Page 15 of Mr. Mistletoe
The Chinoiserie Squirrel is the most popular boutique in the city. Everyone and their grandmother shops here. They carry everything from original art and home goods to baby items and women’s clothing—exactly the kind of place that could launch Echelon House of Design into something real.
A vintage silk scarf catches my eye, and I can picture one of my signature jumpsuits hanging right beside it. Hope buoys my step, and I float across the store. During the car ride over, I blasted my hype playlist. J-Lo’s voice still ricochets in my head.
Let’s get loud. Let’s get…
A fluffy cat winds around my ankles like it owns the place. I stumble, nearly face-planting. Somehow, I manage to stayupright. The cat blinks up at me with bored judgment, as if to say,Really? That’s your big entrance?
This is my lucky day, I remind myself. Usually, I would’ve gone sailing straight into the display of scented candles. Not today.
All I do is win, win, win…
A prickling runs down my spine. I glance over my shoulder. Someone’s watching me—and it’s not the cat. A blonde woman crouches half-hidden behind a bassinet, pretending to sort onesies while very obviously staring.
Maybe she likes my outfit? Or maybe she’s spotted the fact that I’m sweating through it. Either way, I force a smile and stride toward the register. My heels click against the hardwood, each step sounding like a gunshot in the quiet store.
This is it, Jess.
Breathe.
Smile.
Act like you belong.
“Hi, I’m Jessica Barnes with Echelon House of Design here for Mallory Jacobs.”
The woman behind the counter, stylish in a knit sweater-and-skirt combo in this season’s hottest chartreuse, checks her calendar.
“I’m so sorry,” she says politely. “Mallory’s been pulled away for a family emergency.”
My stomach drops. “Oh.”
“You can meet with me. I’m the store manager.” Her handshake is firm but about as warm as a tax audit.
Not what I wanted, but I can’t leave without trying. “Sure. Sounds great.”
“Give me a minute to cover the register.”
Thirty minutes later, I’ve wandered every square inch of the boutique and the manager still hasn’t come to meet me. Myboots pinch my toes like vices. But fashion is sometimes painful, so I endure.
Finally, she appears and ushers me to a sleek glass table. “Sorry about that. ’Tis the season, right?”
“Right.” I gesture at the busy store where I’d love to see my designs someday. “It looks fabulous in here. I love everything in this shop.”
She smiles politely, inclining her head at my leather satchel. “So. What have we got there?”
I open my satchel and take out my sketch pad, a folder with glossy photos, and some samples of my signature macramé.
Each piece feels like a part of me. My heart is literally stitched into the seams, a pulse beating outside my body. Blood, sweat, tears, and plenty of F-bombs are on the table, spread between us.
The manager flips through the photos, nodding once, twice. Hope sparks in my chest.
“They’re beautiful,” she says carefully, “but…too niche. Don’t you make clothes for regular people?”
Her words land like a slap. “Tall people are regular people. We’re just not short. Do you know how hard it is to find pants for a thirty-six-inch inseam? For thirty-nine? It’s not just limited—it’s nonexistent. That’s where I come in.”
I hear the crack in my voice and hate it.
The manager closes the folder with a decisive snap. “I understand. Truly. But I don’t see them selling well here. I wish you the best of luck.”
