Window Shopping

by Tessa Bailey

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

USA TODAY BESTSELLER

A sizzling, standalone, feel-good holiday romance from Tessa Bailey, #1 New York Times bestselling author of It Happened One Summer!

Two weeks before Christmas and all through Manhattan,
shop windows are decorated in red and green satin.

Stella’s standing alone outside a famous department store,
when a charming man asks her opinion on the décor.

It’s a tragedy in tinsel, she says, unable to lie.
Then he asks for a better idea, with a twinkle in his eye.

She didn’t know he owned the place, when he put her on the spot,
And now she’s working for that man, trying to ignore that he’s hot.

But as a down-on-her-luck girl with a difficult past,
Stella knows how to make a good opportunity last.
So she gives it her all, working without stopping.
Trying to resist temptation, because she’s just window shopping.

 

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Release date: December 20, 2022

Publisher: Avon

Print pages: 273

Sample

1

Stella

Normally, I avoid Fifth Avenue. But not today. I’ll never be able to explain why I deviated from my route and veered down the bustling thoroughfare of high-end shopping.

If I was a girl who believed in magic, I would say there was a tingle of Christmas magic in the air that propelled me east, carrying me through the shopper’s paradise on a wintery gust of wind. Or I would say Santa’s elves were nipping at my heels, urging me to this exact spot where I’m now standing transfixed by the giant display window outside of Vivant. But magic is for suckers and children, so that can’t be it. Maybe I was just ready to look again.

A pedestrian tries to overtake the slow walker in front of them and doesn’t quite make it in time before reaching where I stand, a roadblock dressed in black and severely lacking in anything resembling holiday spirit, thus knocking into me at full speed with his shoulder.

I bite down on my tongue to quell the words NEEDLE DICK that want to come flying out of my mouth like darts toward a bullseye. What would Dr. Skinner tell me? Don’t trade emotional currency with strangers. You will never get a refund. Skinner might have smelled like moldy granola, but she did have some good advice from time to time. Following that counsel is how—in the twist of the century—I got released from Bedford Hills Correctional early for exemplary behavior.

If I was in one of my many mandatory counseling sessions right now, my former beatnik shrink would tell me to take myself out of this situation that has potential to irritate me.

Galled to find out therapy actually worked, I step out of the flow of foot traffic, bringing myself inches away from the display window. Looking up at it, my nose wrinkles of its own accord and not because the combined scents of hot roasted nuts and boiling hot dog water are so prevalent on this block. But because I can’t for the life of me figure out what the window dresser was going for here.

On the other side of the glass, an assembly line has been recreated. Penguins are dressed in little red white-fur-trimmed jumpsuits and they are putting toys together as they come down the trundling rubber belt. Of course, the penguins are mechanical, so they only complete one awkward swivel, then revert to their original position, their expressions frozen in a sort of maniacal glee. It’s a scene straight out of a child’s nightmare. The only way it could be worse involves penguins getting maimed by machinery. A little sign would unfurl above the crime scene reading it has been zero days since our last accident.

My mouth twitches, reflecting back at me from the smudge-proof glass.

“Uh oh,” says a resonant timbre to my left. “See, I was going to mind my business and keep moving, but you went ahead and smiled. Now I have to know what you’re thinking.”

“That wasn’t a smile,” I blurt automatically, outraged that someone thinks they caught me—me?—engaging in anything but hostile judgy-ness. Not likely. But my words trail off when I lay eyes on my accuser.

What in the fresh living hell?

I’m not rendered speechless by many things, but this giant man in a candy cane bow tie and a beaming smile makes me wonder if I’m hallucinating. No one is shoulder bumping this dude. They couldn’t reach that high. Not to mention, he has completely shifted the flow of foot traffic—and when he realizes he’s making himself an obstacle, this very tall, very broad-chested stranger hops out of the sidewalk intersection with a few sorry, ma’ams and apologies, sirs.

