Later that week, Amy found herself back at the boutique—not that she needed more clothes. But something about the encounter with Peter lingered like perfume on her collarbone. She told herself it was just a good laugh, a harmless flirtation. Nothing more.
Still, she checked her hair twice before walking in.
The boutique was quiet. A weekday lull. And there he was—behind the counter, organizing receipts, his sleeves pushed up, showing forearms that were somehow more distracting than they had any right to be.
"Back so soon?" he asked without looking up.
"Didn't want you thinking I ran off scared," Amy replied.
He looked up then—eyes catching hers with an amused glint. "Of me? Or of tight tops?"
She smirked, stepping closer. "Maybe both."
Peter set the papers down and leaned against the counter. "Well, I've got bad news. We just got a new shipment of body-hugging, cleavage-loving troublemakers."
"Troublemakers?" she echoed.
He nodded toward a rack near the fitting rooms. "Top shelf. The ones that should come with warning labels."
Amy's eyes narrowed with challenge. "Pick one for me."
Peter looked at her for a moment—then moved to the rack, flipping through hangers with exaggerated care. Eventually, he pulled out a silky, low-cut wrap top in a deep plum shade. He held it out to her like a dare.
"This one's not just a top," he said. "It's a headline."
Amy raised an eyebrow. "You always this poetic about clothing?"
He shrugged. "Just when I'm invested in the outcome."
She took the top and headed to the fitting room, closing the door behind her. As she slipped out of her blouse and into the new top, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The fabric draped beautifully, but it was barely decent. The cut plunged low, the wrap clinging to her curves in ways that made even her blush.
"Peter," she called softly.
"Yeah?"
"I might need... an outside opinion."
A pause. Then his voice, lower now. "Want me to come in?"
The silence stretched just a beat too long. Then she opened the door—just enough for him to step in.
The space was small. Intimate. His broad frame filled the doorway before he even closed it behind him.
Amy stood near the mirror, arms at her sides. The top hugged her like it had been sewn onto her body. The deep neckline framed her full breasts unapologetically.
Peter exhaled slowly. "Yeah… that's illegal."
Amy laughed, the tension easing for half a second. "Too much?"
"It's not about too much," he said, voice quiet. "It's about whether you're ready for what happens when you walk out there in that."
Their eyes met in the mirror again. Something electric passed between them—unspoken but undeniable.
"You've got this way," he continued, stepping just a little closer, "of acting like you don't know exactly what you're doing."
"And you," she replied, her voice dropping, "have this habit of standing too close when you're saying dangerous things."
They were inches apart now. Not touching, but aware of everything. His arm brushed hers lightly. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the curve of her bust almost brushing his shirt.
Peter leaned in, voice barely a whisper. "It's the fabric's fault. It keeps pulling me in."
Amy didn't move. "Maybe it's not just the fabric."
Silence again—thick, delicious. Then Peter tilted his head and said, "If I told you that you should never wear this top around me again… would you listen?"
Amy smiled. "Not a chance."
Peter looked like he might say more—but then stepped back, leaving the air between them hot and empty. "You're dangerous in that."
"Then I guess I'm taking it," she said, smoothing the fabric slowly, her eyes not leaving his.
He opened the door, but not before letting his gaze linger one more moment. "Good. I'll be thinking about it for days."
And with that, he walked away.
Amy stood in the mirror, heart racing, lips curved in a wicked little smile.
She hadn't come looking for trouble.
But maybe it had found her.