Free Dirty Sexy Knitting by Christie Ridgway

along. Still, Marlys had to shake her head.
    “Dark jeans are a good choice, but not those jeans.”
    The woman looked down, showing how artfully blond and copper highlights were weaved into her blah-brown hair. “What’s wrong with them?”
    “Nothing’s wrong with the pants.” Crossing her arms over her chest, Marlys inspected the customer’s midsection. Other boutique owner’s might soften the truth to make a sale, but tact didn’t come easily to her. At twelve, she’d stopped nurturing that let’s-make-nice female gene—which probably partially explained her lack of friends. Not that she missed them.
    “Nothing’s wrong with the pants. It’s you,” Marlys said, gesturing toward the small roll of flesh hanging over the waistband of the woman’s jeans. “It’s your muffin top.”
    A choked-off cough caused her head to jerk around. Oh, damn. Harbinger shmarbinger. This was going to be a very bad day, after all.
    Dean Long was in her shop. All too many feet and too many hard muscles of him were pretending to inspect a tray of costume jewelry sitting on a small table near the narrow rack of shoes. But he wasn’t looking for an accessory; she could guarantee that. He was looking for answers.
    The other day, when she’d encountered him at Juliet and Noah’s guesthouse, she hadn’t told him she was Ms. M. Between the shock of seeing him and then learning he didn’t remember any of his time in Malibu, it had been impossible for her to do more than make an excuse and hurry away.
    Her customer had turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror and was pinching the skin at her hips. “I substituted Pilates for lattés. I walk up those damn treadmill steps four times a week, forty minutes each time. It must be the wine.”
    Marlys returned her attention to the woman and shook her head. “It’s the rise. You need to choose a pair of pants that has a longer distance from the waist to the crotch—that’s the rise.”
    “You’re telling me I’m too old for hip-huggers,” the customer said, an expression of dismay on her face.
    “Yes.” What was the point of prettying it up? In the mirror, she saw Dean glance over at her. He had questioned her plain-speaking before and didn’t like it now either, apparently. So what? It was part of the secret to her success in the fashion business.
    But watching the customer grab her waistline with evident self-loathing gave Marlys a little pinch, too. “Hip-huggers with a two-and-a-half inch zipper, that is,” she clarified. “Leave those to the women who never get to taste ice cream. Let them at least have something.”
    The woman paused, then laughed. Her fingers eased on her flesh and she smiled at Marlys in the mirror. “Too-thin women have saggy breasts.”
    “And sallow skin,” Marlys added. “Not to mention the bad moods that are brought on by chocolate and fat deprivation. Very scary. Very sad.”
    She saw the customer’s shoulders relax as she crossed to a stack of denim on a nearby shelf. “Try these,” she said, handing over the jeans. “There are more inches to the rise and the back pockets will accentuate your, um, natural assets.”
    The woman took them with a grin. “The natural assets that my best buds Ben & Jerry get the credit for.”
    “All hail Phish Food and Chubby Hubby,” Marlys murmured.
    The customer laughed. “I’ve always liked this shop, but now I think I like you , too.”
    As the dressing room drapes closed behind the woman, Marlys took a quick breath and steeled herself to face the man browsing through the Ms. M merchandise. Stalling wasn’t an option. Running had only sparked his curiosity about her. What she needed to do now was deal with him head-on and without hesitation.
    Then lie through her teeth if it became necessary.
    Dean never needed to know what they’d once had . . . and the manner in which she’d thrown it away.
    She tacked a smile carefully in place and marched right over to him, where he was standing