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“Can I help you?”

There's nothing wrong with the words. It's the tone.

“I hope so.”

I smile and gesture toward the display.

“That dress is beautiful.”

Her gaze flicks toward it.

“Yes. It is.”

I wait. She doesn't move.

“Do you have this or something similar I could try on?”

Her eyes travel over me again. This time, she doesn't bother disguising it.

“I don't believe that particular designer would be appropriate.”

My stomach tightens.

“Appropriate?”

“The cut is rather unforgiving.”

There it is. I smile. Years of interviewing assholes have made me very good at smiling when I'd rather bite.

“Then perhaps you could show me something more forgiving.”

She doesn't smile back. Instead, she looks toward the elevator.

“Are you shopping alone?”

What the hell does that have to do with anything?

“No.”

“Ah.”

One tiny syllable. Somehow, she manages to pack an entire judgmental biography into it. I turn back toward the dress.

“I'd still like to see it.”

“I'm afraid we don't carry that piece in extended sizing.”

Extended.

Of course.

“What sizes do you carry?”

“On this floor?”

She pauses. Deliberately.

“Typically through fourteen.”