bus timetable as though arguing with it, and somehow you made waiting for a bus look more entertaining than my afternoon had been. Then I saw the boutique and had an excellent idea.” Tim stared at her. “You've been mentally dressing me.” “For approximately four minutes,” Allison answered. Tim tilted his head, wondering if she knew quite how brazen she sounded.

“Four minutes? I feel underappreciated. You could at least pretend it took some deliberation.” “It took three seconds to notice you,” Allison said. “The other three minutes and fifty-seven seconds were logistics.” He liked that she'd spent most of those four minutes deciding how to approach him, though he wasn't about to tell her.

“Impressively efficient. A little rude, but efficient.” Tim looked from his reflection to Allison. “You honestly think I'd look good in a dress?” “Absolutely,” Allison said. “But you'll have to trust me long enough to try one dress. If you hate it, we'll stop.”

Tim looked at her, still unsure whether she was serious, and laughed. “All right. Tell me the whole ridiculous proposal.” He shifted closer to the boutique window, where he could see their reflections together. Paris with her sounded reckless. So did standing here hoping she would keep talking. Allison waited until he was watching her again before she began.

“A weekend in Paris. You come as my girlfriend. I cover the clothes, travel, hotel, hair, makeup, everything. We arrive together looking like the sort of couple people turn around to watch.” Tim looked at her, then at their reflections in the window. “You seem remarkably confident about the couple part,” Tim said. “All I have to do is make it believable,” Allison answered. “And your strategy is to find someone you can't stop looking at?” Tim asked.

Allison's eyes narrowed with pleasure. “Careful. I might decide you're more trouble than you're worth.” “You approached me,” he reminded her. “At a bus stop. With an international romantic conspiracy.” Tim glanced at her shoes.

“We might have incompatible ideas about what a shoe budget should be.” “We'll use mine,” Allison said, as if that disposed of the entire concern. “Dangerous thing to offer a software engineer,” Tim warned her. “We tend to stress-test systems.” Tim adjusted the strap of his backpack and waited for her to recoil. Instead she gave him a smile he badly wanted to see again.

“Clothes, travel, hair, makeup, and a hotel,” she said. “I'll take care of it. You can say no, Tim. But I'd like you to come.” She left the invitation there, without crowding him for an answer. “You make breakups sound like league sports,” Tim said. “I don't lose,” Allison replied. Her smile slipped for a moment, just enough for him to wonder whether the contest mattered more than she'd admitted.

The snap in her voice made Tim wonder what had happened with the ex. That was her story to tell, not a question for the sidewalk. “What do I get besides a wardrobe-related education?” “A first-class weekend in Paris, a luxury hotel, and the company of a woman you appear to find attractive.” She lifted a brow. “Unless you've changed your mind about that last part.”

Tim let his gaze linger on her face just long enough to answer before speaking. “No danger of that.” For the first time, her reply wasn't immediate. She looked pleased, and perhaps a little surprised by how pleased. “Oh, I definitely noticed that last part.” He looked her over without pretending otherwise.

“I also have a job, and I like it. How much time are you asking me to take off?” “Just the weekend,” Allison said. Her gaze dropped to the laptop backpack. “What do you do?” “I write software.” He watched her register that. “And I can still work a little if I need to?” She laughed. “Is this a negotiation?” Allison asked.

“It's a discussion,” Tim replied. “I make a point of understanding what I've agreed to.” He could have argued with her for another hour, if only to watch how she defended an impossible proposition. The hotel was tempting, of course. What held him there was the way Allison looked at him when she thought he might say yes. She was offering him a choice. He liked her more for that, but he still wanted to know what would happen if he said yes.

Tim turned toward Maison Belle. “You want Software Engineer Barbie.” Allison stopped walking and stared at him. Her lips parted, but no answer came out. Tim gave her a moment to recover. Software Engineer Barbie was clearly going to require a trademark search.

