Page 93 of She's Like the Wind
We shared a split of Ruinart, and when Kadisha came in, she joined us in our celebrations.
I texted an image of the write-up to Gage.
Gage replied immediately:Fuck yeah!
I giggled.
“What?” Aurelie asked as she sprawled on the daybed in the boudoir.
“Her beau probably sent her a dick pic.” Kadisha raised her glass and fluttered her eyelashes.
I rolled my eyes and shot her a look of mock exasperation. “If you must know, he said congratulations.”
Aurelie arched an eyebrow. “He saidcongratulations? That doesn’t sound like Gage.”
“Well, he saidfuck yeah.Same thing.”
“That sounds like Gage,” Kadisha agreed.
The rest of the day I couldn’t help but think of the write-up, because three brides came by looking for lingerie for their trousseau. It was almost as if all the brides in New Orleans had read the article and were now migrating toward Aire Noire like swans in veils—ready to preen and purchase.
One of them was the kind of bride I usually had no patience for.
Tall, airbrushed, and clearly fueled by champagne and superiority, she swept in wearing white sunglasses and barking orders into her phone about the florist’s “lackof vision”.
She dismissed one of my silk chemises as “too French”, demanded another in “bridal white, not funereal ivory”, and called her maid of honor “useless” for not bringing the mood board.
On any other day, I might’ve needed a double espresso and a five-minute breathing break in the back room just to avoid saying something sharp.
But today?
I didn’t care,‘cause I was still humming with the echo of that beautiful compliment about Aire Noire inMartha Freaking Stewart Weddings.
My store was doing awesome, my mood was light, and even Bridezilla couldn’t ruin that.
So, I smiled, handed her a pair of embroidered tulle panties with a pearl button detail, and said, “Try these.”
Bridezilla beamed. “I love it. They scream ‘I’m expensive and hard to impress,’ which is exactly the vibe I’m going for.”
God help her future husband.
Gage came in just before closing, a small parchment-wrapped bouquet in hand.
Not red roses.
Orange blossoms.
He said I smelled like them—no surprise since I made my own perfume with essential oils, orange blossoms being the featured scent.
You couldn’t just pick up theseflowers at any corner store—he would have had to look for them or maybe he ordered them.
He handed them to me and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m proud of you, baby.”
I hugged the flowers to my chest because my heart felt so full that it wanted to burst out of me.
That simple sentence cracked something wide open.
Three days later, I came back from a vendor meeting and found a slim package wrapped in brown paper on my counter.
