**The Chemistry of Love**
“Good grief, the years fly by—I’ll be old before I know it, and I still haven’t a clue what real love or passion feels like. Just the wrong sort of men cross my path,” muttered Melanie, a pretty forty-two-year-old woman, to herself.
After being made redundant two years ago from the company where she’d worked nearly a decade, she’d taken a job in a department store, selling high-end women’s fashion. The clothes in her section weren’t cheap, attracting mostly those who could afford designer labels.
Men rarely wandered in alone—usually, they trailed behind their wives or girlfriends, looking thoroughly miserable as they trudged along the racks, barely mustering enthusiasm when asked, *”Darling, do you think this suits me? What about this dress?”* The women eyed the price tags, sometimes rolling their eyes—nothing here was budget-friendly. The men, resigned, would eventually foot the bill at the till.
Watching them, Melanie sometimes envied their indulgence. She could never justify such splurges, not with her routine—work, home, the occasional cinema trip or café outing with a friend. Her daughter had finished college, married young, and whisked herself off to Cornwall with her husband. Both hopeless romantics.
Not that Melanie dressed poorly—she had style, understated and neat, avoiding anything too bold. Slender, with a blonde bob and delicate features, she carried herself well. Her first marriage had lasted barely four years before she ended it. He was never the settling-down type, more interested in nights out with mates than building a home. After the divorce, she poured everything into raising her daughter. By the time the girl left for school, dating felt like an afterthought—or perhaps no one ever caught her eye.
At thirty-two, she’d dated a colleague, Andrew, for a year and a half before finally seeing the truth: he’d never make a proper husband. He loathed work, convinced everyone undervalued him, always grumbling. *”Andrew, you’re never happy. What’ve they even done to you? You just slag everyone off.”*
*”Melanie, don’t you see how spiteful people are? They want you to fail!”* he’d retorted, baffled.
*”No, I don’t. Our team’s lovely—helpful, kind. Even the boss is decent.”*
*”You’re naïve,”* he scoffed. *”The world’s full of vipers.”*
In the end, his bitterness wore her down, and she walked away. There’d been flings since—a holiday romance in Spain once—but nothing lasting.
At work, they had regulars—wives of wealthy men, even the mayor’s wife—though husbands seldom tagged along.
One quiet weekday, the shop near-empty, Melanie was startled when a handsome man wandered in, strolling past the dresses like he was at an art gallery, his gaze occasionally flicking to her. Dark hair swept back, arched brows, hands in his pockets—he seemed entirely out of place.
*”What’s he doing here alone? Shopping for his girlfriend, I suppose. Shame he’ll leave soon,”* she thought, inexplicably deflated. But then he approached the counter, smiling. *”Excuse me, where are your dresses?”* Leaning in, he glanced at her name badge. *”Melanie?”* The scent of expensive cologne wrapped around her.
Wordlessly, she led him to the dresses, cheeks burning. *”What’s wrong with me? Losing my head over a stranger?”*
*”Here,”* she said briskly, then hurried back to the till.
The shop was empty—her colleague was on lunch—but this man unnerved her. Already, she pictured them in some cosy café, chatting over tea…
*”Sorry,”* his voice snapped her back, *”could you help me? I’ve picked a dress for my girlfriend, but I’m unsure of the size. You’re about her build—would you try it on?”*
Melanie stared at the exquisite silk-and-lace dress in his hands—their newest Italian import, staggeringly expensive. *”He must adore her,”* she thought wistfully, remembering exes who’d gifted garage forecourt flowers.
*”Of course,”* she said, vanishing into the changing room.
The dress clung perfectly, flattering every curve. Stepping out, she caught his admiring stare. *”You look divine,”* he breathed, eyes tracing her frame.
*”Thanks. Hope it fits your girlfriend,”* she mumbled, fleeing back inside.
Her pulse raced—this had to be what they called chemistry. Reluctantly, she peeled off the dress, fingers lingering on the silken fabric. *”The best things aren’t meant for me. Not this dress. Not this man.”*
At the till, he paid, flashed a devastating smile, and left. *”I’ll never see him again,”* she mourned.
Two days later, she’d nearly shaken him from her thoughts—until he reappeared.
*”Did the dress not fit?”* she asked.
*”It’s perfect. Now I need shoes to match. Help me?”*
She guided him to footwear, where her colleague, Irene, flushed under his charm. *”Melanie,”* he said, *”you’re a size five, yes?”*
*”Yes,”* she answered automatically.
*”My girlfriend’s the same. Would you…?”*
She tried on heels and sandals before returning to her department, too busy to notice when he left. Again, she forced him from her mind.
Three days passed. Mid-shift, her phone held her attention until—*”Good afternoon, Melanie.”*
There he stood.
*”Can I help you?”*
*”Actually, yes. Could I have your number? Last time, I was daft—forgot to ask.”* His grin sent shivers down her spine.
*”Wh-what for?”*
*”To call you. Take you to dinner.”* From behind his back, he produced a bouquet of roses. *”These are for you. Oh—I’m Gregory, by the way.”*
Stunned, she stammered, *”Wh-what are they for?”*
*”For helping me choose the dress. They’re lovely, thank you,”* she managed, arranging them in a vase.
Then she spotted their store bag on the counter. Peeking inside, her breath caught—the dress. *Her* dress. And the sandals.
Gregory took her hand, voice soft. *”Dine with me tonight. Wear *our* dress. Please?”* His eyes held hers, suddenly uncertain. *”I’ve come here before, you know. You never noticed me lurking.”*
*”Yes,”* she whispered, knees weak.
Now, Melanie lives with Gregory in his sprawling country home, helping run his business. Both happier than they’d ever dreamed.
**Lesson learnt:** Sometimes love walks in when you least expect it—often in the unlikeliest of shops.