“Yes,” she admitted, still eyeing the boutique. “Then let's be clear. If we're doing Software Engineer Barbie, you're paying for everything necessary.” He indicated the display. “Dresses, shoes, makeup, hair. And don't even think about putting me in something scratchy.”

“I thought you'd take some persuading,” Allison said. “I'm still waiting for the part where you persuade me to walk in those shoes.” He nodded toward her heels. “They look as if they have their own insurance policy.” Allison inspected him again.

“You've never presented as a woman before, have you?” “No. Should that bother me?” Tim asked. Allison's joking expression eased. “I don't know. Does it?” she asked. Tim gave the question its due. Clothes didn't frighten him. Hair and makeup were unfamiliar rather than impossible, and he had no intention of flying to Paris looking like someone who had lost a bet.

He was a man, he liked his work, and a beautiful woman had just proposed a very unusual weekend. He could examine the other details when they became actual problems. “You find me hot?” Tim asked. “Yes,” Allison said without hesitation. “That makes two of us.” Her expression changed, and he caught it. “I meant I find you hot, for the record. My considerable beauty can wait until after dinner.” Allison threw her head back and laughed. Tim decided there ought to be a law against a woman looking that good while having that much fun.

“I can learn the girlfriend part,” he added. “How hard can the heels be?” Allison gave him the sympathetic look one reserves for a person confidently explaining that they've never needed backups. Tim pointed at her. “Your face just called me an idiot.” “My face has excellent judgment,” Allison replied. Tim laughed.

He was still laughing when he remembered one contractual detail she'd overlooked. “One condition. I still get to code.” Tim held up his backpack like supporting evidence. Allison stared.

“Tim, we're talking about one weekend in Paris,” Allison said. “I have a laptop,” he replied. “I like my job. I'd rather not have to choose between working and enjoying Paris.” She glanced at his backpack, then at him. “Bring it. Just promise to look at me occasionally instead of your screen.” He could agree to that without checking his calendar.

“I'm not trying to take away your career.” Allison stepped closer, taking his backpack strap between two fingers and studying it as though it were the last obstacle between her and a perfectly good fantasy. “I'm trying to put you in a spectacular dress.” “You say that like it’s a threat,” Tim said. He let his attention wander pointedly toward her heels, hoping she'd take the invitation to argue.

“Is it?” Allison asked. Tim glanced at her heels again. “Mostly to my ankles.” He took a quiet moment to enjoy how she was looking at him. “But I could be persuaded.” “Oh, I know,” Allison said.

The certainty made him grin. She was outrageous. Worse, she seemed to be getting away with it. “All right. But when I fall off those heels, you're catching me.” “You haven't seen what I have in mind,” Allison said, glancing at the window. “That's part of the appeal,” Tim replied. He could hear the eagerness in his own voice. Allison extended her hand. “Paris for the wedding, and your laptop comes along,” she summarized. “In exchange, you come with me to Julie's wedding, looking absolutely devastating, and help me make an entrance Clara won't forget.”

“Devastating? You set a high bar for a stranger waiting on a bus.” “You have no idea,” she said, and the look she gave him suggested she was already imagining the results. “And we do it properly,” Tim said, taking her hand. “Deal.” Her fingers closed around his and lingered there. He had agreed to an improbable international girlfriend operation, and somehow the thing that occupied him was the warmth of her hand.

He decided not to investigate that just yet. She glanced at Maison Belle. “Oh, no.” Tim spotted the approaching bus. “My ride is finally coming.” “Let the bus go. I can take you home afterward,” Allison said.

“By what means? Private helicopter?” Tim asked. “Bentley,” Allison answered without pausing to consider the question. Tim turned to her. “I asked because I wanted to see whether you'd say something obnoxious. Thank you for not disappointing me.” Allison laughed and tugged at his hand. The bus slowed beside the curb, its brakes sighing. Tim didn't move toward it. He adjusted his laptop backpack and nodded toward the shop.

“Software Engineer Barbie,” he reminded her. “Your credit card.” “Obviously,” Allison said, already steering him toward the door. “Fuck it,” Tim replied, and let her lead him inside. The bell chimed as they crossed the threshold, and he wondered what exactly he had agreed to become. Allison, apparently not worried about that question, was already surveying the dresses.

