by Zoe Chant
Dragon's Tailor
Searching Dragons, Volume 2
Zoe Chant
Published by Zoe Chant, 2021
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to persons, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
DRAGON'S TAILOR
First Edition.
Copyright © 2021 by Zoe Chant
Written by Zoe Chant
Chapter One
∞∞∞
As Harper expertly reattached the tiny pearl button on the blouse, she found her mind wandering back to the sketch in her drawing pad. Her fingers stitched the button back into place with careless competence, but she couldn't stay focused on the task at hand, always a bad sign.
I know that I could figure it out if I just had a little more time with it. The patterning is so very close, and then I could get the specs to Mr. Mercks before the end of the week.
Harper knotted the thread and snipped it with the delicate pair of scissors hanging on a cord around her neck. She knew how silly it was to be this fond of a man she had never met, but the truth of the matter was that she was fond of Mr. Mercks. On their phone calls, he had turned out to be a gentleman with an old-world charm and dignified way of speaking, a hint of his native Austria in his voice. He was frank about the stroke that left him wheelchair-bound for almost a year and even franker about his birthday celebration in August, where many of his family members would be seeing him for the first time since he left the hospital.
“I must be well-dressed,” he stressed. “Sharp, you understand, miss? I have sent you pictures. I must be very handsome, and of course, I must dress myself.”
Harper had laughed a little at the emphasis that Mr. Mercks put on handsome, but going through the pictures, she understood. He was as neat as a pin in the pictures he had texted to her, dressed in chocolate browns and deep blues, every part pressed smooth and straight. She saw as well the fierce intelligence and pride in his eyes. She did not need it spelled out for her how hard the last year had been for him, a man that proud and independent needing to rely on others for help with everything from getting dressed to leaving the house.
“I called upon you,” he said stiffly, “because Jeremy, my therapist, he knew your work through another client. He said you will make things to to suit, and that you do beautiful work. None of these baggy disgraces ...”
“I do custom tailoring, yes, Mr. Mercks,” she said. “Let's talk a little more about what you want.”
To her surprise, that wrung a laugh from him.
“Yes, what I want,” he said with a little bit of wonder. “For so long now, it has been what I need and what others have decided for me. Yes, let us talk about what I want.”
And that was why she loved her job, even if there were days where it certainly did not seem to love her back. A warning twinge through her fingers told her that she needed to lay the project aside for at least a little while, even if there was a part of her that argued that there were only two buttons left and that it was almost done. If she could get it done before close in the next hour or so, that meant that there was a chance that she could get the client to pick up the full job and pay for it, and that would all go towards the power bill for the shop, and...
She shook her head and resolutely put the blouse away. Instead of laying it aside on her table, she slid it back into the box where she'd be less likely to pull it out again after a quick break. A certain tingle in her hand told her she had stopped just in time, and she pursed her lips against the anger and disappointment at how her day had been cut short.
At least I've finally learned to read the signs, she thought. At least I'm not risking days, maybe weeks, out of commission just for another hour or two of productivity.
She would have said that rheumatoid arthritis was a pain in the ass, but instead it was a pain in her hand and her wrist.
Instead of continuing with the buttons, she reached for her pad of paper, sketching out her ideas for Mr. Mercks's suit. He had very exacting tastes and a strong interest in clean lines that she had to admit suited him very well.
The standard rear closure and open back, of course, but the fabric he wants is so very crisp. It really should be softer, though he will hardly be wearing this outfit all day, every day ...If I can replace the fabric of the seat of the trousers, it should be nearly invisible...
Harper was so consumed with her notes that she didn't notice the man who entered the shop until he cleared his throat.
Harper yelped, her pencil practically hopping out of her hand, and then she was staring up at one of the most attractive men she had ever laid eyes on. He was tall and lean, rangy, her mother would have said, but even in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a light black jacket, it was easy to tell that he was incredibly fit. His head was tilted slightly aside so she couldn't see his face fully, but his features were fine and chiseled, making her want to reach over and brush back the sheaf of dark hair that fell over his brow.
“Well, hello, gorgeous,” she blurted out, and then she shook her head as the man stared at her in bewilderment.
“I was looking for Harper Prynn. An acquaintance told me she did clothing alteration,” he said, perplexed, and she finally remembered to heave herself up to the counter, offering him her hand.
“I'm afraid that's me,” Harper said with a slight grin.
“Hm,” said tall, dark, and uninterested-in-eye-contact.
Something about him told her he wasn't missing a single thing about her shop. There was a kind of watchfulness to him that reminded her of the first responders she had known, the EMTs and the firemen. He was taking everything in, from the smallness of the room to the rack of clothes that lined both sides of the back area to the ancient cash register to her sleek little laptop on the work table. He took her in as well, eyes flickering over her pale silvery hair and and what he could see of her over the counter. For some reason, Harper found that she didn't mind.
