Page 2 of All She Wants

A few women nodded. The one with the braid pressed her lips together and blinked hard, which she tried to cover by digging through her purse for a tissue.

“If you’d like, we can take our time looking through a few options after the group wraps up, and I promise I won’t make you listen to The Odyssey again.”

That broke the tension. The woman’s laughter reached her eyes, and the others joined in.

Erin thanked the women for spending part of their Christmas Eve with her and invited them to linger if they had questions they preferred to ask in private. “And if you get home and find you’ve bought the one that doesn’t work, bring it back. I’ll make sure you get a replacement or your money back.”

Chairs scraped against the wide-plank floors. Coats came off the backs of seats. Conversations splintered into smaller clusters as women gathered near displays, touching the spines of books, turning candles over to read the ingredients, running fingers across folded silk.

The silver-haired woman stayed. So did three others. They drifted toward Erin, arms crossed and voices lowered. Questions they’d swallowed during the group sat right at the tips of their tongues. Erin saw this after nearly every workshop. They were waiting for the room to empty before asking what had felt too personal to share aloud. One wanted to know whether a particular lubricant was safe to use with a latex allergy. Another asked about vibrators that worked well for women with arthritis in their hands. The third stood near the lingerie wall for a full minute before asking Erin if the sizing ran true or if she needed to go up.

“True to size, and the fabric has generous stretch. If you’re between sizes, go with the smaller. It’s meant to fit close.”

The woman pulled a deep plum chemise from the rack and held it against herself. “I’ve been to every department store in the area buying stocking stuffers and wrapping paper and dog toys for three weeks, and I haven’t spent a single dollar on myself this holiday season.”

“Then spend it here on yourself instead.”

The woman looked at the chemise, then back at Erin. “This is my gift to myself.”

“Good.”

Ingrid rang up each purchase carefully, giving every woman her full attention no matter how long the line grew. She folded tissue around each product, tucked it into one of the shop’s discreet matte-black bags, and returned every credit card beside a warm thank-you. When the silver-haired woman reached the counter carrying the small device and moisturizer, Ingrid greeted her with a gentle smile. She wrapped both items, added two samples of water-based lubricant, and quietly explained which one might work best for her purchase. “Come back if you have any questions,” she said as she handed over the bag. “Any questions at all.”

The last attendee buttoned her coat, thanked Erin twice, and stepped into the cloudy afternoon. Flurries still wandered past the windows, aimless and light.

Erin and Ingrid moved through the consultation area without discussion. They’d done this enough times that the choreography was automatic. Erin folded the velvet chairs and carried them two at a time toward the storage closet. Ingrid returned the display products to their shelves, straightened the book table, and swept a stray tissue from the floor. Within twenty minutes the space had reopened into the boutique’s usual layout of warm lighting falling across dark wood shelves, the wood stove radiating heat in its corner, and the front door unlocked for walk-ins until four.

Erin checked the time. One twenty-eight. “Go home, Ingrid.”

“I still have invoices from the Tuesday shipment I’m working on.”

“They’ll survive Christmas without you. Go. Nell’s pot roast recipe isn’t going to cook itself.”

Ingrid pulled her reading glasses off and set them on the counter. “It’s a stamppot, not a pot roast, and I’ve told you the difference at least four times.”

“And I’ve forgotten it four times because the words sound identical to me.”

Ingrid studied her for a moment while buttoning her heavy wool coat. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’ll stay until four in case we get any last-minute shoppers. Then I’ll go home, open a bottle of wine that I have been saving, and watch a heterosexual woman abandon a successful career for a man who sells Christmas trees.” Erin grinned. “Every year, I wait for Hallmark to adapt one of my favorite sapphic romances. Surely they can find one masc who can carry a six-foot fir over her shoulder and one femme who refuses to risk a nail helping her load it. The movie practically makes itself.”

Ingrid laughed as she wound her scarf around her neck and tucked the ends neatly inside her coat. “Make the masc sixty-eight. She can use a wagon because she has nothing left to prove, and the femme brings ibuprofen. Nell and I would have watched that twice.” Her smile lingered after she said Nell’s name, and her gaze rested on Erin a moment longer than usual. “Don’t forget to eat actual food. Wine is not dinner.”

“Wine is a grape. Grapes are fruit. Fruit is food.”

Ingrid picked up her bag and walked to the door. Cold air slipped in when she opened it, carrying the clean mineral smell of snow. “Merry Christmas, Erin.”

“Merry Christmas, Ingrid. Drive slow. It looks like the snow is starting to pick up.”

The door closed. Erin remained behind the counter as quiet reclaimed the shop. Silk nightgowns, glass massagers, silicone toys, and bottles of warming oil filled the shelves around her. She had chosen every product to make women feel cared for rather than sold to. All She Wants gave them a place to claim comfort, confidence, and pleasure simply because they wanted them. Behind her, a log shifted in the wood stove and sent a soft crackle through the empty store.

A resort tourist came in around two-fifteen, still wearing her ski jacket and goggles pushed up on her forehead. She bought a set of bath oils and a book on body confidence, asked Erin to recommend a restaurant in town, and seemed genuinely delighted when Erin recommended Moretti’s for pasta and admitted she’d eaten there three times during her first week in Colorado.

Another customer arrived just as the tourist was leaving. She moved through the store slowly, reading every product description. She spent a long time in the section Erin had labeled Comfort & Connection. This section contained shelves dedicated to weighted blankets, warming lotions, intimacy card games, guided journals about desire, and a curated selection of books about rediscovering touch after grief, illness, or simply the long erosion of being ignored.

The woman chose a journal bound in soft leather and a warming lotion that smelled faintly of frankincense and lavender. She brought them to the counter and set them down carefully, as though they were fragile.

“These aren’t for anyone else,” she said quietly. “Just me.”