In his hand, he’s holding a blue and white paper coffee cup, his long, thick fingers stretching the entire distance around. Deep brown hair with a slight curl to it waves in the wind. I’d put his age at thirty-two, give or take a year. He’s drenched in a practiced kind of success and that takes time to acquire. His suit is impeccable. Navy blue, complete with a crisp, white pocket square. Nary a wrinkle. But the most remarkable thing about him is those smile lines. They bracket his mouth, they fan out from the corners of his eyes. They are deep and worn-in like a pair of jeans that have been washed seven hundred times.

This man smiles constantly.

I hate him.

“If that wasn’t a smile, what was it?” Somehow he takes a sip of his coffee without dimming the wattage of his smile. “A twitch or something? My uncle Hank had one of those. Used to spill beer all over Aunt Edna’s carpet, thanks to that tic. One day she got so mad about it, she walloped him over the head with a colander and the damn twitch went away.” He gestures with his cup. “Like flipping off a light switch. After that, he just spilled beer for the tradition of it.” He pauses. “Aunt Edna eventually remarried.”

Okay. Am I hallucinating?

I scan the immediate area for maimed penguins or some other sign that I’ve gone around the bend. All is well. As normal as New York City can be, which is to say there are three people fighting over one cab, the strains of a saxophone emanate mysteriously from the ether and a sparkly pink wig lies forgotten in the gutter. Nothing that would be considered unusual, though. If I’m not hallucinating, why has this man stopped to tell me a story about his relatives? I’m not what one would refer to as approachable. In fact, I’m fluent in Fuck Off. Hopefully he speaks it, too. Or at least knows how to read body language.

Looking him square in the eye, I shove my knockoff AirPods into my ears and go back to staring up at the would-be penguin crime scene.

There. Done.

I’m not really seeing the penguins, though. I can’t help but marvel over mine and the man’s reflections standing side by side. He’s easily six foot four, robust, in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. I’m a full foot shorter, dressed in a black puffer jacket and thick, matching tights, second—or third—hand boots of which the sole is rapidly coming loose from the rest of the shoe. My busted fuchsia messenger bag is the only pop of color on my entire person and that’s because it was the cheapest I could find at Goodwill. My thick black hair has been chopped unprofessionally just below my shoulders and cloaks a pale face, its expression reading Do Not Disturb.

We are the most opposite of opposites. Thank God.

Why is he still standing there, smiling into his coffee like he doesn’t have a single care in the world? My rudeness hasn’t even registered. Has my talent for avoidance faded while in the slammer? Losing my superpower would just be the icing on the shit cake of the last few years.

Another full minute passes and he’s still there, standing a couple feet away, facing the window like me. Tilting his head to the right in consideration of the penguins. I could just leave. Continue on my way downtown until I reach the rent-controlled apartment in Chelsea I’m subletting from my uncle while he’s shacked up in Queens with girlfriend du jour. There is nothing keeping me in front of this artistic monstrosity. But my feet won’t seem to move. And why should they? I was here first.

I pop out my left earbud. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Oh, me?” A dimple appears on his cheek. “I was just waiting for your song to be over.”

There is no music playing, but I’m obviously not going to tell him that.

“Why?” I ask, jerkily removing the second bud and shoving both of them back into my jacket pocket. “Do you have another pointless story to tell me?”

“Aw, hell.” His eyes are green. And they twinkle in a way that reminds me of fairy lights. “I’ve got thousands of pointless stories to tell you.”

My smile is saccharine. “One was more than enough.”

“All right,” he draws out, tossing back the remainder of his coffee. “But after the beer-spilling era, Aunt Edna eloped with a rodeo clown named Tonto. Guess you’ll never know about it.”

“Devastating.”

“Sure was. Let’s just say the bull took him by the horns, instead of the other way around.” He gives a full body shiver. “All he left behind for Edna was a half-used face painting kit and some floppy shoes. She patched things up with Uncle Hank about a year later. Now they go yard sale hopping on Sunday mornings.”

I’m pretty sure my jaw is hanging down at my knees. “Is this like a strange kink? Instead of flashing people, you just go around accosting people with bizarre tales?”

