The Salsewoman
The saleswoman's eyes darted between them, and it was as if a switch flipped inside her. Her pleasant smile turned more rigid, her gaze becoming subtly dismissive. She looked at DL's outfit—scuffed boots, worn denim, and the slight defiance in her stance—then shifted to Jack's plain shirt and faded jeans. Clearly, in her eyes, these two were nothing more than a couple of kids here to gawk at cars they couldn't afford.
"I see." The woman's voice dropped a notch, and the warmth drained from her expression. "Well, feel free to look around. We have a variety of models on display." She made a half-hearted gesture toward the showroom floor, then took a step back, already turning away.
DL's eyebrows shot up, and Jack could practically feel the tension coil in her. "Excuse me?" she called out, her voice dangerously low. "Aren't you supposed to, I don't know, help us?"