Harper put her work aside, coming to stand at the counter across from him. She found herself wondering what color his eyes were; there was no way to tell without him looking up. There was something faraway about him, as if he lived in a different place entirely, untouched and without the urge for touching in return.
“So what can I help you with today?” she asked, and he lifted the garment bag draped over his arm.
“I need my suit taken in,” he said diffidently. “It doesn't fit well.”
“It's a thing that happens. When do you need it?”
“This weekend.”
She tilted her head at that.
“That's fast.”
“Then charge me more.”
There was nothing aggressive or challenging in his voice. There was a flatness to it that told her he was more used to command than other people might be, but instead of irritating her, it made her take a closer look at him.
“Sounds like you have some big event coming up,” she said lightly. “How about if we take a look at what needs to be done, and then we figure out whether I can help you?”
He frowned, still not meeting her eyes.
“I need my suit to fit,” he said. “Can't you just ... take it down a size?”
Harper smothered a laugh.
“No, not really. If you're asking for my work, I'm going to need to at least get the garments on you and to see what might need to be done. Won't take very long at all, promise. Can you give me twenty minutes?”
His lips twitched a little, but his protest wasn't what she thought it would be.
“Aren't you getting ready to close?”
“Considerate of you to ask, but no, it'll be fine. Let's see if I can help you right now, and then we'll figure it out, shall we?”
He stiffened a little at the word help, but he nodded reluctantly.
<
br /> “All right.”
She caught him glancing at the brace around her right wrist as she swung the mobile segment of the counter up, allowing him to pass to the back.
“You knew my name coming in,” she said instead of going into the explanation. “What should I call you?”
“Can't you stick with gorgeous?”
He was so deadpan that it took her a moment to laugh, and then she shook her head, leading him to the work area in the back.
“Sorry. I mean, what if the other handsome men who so routinely come to have their suits fixed find out and get jealous? I can't be seen playing favorites.”
He actually chuckled at that, and it struck Harper what a nice laugh he had. It sent a pleasant tickle down her back, and she couldn't resist smiling, a real smile, in return.
He's trouble, Harper found herself thinking, and she wondered why that made her heart beat faster.
Chapter Two
∞∞∞
Morgan didn't quite know what to make of the small shop that had been recommended to him. It was easy to miss, sandwiched between a Chinese takeaway place and a defunct sporting goods store in a grim little strip mall. It wasn't the sort of place that inspired confidence.
Still, it wasn't as if he knew a great deal about tailors, and he had put this problem off long enough.
Go on. Get it over with. Get it all over with, and then you can...
What?
The options that followed made him flinch, and somewhere deep inside him, he heard his dragon utter a deep growl, something low and frustrated and furious.
Shut up, Morgan thought. If you can't do what you're meant to do, shut up.
The inside of the shop, with its tight quarters and relentless tidiness, was a surprise, and the owner doubly so. Morgan caught a flash of silvery hair, but at her first words – hello, gorgeous – he realized that she couldn't have been more than thirty. Her voice was confident and easy, the kind of voice with a sense of humor, and he found himself warming to it and its owner immediately.
Morgan watched Harper Prynne as she led him deeper into the shop, and he realized that it wasn't just her voice he was warming to.
She was small but curvy, her hips rounded and rolling under her plain green skirt. Her tank top left her smooth pale arms bare, and except for the brace on her wrist, she wore no other adornment.
It was her hair that startled him. He had thought her an older woman when he entered the shop, but now he could see that it was something else. Her hair, cut in a messy bob that ended just above her shoulders, gleamed silver with just a touch of gold, and Morgan found himself unable to look away.
“It started going when I was fifteen,” Harper said, switching on a pair of bright lights to illuminate the back room. Her shop was an L, and this area, the dressing room, was sheltered from the front by the bend in the room and a curtain hung from the ceiling.
“What?”
“My hair. When I was fifteen, it started to go gray. I was a dishwater blond, and then overnight, silver everywhere. That's why you were looking at me so hard, wasn't it?”
“I –“
“You're not the only one who looks,” she said. “And I still don't have your name.”
“Morgan Castell.”
“All right, Mr. Castell –“
“Morgan, please.”
She laughed. He realized with just a touch of chagrin that he liked her laugh rather a lot.
“Morgan, then. Go ahead and get changed into your suit, and we can get started.”
Morgan shrugged, laying the suit aside. He had gotten his jacket thrown over a nearby chair and he had his T-shirt pulled over his head before Harper made a squeaky startled sound. He looked up to find her with a hand over her eyes.
“There's a screen over there,” she said, pointing.
Morgan blushed a little at his mistake, and but when he saw the pink on her cheeks, he couldn't help grinning a little.
Been a while since I made a woman blush like that, he thought with a bit of amusement. Doesn't hurt that she's pretty as a penny, too.