Tim stopped three steps past the entrance and surveyed the room. The shop was smaller than the windows suggested, with dresses spaced far enough apart to display every cut and seam. Shoes stood on lit shelves beside handbags that looked too expensive to leave unguarded. A wall of mirrors caught Tim's reflection from several angles, which seemed an unnecessary amount of honesty from a shop he'd only just entered. Allison's fingers remained threaded with his; he wasn't eager to be the one who let go. He could smell fabric and a trace of perfume, but what distracted him was the pressure of her fingers against his. “Okay,” Tim said when Allison finally released his hand. He tried to concentrate on the racks instead of the sudden absence of her fingers. So far, he was doing a poor job of it.

“Okay what?” Allison asked. Tim looked from a deep green dress to a sharply cut black one, unable to picture either on his own body. He could recognize good workmanship, but choosing what belonged on his own body was another matter. “I know how to make a dress,” he admitted. “I haven't a clue which one I'd wear.” A woman's voice sounded behind them. “That may be the most intelligent thing a man has said in my store all week.” Tim turned.

She was perhaps in her fifties, dressed beautifully without looking remotely impressed by the effort, and she was watching Allison with the resigned affection of someone who knew her too well. A younger woman behind the register leaned forward, clearly interested in what was happening. “Camille,” Allison greeted her brightly. Camille Moreau studied Allison, then Tim, then the space between them. “No. I have no idea what you've decided, and my answer is already no.”

“I haven't asked you anything,” Allison protested. “You brought a man into Maison Belle with that look on your face,” Camille countered. Camille inclined her head toward Tim. “I'm Camille Moreau, by the way. If she's about to cause trouble for you, my apologies.” “Tim Johnson,” he said, shaking her hand.

“I suspect we're all about to learn something.” He glanced toward the register. “And you?” “Sophie Bennett.” The younger woman came out from behind the counter. Her grin widened as she took in Tim and Allison.

“Nice to meet you, Sophie,” Tim said. Sophie looked briefly surprised that he had bothered to ask her name, rather than treating her as part of the furnishings. Her grin softened before returning at full strength. Tim liked her immediately. Camille turned back to Allison. “What have you done?”

“Nothing yet. I need a girlfriend for a wedding in Paris, and Tim has agreed to help,” Allison explained. Camille looked at Tim, as though measuring how much of this story he had understood. “Has he? Willingly?” “There's a Paris trip and a beautiful woman involved,” he explained. “I may have been compromised before negotiations began.”

Allison's smile went positively wicked. “He was very firm about keeping his laptop.” “Ah,” Camille said. “A man of principles.” Sophie stopped beside Tim and looked between them, already anticipating trouble. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” Sophie said, barely containing her enthusiasm.

“See?” Tim said. “She got there faster than I did.” Camille closed her eyes briefly. “Allison. Please tell me you've thought beyond the first five minutes,” Camille said.

“Of course I have. Look at him properly.” Allison stepped behind Tim and settled both hands lightly on his shoulders as though arranging him for a photograph. Tim went very still. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her through his jacket. “The shoulders, the waist, that face. Tell me I'm wrong.”

Camille regarded Tim over her glasses. “I haven't said you're wrong. I am considering whether you're both trouble.” “Both?” Tim asked. “I haven't done anything.”

“You're enjoying this far too much to be innocent,” Camille replied. Allison laughed against his shoulder before stepping away. Tim decided that if this was what the project involved, he was going to be a diligent student. Camille gave Allison a measuring look before returning her attention to Tim. Camille's assessment was different from the one Tim had received on the sidewalk. She glanced at his shoulders, hair, the length of his torso and legs, then moved half a step to see his profile.

