Chapter 6

Isabella was strolling through the park without any particular hurry when a repetitive movement caught her attention.

A man was sitting on a bench, hunched over a blazer as he attempted to repair a tear along one of its side seams. At first glance, there was nothing extraordinary about the scene, but Isabella slowed her pace until she came to a complete stop.

It wasn't the man she was looking at, but his hands.

The needle he was using was far too thick for the fabric, and the thread wasn't suitable either. Even so, his stitches were small, remarkably even, and positioned in such a way that, once the seam was closed, the tension would be distributed without distorting the garment too much.

With better materials, the repair would have been practically invisible.

Isabella watched him for a few more seconds before approaching the bench and sitting down at the opposite end.

The man briefly glanced up at her, but Isabella merely smiled, and he returned to his task.

She made no attempt to strike up a conversation or distract him. Instead, she remained there, discreetly observing the way he inserted the needle, adjusted the tension of the thread with his fingers, and repeatedly checked that both sides of the fabric remained aligned. On a couple of occasions, Isabella was tempted to suggest a different stitch, but she restrained herself.

She wanted to see how he would solve the problem on his own.

A few minutes later, the man secured the final stitch, cut the thread with a small pocketknife, and held the blazer up in front of him to inspect his work.

He smiled with satisfaction.

So did Isabella.

“I must admit, that's a very good repair.”

The man turned toward her, surprised by the comment, before returning her smile.

“Necessity works miracles.” He examined the repaired seam again. “It got torn this morning when they shoved me out of an office building.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow but didn't ask any questions.

She'd learned long ago that when someone wanted to tell their story, silence often revealed more than any interrogation ever could.

The man let out a small, humorless laugh.

“I went there for a job interview. Everything was going pretty well until they noticed a little detail in my criminal record. The woman interviewing me got nervous, started shouting for security, and…” He lifted the blazer slightly. “Let's just say the guards weren't particularly careful when they asked me to leave.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

He shook his head.

“Don't be. I understand. Not everyone is willing to hire someone with a criminal record.”

Isabella lowered her gaze to his hands. There were small marks on his fingers, some old and others more recent. They were the hands of someone accustomed to working.

“How long?”

The man immediately understood her question.

“Six years.”

“What for?”

He studied her for a moment, perhaps trying to decide how much he wanted to reveal to a complete stranger.

“Nonviolent theft. But the items were considered high-value.”

Isabella nodded slowly.

“Do you regret it?”

That question seemed to genuinely surprise him. He remained silent for a moment before answering.

“Honestly, no.” Isabella waited for him to elaborate, and eventually he did. “I got enough money to buy the medication my mother needed at the time. It didn't change the outcome, but at least she was in less pain.”

Some of the lightness faded from Isabella's expression.

“I'm so sorry.”

“It's been five years.” He lowered his gaze to the blazer. “I couldn't be there when she died, but they told me she went peacefully, without any pain. I suppose that has to be enough.”

Isabella made no attempt to offer him empty words of comfort. She didn't know him well enough to do so, and judging by the way he'd spoken about his mother, she suspected he didn't need them anyway.

Instead, she looked at the repair again.

“Where did you learn to sew?”

A much more genuine smile appeared on the man's face.

“From her. My parents owned a small tailoring shop. They mostly did alterations and repairs, but my father knew how to make certain garments from scratch, and my mother could fix practically anything you put in front of her.”

“So you grew up surrounded by fabric.”

“Pretty much.”

He ran his fingers along the seam he'd just repaired.

“The shop caught fire with my father inside. Afterward, there were problems with the insurance settlement, and the landlord ended up taking the money. My mother tried to keep working from home, but it was never the same. Then she got sick, and she didn't have health insurance. Things…” He paused. “Things got a little complicated.”

Isabella studied his hands again, finally understanding where his technique came from.

“Would you like to do it again?”

“Do what?”

“Sewing. Making clothes. Doing alterations. Working with garments.”

He let out a small laugh.

“Right now, I'm interested in any job I can get, ma'am.”

“That wasn't my question.”

The man turned toward her, and Isabella gestured to the blazer.

“That's not the work of someone who simply learned how to thread a needle. You knew exactly where to place each stitch to prevent the fabric from losing its shape, and you managed a remarkably decent finish using the wrong needle and a thread I would never have chosen for that material.” She paused briefly before continuing. “So I'll ask you again. Would you like to make a living doing this?”

For the first time since they'd started talking, the man appeared genuinely bewildered.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “Yes, I would.”

“Good.”

Isabella opened her handbag and searched for a business card.

The boutique's official cards weren't ready yet. Those were still being designed. This was a personal card with her name and phone number.

She held it out to him.

“I'm about to open a haute couture boutique, and I'm going to need people who know how to work with their hands. I'd like to see what yours can do when you have the proper materials.”

The man looked at the card but didn't immediately take it.

“I just told you I have a criminal record.”

“I know. I was here for that part of the conversation.”

“And that doesn't concern you?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“I'd be concerned if you'd tried to hide it from me.”

Her answer left him speechless.

Isabella gave the card a small wave between her fingers.

“I'm not offering you a job just yet. I'm offering you an opportunity to show me what you can do. If you're as good as I think you are, we'll talk about employment. If you're not, we'll have wasted a few hours and some fabric.”

He finally accepted the card.

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. I'm quite demanding.”

That managed to draw a smile from him. The man lowered his gaze to the card and read the name printed on it.

“Isabella Vaughn.”

“For now.” Isabella smiled. “Soon, Isabella Brooks.”

He looked up at her again but didn't ask why.

She liked that.

“Then it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Brooks.”

The ease with which he pronounced that surname stirred something unexpected inside Isabella, and she smiled in response.

Not the polite smile she'd learned to wear over years of dinners, events, and social gatherings, but a small, spontaneous one born from the strange pleasure of hearing someone address her by a name she couldn't officially use yet, but which already felt far more like her own than the one she currently carried.

“It's a pleasure to meet you…”

“Matt. Matt Jones.”

“The pleasure is mine, Matt.”

Isabella rose from the bench and adjusted her handbag over her shoulder.

“Think about it. I'll be expecting your call.”

Matt looked down at the card again.

“I'll call.”

“Then you'd better do it before I find someone who sews better than you.”

“That sounded like a threat,” he said with a laugh.

“That was the intention.”

Isabella waved goodbye and continued along the park's winding paths.

She'd gone out that morning simply because she needed to walk and clear her head. She hadn't expected to find anything particularly important along the way, much less a potential employee sitting on a bench, mending a blazer with inadequate tools.

Nevertheless, as she continued walking, she found herself thinking it had been a good morning.

It wasn't about having done a good deed. Isabella had no need to turn Matt into a charity case to feel better about herself.

She'd recognized talent where someone else had seen nothing but a criminal record.

Now it was up to Matt to prove she hadn't been wrong.