“Well it’s too cold to flash people in December. My options are limited.”

He grins at me. Doesn’t temper it at all. He’s all smile lines and warm eyes.

Woefully handsome. Maybe even dapper.

And the most disturbing thing happens. Something I couldn’t have predicted in a hundred million years. The flip flop in my stomach must be a sign of the apocalypse. The end of days is nigh. It has never flipped nor flopped for anything but Kraft macaroni and cheese. I can’t be having a reaction to this man. An attraction reaction.

“I’m going to go now,” I say, my tone a little off.

For the first time since he appeared, that smile is gone. A hint of panic gusts through the green of his eyes just momentarily, before he bows his head. He looks down at the ground for a second, as if trying to regroup, then lifts his head to pin me with a fresh grin. “I did have a purpose for stopping, if you don’t mind humoring me just a while longer.” He dips his chin in the direction of the window. “I’m curious what you make of all this.”

“You’re referring to Penguin Chernobyl?”

His laugh booms down the block, stopping shoppers and looky-loos in their tracks. The sound of it reminds me of hot chocolate in front of a fire in Bruce Wayne’s mansion. It’s rich and hearty and thick with quality. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I’m referring to.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You want to know what I think about it?”

My skepticism gives him pause, one corner of his mouth turning down. “Yes. I do.”

“Do you work at Vivant?”

He shrugs one of those strapping shoulders. “In a manner of speaking.”

I narrow my gaze and give him another once-over. He definitely works in management. Maybe one of the upper offices. His gratingly jovial disposition makes me think he works in PR. Perhaps this entire conversation is his way of testing a new meet the consumers initiative. There is a part of me that really wants to ask, but I refuse to seem interested just because of that cataclysmic flop in my stomach earlier.

“Fine, whatever,” I mutter, wrapping my gloved hands around the cross strap of my messenger bag, stomping my feet for warmth as I turn to face the window again. “I think it’s more likely to drive shoppers away from the store than bring them in. No one wants to think of their Christmas gifts being put together on an assembly line. It’s too impersonal. It’s a reminder that we’re all just trapped in a pattern of consumerism and we’ll never escape it. The pattern will just keep rolling and rolling like that conveyer belt. People want to pick out something for their loved ones that they believe is unique. One of a kind. Not something produced in a factory.”

Oh, now I’m on a roll. A few passersby have even stopped to listen to my spiel and normally that would derail me, clam me up, but window dressing was my dream job once upon a time. Before my life was placed on hold, I took three years of online college courses that focused primarily on fashion merchandising and marketing. I’d hoped to one day style window displays. It’s one of the only things I’ve ever been passionate about. It’s why I usually find it too painful to walk down Fifth Avenue, reminded of how badly I messed up.

Pedestrians are still paused around us, waiting to hear what I’m going to say. And, hey. I’m never going to see any of these people again, especially Bow Tie, so why not give my opinion? It’s been a really long time since someone besides Dr. Skinner asked for it and she was only doing her job.

“That brings me to the penguins.” I make the mistake of glancing over at Bow Tie and almost lose my train of thought. He can’t be half as interested in my opinion as he looks. Can he? The man doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. “And . . . you know. The average lifespan of a penguin is like, thirteen years, so technically this is child labor. Not a good look.”

He studies the window as if seeing it for the first time. “You’re right. It’s awful.” He shakes his head. “One of those penguins is seconds from losing a flipper.”

I jolt a little at the way he mimics my thoughts, but hide it well by clearing my throat.

And tucking hair behind my ear, over and over again. Unnecessarily.

“Are you an artist?” he asks. “Have you window dressed before?”

I wish. God, I wish. I never got that far.

“No, I’m just critical.”

He huffs a small laugh, his eyes somehow shrewd and thoughtful and welcoming at the same time. In that moment, I am absolutely certain there is something unique about this man. A distinctiveness. Layers. And I really wish I would have just walked away when I had the chance. He’s maneuvered me to a place where I have a voice and don’t feel invisible. I didn’t see it coming. Did he do it purposely? If so, why would he take the time to do that? What did he sense about me that made him stop? What is even happening?