“Turn, please,” Camille instructed. Tim obeyed, turning in place until Camille raised a hand. “I'm fitting a dress, Monsieur Johnson, not asking you to demonstrate a rotisserie chicken.” Sophie laughed. Tim looked over his shoulder. “I think I preferred the chicken comparison to falling over,” Tim said. “You really are taking this well,” Camille observed, moving a dress aside to check his profile.

“I'm going to Paris with Allison. Have you seen Allison?” He gestured toward her, which earned him an open-mouthed look from the woman in question. “I'm not going to pretend I know how to walk in those heels. What I need to know is whether the three of you can teach me without laughing me out of the shop.” “I can promise to teach you,” Camille said. Sophie nodded, her smile settling into professional attention. “But I can't promise we won't laugh together occasionally.”

Allison folded her arms in exaggerated indignation, although she appeared to be enjoying the attention. Tim looked between her and the row of dresses. “Excellent. Then I'm the one who needs training,” he said, indicating the nearest rack. “I agreed to be Allison's girlfriend for the wedding. I want to feel comfortable enough that she isn't worried about me every time we walk into a room.” Allison gave him a look that suggested she was pleased by how seriously he took the promise.

Camille regarded him thoughtfully. “You've never worn a dress out yourself, have you?” “Not yet,” Tim answered. “I'd like to know how to move without fighting the fabric.” Camille nodded toward the rack. Tim lifted two dresses and rubbed the fabrics between his fingers before checking their seams. “This one has a different grain and a lighter lining. It'll hang differently, but I can't tell whether that matters with me inside it,” he said.

Sophie glanced at Camille. “Most customers want to know what makes their waist look smaller,” Sophie said. “I'd rather know why the cut works,” Tim replied. Tim turned one garment to inspect the dart beneath its bust. “That's shaping without adding a separate panel. Clever.”

Camille took the hanger from him, looking more interested now. “You know what a dart is.” “Should I not?” Tim asked. “I sew.” He ran his thumb lightly over the dart, remembering the last bodice he'd altered for a nervous girl before prom.

Sophie looked at the dart he had identified, then at his hands. “What do you sew?” she asked. The question had genuine curiosity behind it, and Tim was pleased to have found someone who understood why the construction mattered. “Prom dresses, mostly. For girls who can’t afford to buy one,” Tim told her. Sophie lowered the hanger she was holding. “You make them yourself?” she asked, looking at the seams he had been examining. Tim nodded. “Sometimes there's barely time before the dance, but the girls make it worth the late nights.” Camille stopped turning the garment and examined his hands with fresh respect. Allison had gone quiet too. “You do that for girls you don't even know?” she asked. Tim rubbed his thumb over the seam, a little embarrassed by the attention. “They send me their measurements and tell me what they dream of wearing. Sometimes we can get close.” Allison looked at his hands rather than his face. “That's a very good thing to know about you,” she said. He had trouble looking away from her afterward.

“Well,” Camille said, “that changes where we begin. You already know construction. What you don't yet know is how these lines behave on your body.” She held the two dresses against him in turn while Sophie explained why one neckline drew attention toward his shoulders and the other led the eye down toward his waist. Tim could follow the seam work immediately, but the way Allison watched the fabric against him kept drawing his gaze away from the lesson. “Try the raised waist,” Sophie suggested.

Tim anticipated the resulting line before she turned the dress, and she grinned when he caught it. “You really do know what you're looking at.” “I know the sewing,” he said. “I'm still learning what happens when I'm the one inside it.” Allison let out a quiet laugh, and he turned toward her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Allison said, though her smile gave her away. “I'm just finding new reasons to think I made an excellent decision.” Tim rested a hand on the rack between them. “Careful. That sounded almost like flirting.” Allison held his gaze. “I assure you it was entirely deliberate.” His ready comeback deserted him.

Camille cleared her throat, but Tim caught Sophie trying not to laugh as he returned his attention to the dress. Five minutes later Sophie had left the register entirely, and Tim was comparing necklines with the seriousness he usually reserved for a design review. He caught Allison watching him instead of the dresses. “You're the client,” he reminded her. “Tell me what the finished product is supposed to achieve.” “Breakup victory,” Allison said promptly. Tim's smile faltered at how easily she reduced the weekend to a victory. “Is that really all you want?”

