MAREN’S POV
I checked the watch on my wrist for the tenth time in the last five minutes while standing by the boutique register, holding the bags with her dress and feeling like an abandoned mannequin.
After paying, I left the store and sought some air in one of the indoor parks, sitting on a wooden bench surrounded by paper bags with expensive boutique logos.
Naomi had said she would only be gone for the shoes, but twenty minutes had already passed and there was no sign of her brunette mane or her euphoric little hops. I sighed, feeling a sting of irritation; I hated waiting so much.
At that, I took out my phone and dialed Naomi once, twice, three times. I was about to hang up when she finally answered.
"Naomi? Where are you? I’m waiting for you with all your purchases in the central
