Her favorite color was, of course, black. Not a very important detail or worthwhile fact until she saw Emma — Sheriff Swan— the other day.
She had rushed into the Mayor’s office all flushed and out of breath and indignant, and demanded — see, that’s where Regina’s memory falters a little. She had raised her head to rebuke the Sheriff with another sarcastic remark (she kept such a good stock, after all) but the words had sort of died in her mouth after the initial, “Sheriff Swan…”
Because Sheriff Swan, all skinny jean-clad, coltish legs and golden tresses, and pink, anger-flushed cheeks, had forgotten her trademark leather jacket in the car most probably, and she was wearing a black shirt. A very flimsy black shirt. It wasn’t doing a good job of hiding anything it was supposed to be hiding.
Regina hardly paid any attention to what Emma was raging on about. She had always been a keen observer, so instead she observed very, very keenly all the little things.
For example how many little black buttons were not buttoned, and how much creamy, smooth flesh was exposed, contrasting sharply against the black shirt. How anger made her breathe hard.
Regina heartily approved of it.
And that little scrap of a thing clearly visible beneath that shirt was also black (something in Regina’s stomach performed somersaults) and, perhaps, lacy? Yes, that was definitely lace at the edges, she would bet herMayor’s seal on it.