3

I won’t be that tailor. I won’t ogle my customers, no matter how handsome or ripped or—

“So?”

Right, the rest. “The jacket’s a unique piece,” I explain with a gulp. “We can have matching trousers and waistcoat made on a custom order. The jacket’s our very own Mr. Turner’s work, so the integration will be seamless.” It’s easy to lose myself in work. If nothing else, it’s a welcome distraction from the man’s gaze. “We’ll take the rest of your measurements and schedule a fitting to make sure everything’s the perfect size.”

“Hm,” the man says.

And, for a while, that’s all he says.

It strikes me suddenly how alone we are. The building is hushed like only quiet tailor shops can be. The windows are far on the other side of the room. There’d be no one here to watch if I knelt down from the stepstool and…

“Well then?” he demands eventually, making me blink in confusion.

“Pardon me?”

He doesn’t even try to hide the eye roll. Asshole. “Aren’t you going to measure me?”

“Oh, that’s—” I swallow hard. “We can put you on the calendar, for sure. It’s just that Mr. Turner has already gone home for the day, so —”

“You do it.”

I’d really, really rather not. “I, um…”

Wrong answer. “I’m a busy man, Ms. Flowers,” the man snaps, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. “Either we get this done quickly, or we won’t be getting it done at all. Am I making myself clear?”

For one moment, I reconsider prison.

Then I reconsider it again. I put my best smile back on and stuff my hands in my pockets. “Certainly, sir. Let me just get my notebook.”

I hurry out of the changing room, counting down from ten in the process. What a huge, insufferable, selfish—

“Should I undress?” the man calls out from the changing room.

“No!” I squeal, perhaps a bit too loudly. “I mean, uh, no. There’s no need.” And then, because there’s no blood left for my brain, apparently, I add, “Thank you, though.”

Silence.

I bury my face in my hands. “What the fuck?” I mutter to myself, burning to the tips of my ears.

Then I yank my godforsaken notebook and pen out from under a mountain of tags and tickets and make my way back into the devil’s den.

Thus begin the most painfully awkward ten minutes of my life.

Get it over with, I coach myself again and again. Just get it over with. This’ll all be over soon. I take mystery man’s measurements from head to toe—literally. He’s gonna need shoes, too, so that’s important.

Most of all, though, he’s gonna need pants.

When I kneel in front of him, touching my tape measure to his belt and looping it all the way around his groin, I wish for instant, sudden death. Is it possible to die from mortification?

No, clearly not. Otherwise, June would be writing my obituary right now. April Flowers, Diligent Employee, Died in the Line of Duty. Leaves Behind a Bereaved Best Friend, a Half-Blind Cat, and a Sexual Harassment Lawsuit.

Normally, I’d be making small talk to break the tension. Cracking jokes, even. But this guy’s like a statue: unmoving, unspeaking, unblinking.

That last part especially is messing with my head. Whenever I find myself glancing up, there he is, blue eyes burning a hole in me from above. Looking down on me.

How easily I can picture his big hand sliding into the roots of my hair, my hands sliding up his —

“All done!” I blurt out, jumping to my feet. “Will you, uhh—will you be needing a shirt as well?”

The usual glare ensues. “Unless you —”

“Figured,” I cut in with a nervous chuckle. “I’ll go grab it for you. I have just the thing.”

I disappear as quickly as my feet can carry me.

In the shop, I take a few seconds more than my task would warrant to catch my breath. My head’s spinning, and I’m afraid low blood pressure has nothing to do with it. God, this is all June’s fault. My best friend is always saying I need to “get out there,” need to get myself on Tinder, need to get myself some that. No wonder my mind’s in the gutter.

“Ms. Flowers?” an irritated voice calls from the changing room. “Are you sewing my shirt from scratch?”

“Coming!” I call back, instantly cringing from the word choice.

“In the gutter” might be a step up from where my brain currently is, actually.

I bring him a sleek gray shirt. “It might seem counterintuitive, to wear something this dark underneath,” I explain, holding out the piece to him. “But trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

The man frowns. After a beat, however, he takes the shirt. “I guess we’ll see.”

I leave the changing room, giving him privacy and giving me permission to breathe again. As soon as I’m out, I loose a big exhale, letting my shoulders slump.

“What a day,” I croak, walking around the shop to gather myself.

That’s when I see it. In the accessories section, rolled up neatly in its display case: a tie. Cornflower blue with indigo details.

It’s a perfect match.

I run excitedly back into the changing room, forgetting everything. When clothes are involved, I tend to forget about the world. “Sir, I think this would look great…”

I did say forgetting everything, right? Including the purpose of changing rooms.

I don’t knock. That’s my first mistake. I just swing the door wide open, picturing that beautiful tie framed by the lapels of Elias’s masterpiece —

“… on you.”

And my half-naked customer glares at me.