Page 121 of Perfume Girl

“Of course.” She hurried over to her wardrobe and brought out a blue silk robe with a Chinese design on the back.

“I can’t wear that.”

“It’s this or nothing.”

“Don’t you have anything left over from…?” Yeah, from her expression asking that question was a bad idea. “It’s fine.” I motioned for her to give it to me.

Dragging my arms through the sleeves, I felt like a complete idiot. It was too small and short at the hem and the sleeves hit halfway up my forearms. This summed up my fucking day. I was standing before her looking ridiculous—and the way she was trying to suppress a laugh proved it.

I opened my palms in defeat. “Well, that’s the last of my masculinity gone.”

“You look cute.”

I chuckled. “I’m willing to risk my clothes shrinking so I can hold onto some dignity. Where’s the dryer?”

“I’ll wash them for you,” Raquel said, smiling.

The tension had lifted, and I hoped it might stay this way.

I held her gaze. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m home, so yes.”

Outside came the sound of metal crashing against metal.

“Hope that wasn’t my car,” I muttered, though in all honesty a car could be fixed. I wasn’t so sure we could.

“You shouldn’t have risked it,” she said, gathering up my sopping wet clothes.

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Just tell me what’s really going on with you.”

“I’m working on something downstairs that will explain everything.”

“That’s not vague at all.”

“Once I complete it I’ll be ready to talk more.” She nodded as though thinking this was logical.

“Did you come up with a new scent? I mean other than the cologne you left at your workstation? You’re concerned I’ll want to own it because it was designed under my roof, and on my time?”

She gave me a kind smile. “It preceded my time at The House of Beauregard.”

“The new cologne you left with that note…” I shook my head in admiration. “It’s fantastic, Raquel. It really is.”

“That’ll pay for the Orris oil.”

“What Orris oil?”

“The bottle I stole from your storeroom.”

“Which one?”

“From the Lithuanian collection.”

She’d taken one of the ten five-year-old bottles of oil that we’d perfected—the rare irises that cost a small fortune.

“Keep it.” I shook my head. “So this has nothing to do with me? It’s all about your ambition to create a new scent?” There was no other way to say it. “I know you want to save your store, but I feel like collateral damage.”

She let my clothes slip from her arms and fall to the floor. “That’s not it at all.”