“How would you dress the window instead?”

Dammit.

Dammit.

I’m letting him pull me out of my anonymous solitude and it’s so rude and presumptuous of him to do so, but I’m already halfway sunk into the quicksand. Plus, I have to answer. It’s too tempting not to. Saying the words out loud is the closest I’ll ever come to the real thing. A girl with a prison record is never going to decorate a store window at Vivant.

A line appears between his brow as if he’s reading my thoughts.

Rude.

“I wouldn’t remind them they’ve come to the store to spend their money. I would remind them that buying presents is about . . . surprise. Surprise is priceless.” I blow out a breath, white condensation billowing in the air in front of me. “That moment when a loved one takes the lid off a box and gasps. That’s what we’re in it for. There’s a whole corner of TikTok dedicated to it.”

For the last few months, since being released from Bedford Hills, I’ve been finding comfort in watching people on the internet hear famous songs for the first time. Or their first time watching Star Wars or Twilight or Harry Potter. I watch those videos and wonder if I’ll ever be able to express emotions like that again. Just pow. No hesitating. Without toning the feelings down or worrying that if I get too emotional, my dam will break and everything will just come pouring out.

“We go out looking for a magical item, no idea what it is. If we see it, we’ll know, but we rarely find it. So show them. Show shoppers the item that will shock their lover or sibling or mother and make them feel not only loved, but exciting as a human being. The keys to a moped, the perfect nude lipstick, a designer martini shaker. If this was my window, I’d . . . display the dress a woman would never buy for themself but secretly wish they owned. And I’d make that dress a new lifestyle. A new start. Their desired result is on the other side of the window.”

He nods for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Then he turns slightly to look down the side of the building, which takes up an entire city block. “And what would you do with the other three windows?”

I blink up at him, not sure if he’s calling me out for being an armchair expert or if he’s genuinely curious. Somehow . . . I sense it’s the latter. Sarcasm isn’t his personality. Wait. How has he impressed his personality on me in the space of five? Ten minutes? How long have I been standing here talking to this man? “I should go—”

“You should apply,” he says at the same time, chuckling over our verbal collision. “I have it on good authority that Vivant is looking for a new window dresser.”

“Oh.” I choke on the word, unable to keep the longing off my face when looking back at the window, imagining myself on the other side with a Vivant-sized budget. Four windows to design. All manner of materials and fabrics and baubles at my fingertips. And that is never, ever going to happen. My résumé has a giant employment gap between age twenty-one and twenty-five where I was serving time in Westchester. For a crime I do not deny committing. I can’t even get hired at a diner, let alone at this upscale department store. “No. I . . . I’m not interested.”

Bow Tie studies me closely. “Sure about that?”

“How is this your concern again?”

He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek and winks at me—and oh my God, it happens again. That weightless turnover beneath my ribcage. Maybe I’ve contracted some kind of disease. It has been a really long time since I dated or had a boyfriend, but I remember my type. This guy is not it. There is a pleat in his dress pants. He’s wearing a bow tie and a grin and a piece of hair is now curling down the center of his forehead. The pads of my fingers definitely shouldn’t be rubbing together, wondering what kind of texture that lock of hair would be. Or what his reaction would be if I curled it around my knuckle slowly.

I look down quickly before whatever is happening inside of me plays out on my face. “All right, I think we’re done here.” With a restless scratch to the back of my neck, I skirt around him, reentering the flow of sidewalk traffic.

Just before I’m completely out of earshot, he calls, “There’s an application on the website. Can’t hurt to give it a look-see.”

I don’t stop walking until I’m inside my apartment. Pacing to the very corner of the room, I toe off my boots, then I doff my jacket, bundle the garment up and place it on top of the boots. Next, my headphones. Out of the way. Neat. A memory catches me off-guard from just about a month ago—my parents watching me perform this habit from across the dining room, exchanging a nervous glance with each other. Like they weren’t sure who exactly they’d allowed into their home.

