Mary Lou stepped out of the dressing room.

You froze.

She was in tight black jeans, a cropped lilac top hugging her chest like it owed her rent, and little gold hoops. Her hair was pulled into two high ponytails, and her long red braid still dangled over her shoulder.

You actually drooled. A little. She saw it.

“I—these clothes don’t even cover my sides,” she stammered, pulling down the shirt (which had no give). “I feel like a city girl that sells love potions outta her car.”

You blinked. “You look amazing.”

She turned red. Fanned herself with the tag. “You better not say that too loud or I’ll faint into that sale bin over there.”