Camille made a sound from behind the rack. Allison came closer, her expression losing its teasing edge. “I want her to see us together and understand that I've moved on. I want you to look wonderful, and I don't want anyone to think you're uncomfortable being there.” She watched his face, waiting to see whether he understood the difference.

“You want me to belong beside you,” Tim said. “If I'm checking the room to see who's laughing, we've failed before the ceremony starts.” Allison held his gaze without trying to make a joke of it. “Yes,” she said. Tim considered her for a moment, then reached for the nearest dress. “All right. Show me how.”

Sophie was holding several dresses by now. Tim had been so absorbed in Allison that he hadn't noticed her gathering them. “When did you collect those?” “While you were flirting,” Sophie said. “Who was flirting?” Tim looked around at the three women, all of whom were staring at him.

“Oh. Fair.” Camille pointed toward the fitting rooms. “Try them. We'll start with the neckline, the placement of the waist, and what the skirts do when you move. Hair and shoes won't rescue a dress that fights you.”

“That sounds like something I can actually understand,” Tim said. He accepted the clothes and headed toward the fitting area. “Tim,” Allison called after him. He stopped. She lowered her voice. “You really are taking this seriously.” “You asked me to do something, Allison. I said yes.” Tim slipped into the fitting room, set his backpack safely aside, and started inspecting the dress. He had made it as far as the zipper before encountering a design decision he considered hostile.

Through the fitting-room door, Tim heard Sophie ask Allison where she'd found him. He paused with the dress in his hands. Allison's answer was easy enough to catch: “At the bus stop.” Camille's voice carried even more clearly. “You met him today? At a bus stop? And invited him to Paris to be your girlfriend?” Allison confirmed it without sounding remotely apologetic, and Tim heard Sophie declare that rich people were fucking wild. He grinned at the dress. He couldn't really argue with that diagnosis.

He found the side seam and examined the fastening. “Sophie, there's a closure mechanism in here that appears to have been designed by someone who has never put on their own clothes.” “Try the opening along the side seam,” Sophie called through the door. “Oh, that's clever. Still a terrible interface, but clever. And this zipper closes exactly where the wearer can't comfortably reach it.” Camille welcomed him to fashion from outside the door. Whoever had designed the closure had apparently assumed the wearer possessed an additional elbow. “Tim,” Allison called through the door.

“I'm trying to make friends with the zipper!” Tim called back. Sophie laughed loudly enough for him to hear through the door. “Put it on,” Allison called. Tim grinned at his reflection before finishing the zipper. Whatever he had expected when his car broke down, being the cause of a small riot in a luxury dress shop hadn't been on the list.

Tim stepped out wearing the first dress. He had removed his T-shirt so it wouldn't bunch beneath the fabric, but otherwise there had been no transformation: no makeup, no special hairstyle, and certainly no heels. The dress had a higher waist than anything in his closet and a skirt that moved when he walked. He stopped near the mirror to see whether the lessons had made a difference. They had. The neckline led his eye downward, while the shape of the skirt gave his hips a suggestion of curve he hadn't expected. It was still his face in the mirror, but the drape made him stand differently. He felt a ridiculous impulse to turn again, just to watch the fabric move. He caught Allison in the reflection and lost his place in his own analysis. “Well?” he asked, suddenly curious about something other than the seams. “What do you think?”

Sophie stepped toward him, but her attention flicked first to Allison. That was enough to make Tim turn his head. Allison was still beside the mirror, watching him rather than the fabric. He wasn't sure why her silence pleased him so much. “The waist sits where I hoped,” Sophie said, gently drawing him back to the lesson. She smoothed the dress at one hip and asked him to turn a fraction. Tim obliged, liking the swish of the skirt more than he was prepared to admit.

