Chapter Six

Violet took another swig from the neck of the champagne bottle and giggled naughtily. She was only eighteen, not old enough to drink but doing it anyway.

Adam–so muscular, broad and handsome–had released her from the hair dryer station and slipped a tall glass of bubbly into her slick fingers before moving away to attend other duties.

Fingers that were slick with her own juices from the growing wet patch on the crotch of her ripped skinny jeans. She had fumbled the fragile stem before getting a grip and downing the intoxicating beverage in one thirsty gulp before moving onto the bottle itself.

Tottering unsteadily on her heels (had she been wearing strappy high heels all this time? She couldn’t rightly remember) Violet spun merrily in place to the background music which had taken a turn for a more upbeat party vibe. The cutting cape swirled around her like the flaring skirts of a daisy yellow ball gown.

The fancy label on the heavy glass bottle simply read “Bubbles” in a curlicue font. The name was fitting. Every downed mouthful of the alcoholic beverage was fun and fruity, filling her young body with a happy fizzing feeling that left Violet light on her feet and delightfully carefree.

Was this what booze felt like? No wonder so many people drank.

She tried to give her hair a sexy flip and almost ended up tangled in shiny blonde locks. There was just so much of it now! A lustrous waterfall of purest platinum waves that fell well past her pert rear to brush the backs of her slender denim-clad thighs.

It was actually heavy. Violet could feel the heft of all that glossy mass pulling at her skull. Tugging at her tingling scalp and weighing down her thoughts. That odd sensation might have been a little disturbing, but with another quick swig the Bubbles wafted such worries away like dry autumn leaves on a breeze.

…Or more like bubbles when she paused to think about it.

That made her giggle.

She had been doing more and more of that recently. And why shouldn’t Violet giggle? Giggling was relaxing and felt good. Lots of fun people giggled. Pretty girls… pretty girls like her should giggle. It was open and cute and made them approachable. No one liked a negative Nancy who scowled all the time.

Boys least of all. Speaking of which…

“Oh. My. Gawd. Adam, this music is, like, totally my jam!” She called, raising and running her hands through her impossibly soft silky hair as she gyrated her sleek hips to the fast-tempo rhythm. “Come dance with me!”

Her voice was higher in octave, a little tipsy with a girlish lilt that may or may not have been there before. Violet sounded as though she could only speak through perpetually pouty lips with flirtatiously batted eyelashes punctuating every word.

“One moment please, Miss Vi.”

The young stud stood by the front entry engaged in a hushed conversation with the other assistant Celine. Violet didn’t know what was so interesting about the strictly dressed and groomed woman. Hadn’t Celine said she was, like, totally old and whatever? Adam shouldn’t be wasting his time on someone like her.

Not when he was so obviously big and hunky, and Violet was feeling so super sexy and overwhelmingly available.

As though sensing her irritation, both fashion assistants broke off their whispered discussion and turned to face her with perfectly brilliant smiles that belonged in a toothpaste commercial.

“Thank you for your patience, Miss Vi.” Adam said smoothly, walking towards her with his thick arms spread in a helpful gesture, indicating the main stylist station. “Now please, take a seat in the salon chair and I will attend to you presently.”

With a shrill squee! of excitement Violet all but skipped over to the offered chair, throwing herself into it with enough rambunctious glee that it spun in place and made her giddy.

That elicited another giggle from her bubbly lips.

It was great, like, totally liberating.

Behind Adam, Celine locked the shop door with a click, flipping the open sign over to closed, before pulling a blood-red velvet curtain across the glass display window.

Courtney sighed in contentment as Monsieur Claude brushed and snipped at her hair with expert speed and precision. His lily-white hands were a blur of practiced movement about her reclined head like an expert gardener pruning and shaping a shrubbery into a lifelike representation of a swan or other equally graceful animal.

“I understand that it is just you and your daughter, Madame.” He murmured in a warm, conversational tone that belied the frenetic actions of his flashing blades. “This is not right for one of your outstanding charms and beauty. Not right at all.”

“I am hardly a prize, Mister Bimbeau.” She said meekly. “A woman of my age with a grown child does not receive as much attention from the opposite sex as she once did.”

“But you are a prize, Madame. Your inner beauty shines like an uncut diamond and it is by means of my art that I shall bring that to the surface and reveal that truth to you.” The bombastic beautician protested as he combed back her fringe. “A prize worth possessing, and I must insist again that you call me Claude.”

This was how the last few minutes had gone. Monsieur Claude would make some grand sweeping statement for Courtney to sidestep in a self deprecating manner, inciting the little man to fits of flattery. It may have been playing to his stadium-sized ego but it kept proceedings on a civil, borderline friendly footing.

Always a good idea when the person in question was waving sharp cutting instruments around your **** earlobes.

The kind words were welcome too. Especially when wrapped up in that cultured accent. Much nicer than being called ‘Babe’ or ‘Toots’ by the odorous Jack Shefield, who had more money than taste and a lecherous grin.

Though he did have wide shoulders and had avoided the middle-aged gut for the most part. No gray at his temples yet either.

“Do you have any family, Claude?” She asked, lobbing the topic of conversation back onto the fastidious fashionista and away from thoughts of her disagreeable client. “A lovely wife back home in France, perhaps?”

“Alas, but pursuing my art has consumed my life. A small sacrifice for the chance to create works of greatness…” Monsieur Claude paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully with an ivory brush handle. “I have a cousin in Belgium, though he has recently moved here to America to start a new business. An artisanal bakery, if you can believe it. Ha! The laughable title makes him sound like an artist of bread dough.”

Courtney smiled along politely as he resumed his cutting, combing and prattling. It was a much needed break from her work-centric lifestyle.

A growing part of her resented that she couldn’t afford to take more time like this for herself. More time to spend with Violet before she left the nest for good, or simply set aside the back-breaking load of responsibility once in a while.

“It isn’t healthy for a woman of your many fine qualities to push yourself so hard. It’s unwise. Unbecoming.” Monsieur Claude continued, as though plucking her thoughts straight out of her mind. “You are a precious flower that has been exposed to the harsh weather of the modern age. Drooping and wilting. I have made it my mission today to nurse you back to full bloom. A perfect rose to be nurtured and cherished by a man worthy of your elegance and beauty.”

Courtney could feel her cheeks heating at the barrage of unalloyed compliments and took another sip of the Bubbles to hide her flustered face.

A worthy man, huh? Meeting a man like that didn’t sound so terrible…

The chilled fruity wine went down a treat but did little to quell her quickening heartbeat. The small confines of the room were beginning to feel uncomfortably warm, her smart business outfit uncomfortably tight. The crisp buttoned blouse was constricting her breathing, and the pinching strap of her straightforward cotton bra was digging into the soft flesh of her armpit.

“You are very kind to say so...” Courtney began, before a rap on the door frame drew their attention back to the curtained entrance.

“Ah, that will be Celine coming to assist in the selection of your new wardrobe.” Monsieur Claude calmly informed her. “ She is an immensely talented couturier and will have you looking like your best self. You do wish to look your best, do you not, Madame?”

She did, of course she did.

What woman didn’t want to look their best? Especially as she began to tug surreptitiously at her ill-fitting clothes. Courtney would have liked to inspect what was going on down there but the awfully comfortable cutting cape blanketed her body from view and she felt loath to remove it.

“Yes, but I might need a minute–” She squirmed.

“Marvelous! Please come in, Celine. You may commence the fashion consultation while I finish styling Madame’s hair.”

“Oui Monsieur.” The prim assistant stepped briskly inside, wheeling a full hanging rack of feminine clothing behind her.

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