Page 99 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

“Yet another reason I love fashions of the past,” I muttered to myself with a kind of reverence.

“They are impeccable,” Duncan agreed.

A pair of older women tittered over a red straw hat with a colorful purple sash around its middle. I beamed at them and moved closer to the hat trees.

My hands were drawn to an elegant blue hat replete with feathers and ribbon along one side.

“For your grandma?” I suggested.

Duncan shook his head. “Not really her style. What about you? Which do you like?”

“Me? We’re not shopping for me.”

“Says who?”

He rested a hand on his hip, eyeing me. So I humored him. I inspected the selection, searching, looking.

My eyes were instantly drawn to the collection of 1920s-style cloche hats, the kind that hugged the head and stopped at the ear like a bob. Several adorned faceless mannequins on the table: a cream one set off by a lacy band, a lavender one without adornments, a pink one sprayed with flowers on one side.

Captivated, I reached for the woolen gray cloche hat, which was accentuated with a flat-seated bow at the back. Using the circular mirror on display, I fluffed my dark hair and placed the piece on my head.

“No, no,” a woman said from across the store.

Her graying hair was cropped short. She wore a beret with a little pom on the top and made her way toward us.

My hands flew to remove the hat. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked before trying it on. I?—”

“Nonsense.” The woman waved me off, speaking with a French accent, with her Rs in the back of her throat. “Of course, you should try it on.”

With delicate hands, she tilted my hat to a more distinct angle on my head. Concentrating, she adjusted it a second time.

“There,” the French woman said. She stood back to admire the shift. “What do you think?”

I gazed at my reflection in the small mirror and was struck. This hat, with the small adjustments she’d given it, redefined the shape of my face and made my eyes pop. In an instant, I was a new woman.

Chills trailed down my arms. I felt transformed, as though a layer I didn’t know I possessed had been brought to light.

“I love it,” I said, shooting a smile at Duncan and receiving one in return.

“This hat is definitely for you,” the shop owner pronounced with pride.

I was suddenly self-conscious. Her words fragmented the moment.

No, not for me. We weren’t here for me.

I removed the hat and placed it back on its mannequin, catching a glimpse of the price tag and inadvertently stepping on Duncan’s foot in the process.

One hundred and forty dollars? For a hat?

“Oh, no,” I insisted. “We’re?—”

“Duncan?” a male voice called from across the store, cutting me off.

The three of us paused. The shop owner and I turned toward the back where a tall man with brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses waved and wove through the hat stands toward us. He wore a white button-up shirt and slacks.

Duncan took a few steps forward. “Wesley?”

“Dude,” Wesley said, lifting his arms. “What are you doing here?”

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