The smile faded from his face as he dressed himself in the charcoal gray suit that he had brought with him. It was in good repair, at least, but once it was on, there was no denying the fact that it fit him badly now, rumpling in odd places where before it had hung smoothly.
A man's suit should be as comfortable as wearing his own skin, Uncle Wilf had told him more than once. If it's not that comfortable … well, maybe your tailor needs to be a little on fire.
Uncle Wilf said a lot of things that only made sense to himself, but the thing about the suit was true. When Morgan picked the suit originally, it had fit him well, and he had been pleased to wear it.
I should just get a new suit, he thought, knotting his tie with abrupt motions. No reason not to. Drop this one off at a thrift store, or maybe see if one of the kids at the convocation wants it.
The idea of passing on the suit made him and his dragon want to growl, so instead, Morgan stuffed away his oh-so-practical thoughts and stepped out from behind the screen. The suit had been stored with everything he needed to wear it except for the shoes. There was no helping the boots he wore, but still he didn't think he deserved the long look that the pretty tailor gave him.
“What?” he asked, unable to keep from snapping.
“Well, that's a beauty,” she said, looking him up and down, and Morgan found himself wishing that she would properly look at him when she said it, rather than the suit he was wearing so badly.
“Is it?” he asked, and he caught a brief flash of a grin as she came closer.
“You know it is. But you're right. It doesn't really work as it is, does it?”
Morgan started to flinch at that, but Harper was coming closer, tugging at the measuring tape thrown over her shoulders.
“We're going to get a little close and personal here,” she said, inspecting the shoulders of his suit and craning her neck to look at the front and the back. “Are there any places that I should stay away from?”
“No, not not really,” Morgan said, biting back the urge to say some things that were wholly inappropriate.
Harper moved around him with a grace born of long practice, and with her attention focused on his clothes, Morgan was free to focus his attention on her. She had an easy way of moving that kept catching his eye and a complete lack of self-consciousness that was oddly enchanting. He watched her hands flutter like birds as she ran the tape measure over him, taking measurements from both arms, across his shoulders, around his throat, and a half-dozen other ways that he wouldn't have thought of at all.
She was pretty when he'd startled her earlier, Morgan decided, but when she was concentrating on her craft, she was beautiful.
“So did this suit belong to your grandfather or your great-grandfather?” she asked, startling him out of his reverie.
“Hm?”
“It's too old to be your father's, I think, but whoever left it to you kept it in excellent shape. Gorgeous lines on it.”
Morgan told himself that it was beyond stupid to feel jealous of a suit, but somehow, he was managing it.
“I was always told that a good suit should last me all my life,” he said vaguely, and she laughed, a low and lovely sound. It was lighter than he had thought it would be, bell-like, and with a rush, he wondered what it might be like to kiss her.
Fortunately, she seemed to have no idea of what was going through his mind.
“All right, I'm going to kneel down and get your inseam and a few others, all right?”
“Of course,” Morgan said, and then he was unprepared for the slight thrill of seeing Harper on her knees in front of him, her quick hands measuring his hips and working their way down.
It's work for her, he thought with a growing desperation. Do not be the pervert who has unacceptable thoughts about his tailor.
He might have been slightly amused at the urge to call her his, but frankly, he was a dragon. If he lost that possessive
streak, God only knew what he would have left.
Before his thoughts could take an even darker turn, he made a shocked sound as Harper reached up to measure his inseam, which apparently ran from high between his legs to the cuff of his trousers.
“Sorry!” she said. “That one surprises people...”
“It's all right,” he managed.
Harper sat back on her heels, making a thoughtful noise.
“All right, this is doable for this weekend, but it will cost extra, and I want you in on Wednesday or Thursday to make sure that everything sits right. As much as I'm going to be charging you for this, I want to get it right.”
“I should hope so,” Morgan said, and when he saw her start to rise, he reached out to help her up. Her hand was warm in his, and then an electric shock traveled between them the moment they touched skin to skin.
Harper felt it too because her clear gray eyes flew to his, wide and wondering. The moment they looked at each other, truly looked at each other, Morgan's dragon roared inside him, and he felt as if his heart had opened in a way he had never dreamed possible before.
My mate, he thought with wonder. My true mate…
Everything, absolutely everything in the world fell away, and then he pulled Harper into his arms to kiss her, because one more moment without his mouth on hers was not to be borne.
Chapter Three
∞∞∞
One second everything was normal – no, Harper really couldn't say that. It wasn't normal to see a man as drop-dead gorgeous as Morgan Castell walk into her shop, it wasn't normal to have said gorgeous man walk out in a suit that seemed perfectly preserved from some ninety years ago.
There was nothing normal about the situation at all, and as Morgan leaned in towards her, she was possessed of a deep and abiding urge to kiss him, so powerful that it almost overwhelmed her. There was something in her crying out for it, but just a moment before their lips would have touched, sense reasserted itself, and she pulled back.