Tim turned sideways to study the skirt. “No padding. It's all in the cut,” he said. “Visual balance,” Camille said, joining them. She made a small adjustment at his waist and stepped away so he could see it in the mirror. “If you force the fabric to disguise your body, it'll pull and bunch as soon as you move. This falls cleanly because the cut is doing the work.”

Tim studied the single dress from the front, then turned to inspect its profile and nodded. “I see what you mean. Let's try the next one after this.” He looked for Allison, expecting her to have strong opinions about the result. She was standing behind him, close enough to share the mirror, but for once she didn't immediately give him a verdict. Her eyes traveled from the fit of the dress to his face and stayed there.

Tim waited. Behind her, Sophie found a reason to straighten a hanger. Camille rearranged the other garments without interrupting. “Are you going to tell me what you think?” Tim asked. Allison took another moment with the waist seam. “You were right about doing it properly,” she admitted. Tim caught her reflection looking at his face instead of the stitching, and the compliment landed rather differently than she probably intended. He turned just enough to catch her eye. “You were considerably more articulate when I had my jeans on,” Tim teased. He held still, giving her plenty of time to look away. She didn't. Tim could feel himself becoming bolder under her attention.

He turned toward her. “What do you think? Does it suit me?” Allison's eyes remained on his face. “Yes,” she said. Then she glanced down, apparently remembering they were meant to be assessing a dress. “The cut works. But I want to see the next one before we decide.”

“Of course,” Tim replied. “Purely professional. That explains why you forgot to blink.” Allison's color rose before she could stop it. Tim found himself grinning, less because he'd won the exchange than because she suddenly looked as vulnerable as he felt.

Then she reached up and smoothed a strand of hair away from his shoulder. Her hand paused there before she lowered it. Her fingertips warmed the bare skin above the dress. Tim forgot the question he'd been about to ask. When she drew back, he caught himself wanting to follow.

Sophie watched from beside the mirror as Allison drifted toward the handbags. Tim waited until Allison was out of earshot before approaching her. “Did you see that?” he asked quietly. Sophie glanced at the handbag display, where Allison had been examining the same purse for an unusually long time. “You mean the way she forgot what she was about to say?” Sophie asked. Tim smiled, then looked down at the skirt. For the first time since entering the boutique, he wondered whether the dress itself mattered quite as much as the woman waiting to see him in it.

Sophie laid the hanger on the counter. “You looked comfortable in the dress,” she said. “That makes a difference.” Tim glanced across at Allison, who was still lingering beside the same handbag. “I was comfortable until she looked at me like that,” he admitted. Sophie smiled at him without making a joke of it. “Then perhaps you should let her look.” The suggestion was much less technical than he'd expected, and rather more interesting.

Camille joined them with another dress draped over her arm. She watched Tim glancing after Allison and raised an eyebrow. “Are we fitting clothes, or am I interrupting something?” Tim put a hand against his chest in feigned innocence. “I believe Sophie has another lesson for me.” Sophie pointed him toward the open space beside the mirror. “Posture first. If you're uncomfortable standing, walking will be miserable.”

Tim moved into the space she indicated. Sophie showed him the difference between relaxing his shoulders and folding into himself. His first attempt went too far, and the dress sagged across his chest. Camille stepped forward, adjusted the fabric, and showed him the change in the mirror. This time Tim recognized the difference without needing anyone to explain it. “Now shift your weight off your left foot,” Sophie instructed. “You're standing as though somebody's about to hand you a refrigerator.”

“Why has nobody mentioned that before?” Tim asked. “Because nobody was grading your stance,” Sophie said. She nudged his foot a few inches. “Watch what the skirt does.” Tim obeyed, then shifted back and tried again. The waist and skirt changed shape in the mirror, subtly but consistently.

“That's going to take practice,” he admitted, trying the movement again. “It's alarming how much difference an inch makes.” Sophie laughed, but Camille was already pointing out a limitation. If he pushed the hip too far, the pose looked deliberate and distracted from the clothes. Tim asked where that boundary was, and Sophie demonstrated it without turning the lesson into a performance. He tried the same movement until the difference made sense to his own eye. “There,” Camille said as he found the balance. “You'll need to recognize that yourself at the wedding.”

