The Chemistry of Love
“Good heavens, the years fly by—I’ll be old before I know it, and still, I’ve never understood what true love or passion really is. The men I meet just aren’t the right ones,” mused Eleanor, a striking woman of forty-two, as she spoke to herself.
After being made redundant two years prior from the company where she’d worked for nearly a decade, she’d taken a job in a department store, selling women’s clothing. The items in her section were far from cheap, attracting mostly those who could afford high-end brands.
Men rarely wandered into her department, and when they did, they were almost always trailing behind their wives or girlfriends. They’d shuffle along with pained expressions, barely mustering enthusiasm when asked, “Darling, what do you think of this? Does this dress suit me?” The women would glance at the price tags, sometimes rolling their eyes—nothing in this section came cheap. And the men would dutifully pay at the till.
Watching them, Eleanor sometimes envied their ability to splurge on such finery. She could never justify the expense for herself. Work, home, the occasional outing with a friend to a café or the cinema—where would she even wear such things? Her daughter had finished college, married in haste, and whisked herself off to the Scottish Highlands with her husband. Both were hopeless romantics.
Not that Eleanor didn’t dress well. She preferred understated elegance—soft, neat, never garish. Slender, with a sleek blonde bob, she carried herself with quiet grace.
Her first marriage had been ill-fated. They’d lasted four years before she ended it. He’d never been the settling-down type, always out with friends, always chasing a good time. Raising her daughter had kept her busy, and by the time the girl was off to school, Eleanor had little interest in dating. Or perhaps no one had ever quite measured up. She’d been a devoted mother, pouring all her attention into her child.
At thirty-two, she’d dated a colleague, James, for a year and a half before reality set in. He’d never be a proper husband—loathed work, convinced the world undervalued him. His endless complaints had worn her down.
“James, you’re never satisfied. What have they even done to you? You speak as if everyone’s out to get you.”
“Eleanor, don’t you see how spiteful people are? They relish your failures,” he’d retorted, baffled.
“No, I don’t see that. Our team’s supportive. And I admire our manager—he’s decent, fair.”
“You’re naïve,” James had snapped. “The world’s cruel, and you refuse to see it.”
Eventually, she’d had enough. His bitterness drained her. There’d been fleeting flings since—a holiday romance by the seaside once—but nothing lasting.
Regular clients frequented the department—wives of wealthy men, even the mayor’s wife—though they usually shopped alone.
One quiet weekday, Eleanor was startled to see a handsome man wandering among the dresses, his gaze occasionally flickering toward her. He was in his forties, dark hair swept back, strong brows, hands in his pockets. He moved as if strolling through an art gallery, his attention less on the clothes and more on her.
“Odd, a man alone in women’s wear. Shopping for his fiancée, perhaps?” Yet he was undeniably attractive. “He’ll leave soon,” she thought, and the notion saddened her. But then he approached the counter, smiling.
“Could you direct me to the dresses?” He leaned slightly, reading her name badge. “Eleanor,” he said, and she caught the scent of expensive cologne.
Silently, she guided him to the dresses, cheeks burning. She was glad he walked behind, missing her flushed face.
“What’s wrong with me?” she scolded herself. “Losing my head over a stranger?”
She pointed. “Here you are,” then hurried back to the counter.
The shop was empty—her colleague was on lunch, and weekday traffic was slow. But this man unsettled her. She imagined them in a café, talking softly…
“Excuse me,” his voice snapped her from the daydream. “Might you help me?”
“Of course. How?”
“I’ve chosen a dress for my girlfriend, but I’m unsure of the size. You’re about her height and build. Would you try it on?”
Eleanor stared at the exquisite dress in his hands—black Italian silk with handmade lace, pricey beyond reason.
“He must love her dearly to spend so much,” she thought, a pang of envy striking her. Her ex had bought flowers from market stalls.
“Of course. Wait here.” She vanished into the fitting room.
The dress fit like a dream, hugging her curves, accentuating every line. Stepping out, she sought his reaction. His admiration was unmistakable.
“You look divine,” he breathed, eyes tracing her figure. “Stunning.”
“Thank you. I hope it suits your girlfriend,” she said, fleeing back to change.
She didn’t understand this fluttering in her chest. Was this what they called the chemistry of love?
Reluctantly, she slipped out of the silk, lingering over its delicate weight. “The finest things aren’t meant for me. Not this dress. Not this man.”
At the till, he paid, flashed a charming smile, and left.
“I’ll never see him again,” she thought mournfully.
Two days passed before she shook off the memory. On the third, he returned.
“Did the dress not fit?” she asked.
“It fit perfectly. Now I need shoes to match. Would you help?”
She led him to footwear, where her colleague, Lucy, blushed under his attention.
“Eleanor,” he said, “your shoe size—UK five?”
“Yes,” she answered automatically.
“My girlfriend’s the same. Please, humor me once more.”
She tried on heels and sandals before returning to work, too busy to notice when he left. She forced him from her thoughts—or so she told herself.
Three days later, he appeared again as she idly scrolled her phone.
“Good afternoon, Eleanor.”
“You needed something else?”
“Very much so. Might I have your number? Last time, I foolishly forgot to ask.” His smile sent shivers down her spine.
“Why?” she asked, flushing.
“To call you. To ask you to dinner.” He produced a bouquet of roses from behind his back. “These are for you. I’m Oliver, by the way. I’ve known your name for ages.”
Eleanor gaped. “What for?”
“For helping me choose the dress. They’re lovely, thank you.” She found a vase, heart racing.
Then she spotted a familiar bag by the till. Peeking inside, she saw *the* dress—and the sandals. Her breath caught.
Taking her hand, Oliver said softly, “Dine with me tonight. Wear *our* dress. I’ve admired you for weeks but never dared approach.” His eyes held quiet pleading.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Now, Eleanor lives with Oliver in his country home. She’s left the shop behind, assisting him in his business. Both couldn’t be happier.
