The Hollow by Nora Roberts Page B

tipped back in his chair. “A woman comes into the shop you managed in New York. She’s just browsing around. How do you know where to direct her, how to work her?”
    â€œSatisfy her,” Layla corrected, “not work her. Some of it would be the way she looks—her age, how she’s dressed, what kind of bag, what kind of shoes. Those are surface things, and can lead in the wrong direction, but they’re a start. And I grew up in the business, so I have a sense of customer types.”
    â€œBut I’m betting nine times out of ten you knew when to get the flashy leather purse out of the stockroom or steer her toward the conservative black one. If she said she wanted a business suit, but really had a yen for a sexy little dress and fuck-me shoes.”
    â€œI had a lot of experience reading . . . Yes.” She let out a hiss of breath, the annoyance self-directed. “I don’t know why I keep resisting it. Yes, I’d often tune in. The owner called it my magic touch. I guess she wasn’t far off.”
    â€œHow did you do it?”
    â€œIf I’m assisting a customer, I’m, well, I’m focused on them, on what they want, what they like—and yeah, what I can sell them. You have to listen to what they say, and there’s body language, and also my own sense of what would look great on them. And sometimes, I always thought it was instinct, I’d get a picture in my head of the dress or the shoes. I’d think it was reading between the lines of what they said when I chatted them up, but I might hear this little voice. Maybe it was their thoughts. I’m not sure.”
    She was easing into it, he thought, into acceptance of what she held inside her. “You were confident in what you were doing, sure of your ground, which is another kind of relaxation. And you cared. You wanted to get them what they really wanted or would work for them, make them happy. And make a sale. Right?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œSame program, different channel.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out change. Cupping his palm away from her, he counted it out. “How much am I holding?”
    â€œI—”
    â€œThe amount’s in my head. Open the door.”
    â€œGod. Wait.” She took another sip of wine first. Too much running through her own head, Layla realized. Put it away. “Don’t help me!” she snapped when he reached for her hand. “Just . . . don’t.”
    Put it away, she repeated to herself. Clean it out. Relax. Focus. Why did he think she could do this? Why was he so sure? Why did so many men have such wonderful eyelashes? Oops. No side trips. She closed her eyes, visualized the door. “A dollar thirty-eight.” Her eyes popped open. “Wow.”
    â€œGood job.”
    She jolted at the knock on the door.
    â€œDelivery guy. Do him.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhile I’m talking to him, paying him, read him.”
    â€œBut that’s—”
    â€œRude and intrusive, sure. We’re going to sacrifice courtesy in the name of progress. Read him,” Fox commanded as he rose and walked to the door. “Hey, Kaz, how’s it going?”
    The kid was about sixteen, Layla estimated. Jeans, sweatshirt, high-top Nikes that looked fairly new. Shaggy brown hair, small silver hoop in his right ear. His eyes were brown, and passed over her—lingered briefly—as bags and money changed hands.
    She took a deep breath, nudged at the door.
    Fox heard her make a sound behind him, something between a gasp and a snort. He kept on talking as he added the tip, made a comment about basketball.
    After he closed the door, Fox set the bags on the table. “Well?”
    â€œHe thinks you’re chill.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œHe thinks I’m hot.”
    â€œYou are.”
    â€œHe wondered if you’re going to be getting any of that tonight and he wouldn’t mind getting some of