“That's why I want to understand the rule,” Tim said. He looked toward Allison. She had returned from the handbags and was watching from the other side of the room. “And I have a practical application in mind.” “Oh, dear,” Camille murmured. Sophie grinned.

“Movement next,” Sophie said. “Standing still will only take you so far.” She demonstrated a walk along the open space between racks, taking steps a little closer to her center line than Tim naturally did. When he copied her, his first attempt resembled a man navigating a narrow beam. Sophie winced, and Tim stopped before she had to say anything. “I've managed to make walking worse,” he observed.

“You're watching your feet,” Sophie said. “Pick a destination instead.” He tried again. Camille reminded him not to force the movement, and Sophie adjusted the spacing of his steps. By the time he reached the mirror he was thinking more about his destination than the instructions. The skirt moved freely, and nothing about the walk felt precarious.

“There,” Sophie said. “You stopped concentrating on the mechanics.” “So the mechanics have to become background,” Tim said. He turned around and walked back without watching himself. It wasn't perfect, but the second attempt felt less like an imitation. “That I can work with.”

Allison approached while he was finishing. “What exactly have the two of you been doing?” she asked. Tim glanced at Sophie, who had made herself busy straightening the nearest rack. “Training,” he said. “Sophie has been teaching me how to stand without looking as if I'm about to apologize to the furniture.” Allison surveyed him again, this time beginning with his shoulders rather than the dress. “And is it working?”

Tim gave his new stance a try, hoping she'd notice without further explanation. Camille stopped beside the mirror and tilted her head as though checking his work. “He has good instincts,” she said, surprising Tim. “I only have to remind him to use them.” “That's the first compliment she's given me all afternoon,” Tim told Allison. Sophie adjusted one of the dresses and gave Camille a grateful look. Tim found he could face the scrutiny more easily when Allison was willing to be caught staring, too.

“We were just discussing the difference between memorizing gestures and paying attention to the people around you,” Sophie said. Camille folded her arms. “You can memorize steps all afternoon and still trip over someone when you turn to speak. Watch where you're going, and notice who's beside you. Start with Allison.” Tim regarded Allison for a moment. She was standing a few feet away, still spectacularly dressed, holding her handbag by the clasp.

He had spent the lesson studying his reflection. Allison stood nearby, worrying the clasp of her handbag with her thumb. Outside she'd looked at him like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. Here, among the mirrors, she seemed less certain of what to do with her hands. Tim found the difference irresistible. He stepped away from his own reflection and turned his attention to her.

He let his shoulders settle as Sophie had shown him and shifted his weight until the skirt fell naturally. Allison looked down at the dress, then back up. When their eyes met, Tim held her gaze. He hadn't needed a lesson to know she was attracted to him, but he could choose whether to acknowledge that openly. “Like this?” he asked, taking a step closer.

Allison's hand went to the cuff of her jacket. She started to adjust it, then let her hand fall instead. He nearly laughed at how quickly she'd abandoned the cuff. He moved another step toward her, stopping where she could see the change in his stance and still look directly into his eyes. “That's a much better demonstration than the one you gave Sophie,” Allison said quietly. She had been perfectly capable of ordering a room around all afternoon; now she sounded as though she'd forgotten there were other people in it.

Tim had expected teasing. Her seriousness caught him off guard for an instant, and he liked that it did. “Am I making you nervous?” Tim asked, close enough to see Allison's gaze flick toward his mouth. Her attention came back to his eyes. Neither of them moved away.

“Considerably,” Allison said, abandoning the pretense of assessing a seam. The word came out softer than her earlier certainty at the bus stop. The woman who'd negotiated Paris at a bus stop was suddenly having trouble holding his gaze, and he rather liked it. Across the room, Sophie was busy finding another dress to hang. Camille gave her an instruction in French that Tim couldn't follow. He appreciated the attempt at privacy, even if it was transparent enough to make him smile.