I bounce on the sore soles of my feet to clear my thoughts, moving to the radiator to make sure heat is coming out. During the long walk to Chelsea, I told myself my heart was pounding because of the brisk pace I set, but it still hasn’t stopped. The organ continues to drum unsteadily as I sit down on the edge of my bed. Gradually, my gaze meanders over to the ancient laptop left behind by my uncle. I shake my head, refusing to entertain the notion of filling out an application for a job I am not qualified for. Or even if I am slightly eligible to dress windows, three years of online courses with a focus on fashion merchandising will be wildly eclipsed by four years in lockup.

My right leg bounces up and down.

Why am I so itchy?

I last another five minutes before lunging to my feet with a curse of Bow Tie’s existence, and I start hunting through drawers for the laptop charger. What’s the worst that can happen? I submit the application and they never respond?

No, that’s what will happen. I’m an ex-convict.

But for some crazy reason, I send it anyway.

I’ll never hear back.

2

Aiden

I sit down at my desk and clap my hands. “It’s going to be a good day.”

On the other side of the office, my assistant’s fingers pause in the act of typing out God knows what at two hundred miles an hour. “And what exactly is your basis for that theory?” asks Leland over the top of his wire-rim glasses. “It’s a Monday and it’s snowing.”

“Both of those things are the sign of a clean slate. It’s like we’ve got a fresh spiral notebook from the drugstore and this time we’re going to use good handwriting the whole way through. Not just on the first page.”

Leland stares through the floor-to-ceiling window at the big, chunky flakes falling from the sky down onto Fifth. “The extra-wintery vibe is a reminder that I haven’t done any shopping and there’s only twelve days until Christmas. I’m never going to make it in time.”

“You always make it on time,” I reassure him.

He picks up a ballpoint pen and uses his forehead to click it open. Closed. Open. “I bet you have all of your shopping done. Wrapped. Thoughtfully written cards attached.”

“Everyone knows you don’t wrap presents until the twenty-third of December.”

“I don’t know that.” Curious, he stops clicking and arches a cautious ginger eyebrow. “Why do you wait?”

Realizing I forgot to take off my overcoat, I stand up and cross to the rack by the door, draping it over the top hook so the hem won’t brush the floor. Snow falls from the collar and melts onto the gray carpet, leaving little wet spots behind. “Let’s say you bought your aunt a green scarf. You bought it assuming she didn’t already have one. But you have to leave yourself a cushion in case she shows up wearing one three days before Christmas. Or out of the blue she might say, ‘I hate green scarves. I hope no one ever buys me one.’”

Leland sputters. “Now what are the odds of that?”

I hold up my hands. “You want to wrap presents pre-twenty-third and gamble with Scotch tape, that’s up to you. You just better hope my theory doesn’t stick.”

Slowly, my assistant turns back to his computer, muttering, “You asked. You know better than to ask,” to himself.

I chuckle under my breath and tap a key to wake up my computer. Leland is twenty-nine—three years younger than me—but he has the disposition of a cranky senior citizen and the pessimism of Eeyore. That’s one of the reasons I hired him five years ago. Hell, someone needs to balance me out. He also brings a mean homemade peach habanero salsa to company parties and that is a quality that cannot be underestimated.

My calendar alerts pop up onto the screen, causing an odd pinch in my chest.

Same odd pinch I had in my chest on Friday during that impromptu conversation outside of the store. How . . . odd. Rubbing at the spot with a knuckle, I hide the calendar alert that reads NOON INTERVIEWS WITH WINDOW DRESSER APPLICANTS and open the drive file I share with Leland. There are sixteen applications inside. Is one of them her?

“Before you ask, all the applicants have been vetted,” Leland says without looking up from his computer. “In the interest of saving time, I weeded it down to the ones that have potential. Excluded anyone who used all caps or used the word thrive in their cover letter. That word is literally draining in and of itself. My personal pick is Vivian Blake, former Bergdorf’s window dresser. She was responsible for the elf runway show design of 2019. ...