Page 36 of The Sebastian Guarantee
The woman looked her up and down. “That’s right,” she answered, then met Sebastian’s gaze. “What did I tell you about that trench?”
Sebastian nodded approvingly. “She slept in it all night, and there’s not a wrinkle to be found.”
These two were going on like there was nothing completely bonkers about this totally bonkers situation.
“Hello,” Phoebe sang, waving her hands. “I’ll need you two to tell me what’s going on here.”
“I called Mara’s wife this morning and explained the Phoebe 2.0 plan,” Sebastian offered, which still didn’t help her connect the dots.
“And that involves . . . ?” Phoebe asked slowly.
“New clothing,” Mara supplied, taking her hand and leading her down the hall.
“I don’t need . . .” Phoebe began, then shut the hell up. Her living room/office looked more like the inside of a celebrity’s closet, with designer digs hanging from racks and luxurious scarves folded over the back of her sofa. She walked up to a midnight-blue beaded cocktail dress. The garment screamed sophistication. She touched the sleeve, then spied the price tag.
Eight hundred dollars.
Eight hundred dollars!
Not knowing what else to do, she lifted the glass of glop to her lips and started chugging.
“Phoebe,” Sebastian said warily, “you don’t have to drink it in one gulp.”
Yeah, she did. She needed the time to think. She swallowed the last bit of the gag-reflex-inducing drink, set the drained cup on her desk, then wiped the back of her hand across her lips. “I’m awake, right? This is happening?”
“Yes,” Sebastian answered again, looking like he was weighing the need to request psychiatric services on her behalf again.
In her defense, it wasn’t every day a gal woke up to a room teeming with designer digs. She surveyed the luxurious fabrics and stylish patterns. Clothing ranging from sporty outdoor hiking apparel to sleek business casual numbers and a few chic dresses were intermingled with lacy lingerie and accessories like purses, earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. A stylish leather jacket hung on the back of her desk chair, and multiple pairs of shoes were lined up beneath each clothing ensemble. There had to be tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of beautiful merchandise crammed into her modest apartment.
“You wouldn’t catch a nerdy French farmer in any of these,” she murmured.
Mara cocked her head to the side. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Did you mention farming?”
Phoebe shifted her stance.Pull yourself together, woman.“Everything is stunning and so incredibly beautiful, but I can’t afford any of this.”
Mara crossed her arms, and a ghost of a grin tipped the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t ask if you could afford it. What I want to know is if you like it. Is there anything you’d change? Or is it a match?”
“Match?” Phoebe breathed, her body tingling as she spoke the word.
“Yes, does itmatchthe look you were going for?”
Phoebe turned in a slow circle, taking it in. “I love everything. But again, these pieces are way out of my budget.”
Mara raised an eyebrow. “Is free out of your budget?”
“Free?” Phoebe exclaimed for everyone in Metro Denver to hear.
“I’ve got this, Mara. I know you need to get back to the store,” Sebastian said and walked the woman to the door. “Give our regards to Janelle. I’m happy to hear you’ve already seen a bump in your online sales.”
Why in the world would Sebastian know anything about the sales of a women’s clothing boutique?
“Good luck at your retreat, Phoebe. My wife and I wish you the best,” Mara called before sailing out the door.
“Um . . . thank you . . . for everything,” she replied, still not quite sure if she was actually awake.
She padded around the room and picked up a pair of chocolate brown riding boots rocking a six-hundred-dollar price tag, then returned them to the floor. Before she could inspect another gorgeous piece, butterflies flitted around inside her belly. She froze as Sebastian came up behind her. She could feel the heat of him and smell his clean, earthy scent. Every cell in her body begged for her to lean back and melt into his warmth, but she remained stock-still. “I must be dreaming.”
“It’s not a dream, Pheebs. I guarantee you’re fully conscious. This is all for you.”