“Good. I think I've learned something,” Tim said. He stepped back toward Sophie. Allison took an unthinking step after him before stopping. Tim caught the movement at the edge of his vision.

Tim reached the rack and tried not to look over his shoulder. Sophie stepped in front of him, cutting off any chance of pretending he was there for another dress. “You did that on purpose,” she observed. “The walking away part,” Tim admitted. He glanced toward Allison, who had stopped herself mid-step and was now studying a bracelet with sudden interest. “I didn't expect to like it quite so much,” he added.

“You are evil,” Sophie whispered, glancing toward Allison. She was trying to keep a straight face and failing spectacularly. Tim lowered his voice. “I think I like her,” he admitted. Sophie glanced toward Allison, then back at him. “I noticed.”

He gave Sophie an innocent look that fooled neither of them. Camille looked up from the garment she was checking, apparently having heard enough of their whispered conspiracy. “If either of you is finished conspiring, we still have dresses to fit,” Camille announced. Tim raised both hands in surrender, though his smile made the gesture entirely unconvincing. Sophie turned back to the dresses before Camille could recruit her into the argument.

“You've created a menace,” Tim told Camille. Camille set the garment down with an expression of exquisite resignation. “My methods were excellent,” she replied. “Your application is the problem.” Sophie looked from Tim to Allison, visibly struggling with the urge to narrate every development. Camille gave her a warning glance. “Inside voice,” she said.

Sophie leaned closer to Tim. “I want to see the next dress almost as much as she does,” she whispered. Tim faced Allison. She met him with the challenging smile he'd seen outside. “I think we're going to make a very good team.” Allison smiled. Tim wondered whether she had started looking forward to the weekend for the same reasons he had. “Careful, Tim. I still get to choose the shoes,” Allison warned.

He considered the spectacular heels she'd worn into the shop and the fitting lesson he'd just survived. “Then you'll have to teach me how to survive them,” he answered. Allison's laugh faded into a smile that promised she was already planning the lesson. She held his gaze, and for once neither of them seemed in a hurry to have the last word. Tim smiled back. When she offered her hand, he took it. Paris suddenly seemed very far away.

Author's Note

Thanks for joining Tim and Allison in a perfectly sensible arrangement between two adults who should know better. Allison has the plan and the credit card. Tim keeps finding ways to improve the specifications. Neither seems concerned that they're enjoying the assignment this much.

Thank you for reading! BigCloset has been one of my longtime homes as a reader, and I'm delighted to be sharing my own stories here. I've spent many happy hours getting lost in the fiction on this site, so it's rather special to be contributing something of my own.

I love writing characters who discover unexpected things about themselves, find people who appreciate them, and occasionally get into considerably more trouble than they intended. Romance, laughter, friendship, and a little mischief tend to find their way into everything I write.

I welcome your comments, guesses, and suggestions. I can't promise my characters will listen to either of us, but I genuinely enjoy hearing what you think. Thank you for giving my stories a place in your reading time.

With love,
Jenny

---

Thanks for joining Tim and Allison in a perfectly sensible arrangement between two adults who should know better. Allison has the plan and the credit card. Tim keeps finding ways to improve the specifications. Neither seems concerned that they're enjoying the assignment this much.

A Note from Jenny

Thank you for reading! BigCloset has been one of my longtime homes as a reader, and I'm delighted to be sharing my own stories here. I've spent many happy hours getting lost in the fiction on this site, so it's rather special to be contributing something of my own.

I love writing characters who discover unexpected things about themselves, find people who appreciate them, and occasionally get into considerably more trouble than they intended. Romance, laughter, friendship, and a little mischief tend to find their way into everything I write.

I welcome your comments, guesses, and suggestions. I can't promise my characters will listen to either of us, but I genuinely enjoy hearing what you think. Thank you for giving my stories a place in your reading time.

More Stories by Jennifer McDonald

For early-access chapters, bonus material, and exclusive stories, visit
Jennifer's Patreon.
Free membership is available.

With love,
Jenny