Chapter One

The bell above the door of Rosewood Boutique chimed its familiar melody as Garrett stepped inside. The scent of lavender and old silk greeted him-a fragrance he'd known since childhood, when he used to play hide-and-seek between the racks of tulle and satin.

"There's my boy," said Eleanor Rosewood, emerging from behind a display of pearl-encrusted clutches. At fifty-two, she still moved with the grace of the dancer she'd once been, her silver hair pinned in an elegant chignon.

"Grandma." Garrett bent to kiss her cheek. "You said you wanted to discuss the transition?"

Eleanor had built Rosewood Boutique from nothing-a single sewing machine in a rented room-into the most prestigious formal wear destination in three counties. Governors' daughters had worn her gowns. Brides had wept with joy in her fitting rooms. And now, after forty-one years, she was ready to pass it on.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to the velvet settee near the three-way mirror.

Garrett sat, loosening his tie. He'd prepared a business plan, projections, ideas for an online presence. He was ready.

"I'll give you the boutique," Eleanor said, "on one condition."

"Name it."

Her eyes sparkled with something between mischief and deadly seriousness. "You will try on every dress in this shop that fits you. Every gown, every accessory, every pair of heels. You will understand what our clients experience-not from observation, but from feeling."

Garrett laughed. Then he saw her face. "You're serious."

"As a French seam."

Chapter Two

January was the off-season-the lull between holiday galas and spring proms. The boutique saw perhaps three customers a day, leaving vast stretches of empty hours.

Perfect, Eleanor said, for learning.

On his first morning, Garrett stood in the largest fitting room, staring at a blush-pink A-line gown with a sweetheart neckline.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

"Ridiculous," Eleanor called from outside the curtain, "is trying to sell a woman something you've never bothered to understand. Now-step in, don't pull. Dresses are not sweatshirts."