Then she smiled brightly at her phone.
“Beauty is an investment, guys. You have to invest in yourself.”
She paid, grabbed a sample bottle from the counter, and sprayed perfume on her neck, both wrists, and—apparently because those areas were insufficient—directly into her hair.
The cloud drifted backward and hit me in the face.
I coughed.
“Excuse me, sweetheart. That perfume is rather strong.”
Brittany slowly turned around.
“It’s French.”
I dabbed my eyes with a tissue.
“I don’t think the French intended for anyone to taste it.”
The cashier made a strange noise that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh.
Brittany noticed.
She lifted her chin.
“Some people simply don’t appreciate luxury.”
Before I could answer, she swept her hair over her shoulder.
The heavy strands struck me across the cheek.
I stared at her.
“Please be careful. Your hair just hit me.”
She looked at me as though I had accused her of stealing a car.
