Tailor-Made

by Yolanda Wallace

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Praise for Yolanda Wallace

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Tailor-Made

  Before Grace Henderson began working as a tailor in her father’s bespoke suit shop in Wiliamsburg, Brooklyn, she established a hard and fast rule about not dating clients. The edict is an easy one for her to follow, considering the overwhelming majority of the shop’s clients are men. But when Dakota Lane contacts her to commission a suit to wear to her sister’s wedding, Grace finds herself tempted to throw all the rules out the window.

  Dakota Lane works as a bicycle messenger by day and moonlights as a male model. Her high-profile career, gender-bending looks, and hard-partying ways garner her plenty of romantic attention, but she would rather play the field than settle down. When she meets sexy tailor Grace Henderson, however, she suddenly finds herself in the market for much more than a custom suit.

  Praise for Yolanda Wallace

  The War Within

  “The War Within has a masterpiece quality to it. It’s a story of the heart told with heart—a story to be savored—and proof that you’re never too old to find (or rediscover) true love.”— Lambda Literary

  Rum Spring

  “The writing was possibly the best I’ve seen for the modern lesfic genre, and the premise and setting was intriguing. I would recommend this one.”—The Lesbrary

  Murphy’s Law

  “Prepare to be thrilled by a love story filled with high adventure as they move toward an ending as turbulent as the weather on a Himalayan peak.”—Lambda Literary

  Lucky Loser

  “Yolanda Wallace is a great writer. Her character work is strong, the story is compelling, and the pacing is so good that I found myself tearing through the book within a day and a half.”—The Lesbian Review

  Tailor-Made

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Tailor-Made

  © 2017 By Yolanda Wallace. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13:978-1-63555-082-5

  This Electronic Original is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: December 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick

  By the Author

  In Medias Res

  Rum Spring

  Lucky Loser

  Month of Sundays

  Murphy’s Law

  The War Within

  Love’s Bounty

  Break Point

  24/7

  Divided Nation, United Hearts

  True Colors

  Tailor-Made

  Writing as Mason Dixon

  Date with Destiny

  Charm City

  21 Questions

  Acknowledgments

  Few things make my heart beat faster than the sight of a woman in a suit. Except, perhaps, the sight of that same suit casually tossed on a bedroom floor. But I digress.

  I received the inspiration for Tailor-Made from two sources: a trip to Seattle and a documentary about a company that makes bespoke suits.

  While in Seattle for a literary conference, I had several conversations with readers who identified as gender fluid who were frustrated by the lack of representation in contemporary fiction. Thanks to those lengthy discussions, the character of androgynous bicycle messenger Dakota Lane came to me almost fully formed. Grace Henderson, the tailor Dakota meets at the beginning of the book, soon followed. I had a great time getting to know both characters and exploring their favorite New York haunts. Hopefully, I will be able to visit the locales in person one day instead of virtually. I also hope to make a return trip to Seattle someday soon to share this story with the people who helped inspire it.

  As always, I would like to thank Radclyffe, Sandy, Cindy, and the rest of the Bold Strokes Books team for providing the fantastic support system that allows me to continue indulging my favorite hobby.

  I would also like to thank the readers for their feedback. Your critiques help me become a better writer. That’s the goal, anyway.

  Last, but by no means least, I would like to thank Dita for her seemingly endless supply of patience. She’s the best first reader (and wife) a girl ever had.

  To Dita,

  We’re tailor-made.

  Chapter One

  Grace Henderson drummed her fingers on the fabric-strewn cutting table while she waited impatiently for her tardy prospective client to deign to make an appearance. Blowing out a breath, she checked her watch for the fourth time in the past fifteen minutes. The prospect, a model who had recently sent an email to the company’s website to request an appointment for a fitting, was almost an hour late. Maybe she had decided not to show. Or even worse, perhaps she had received a freebie from one of the many design houses she modeled for and no longer needed Grace to craft a bespoke suit for her. Grace didn’t like the idea of losing out on a sale, but she liked being disrespected even less.

  “I’ve had it up to here with entitled athletes and self-absorbed celebrities who are more concerned with hanging out with their entourages and ‘expanding their brands’ than they are about the things that really matter,” she said, venting her frustration. She pushed a container of straight pins away from her so she wouldn’t be tempted to throw it across the room. Being forced to clean up the mess would make her even angrier than she already was. “My commission might pale in comparison to their exorbitant salaries, but my time is just as valuable as theirs. I have better things to do than sit around waiting for some cut-rate Chrissy Teigen to—”

  “Careful.” Lillie Washington, a seamstress who had been working for Henderson Custom Suits since Grace’s father founded the business forty years ago, looked up from the blazer she was mending and stared at Grace over the top of her half-moon glasses. “If you get too steamed up, you’re bound to sweat out that perm you paid good money for. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Grace unconsciously reached up to pat her chemically straightened hair with the heel of her hand as she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. Her long locks, somehow free of gray despite the copious amount of stress her job heaped on her, fell past her shoulders. “I should just cut it all off and go natural. It’s m
uch cheaper and the upkeep requires far less maintenance.”

  “You’ve been threatening to cut your hair since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, and you still haven’t done it yet.” Lillie made the final stitch in the mended seam and briefly paused to admire her handiwork. The blazer belonged to the starting center for the hometown Brooklyn Nets. He was out for the rest of the season with a knee injury sustained in practice, but the garish prints he had selected for this suit and the nine others he had ordered guaranteed he would draw attention while he warmed the bench. Lillie placed the blazer on a wooden hanger and set it aside until the client’s assistant could claim it. “I’ve got a pair of scissors right here if you’re feeling brave.”

  Grace grabbed her hair with both hands and held it away from her face. The difference was striking, but the new look wasn’t something she thought she could get used to seeing every day. Wearing her hair up was one thing. Getting rid of it altogether was another. She liked long hair. Both on her and the women she dated. She liked running her fingers through it, and she absolutely loved feeling it slide across her skin when her lover—

  “Well, are you?” Lillie asked. “Feeling brave, that is.”

  Grace released her grip on her hair and turned away from the mirror. “Perhaps some other time.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I’ve heard that before.” Lillie smiled knowingly, the pair of gold teeth in the upper plate of her dentures flashing under the fluorescent lights. “Who are we waiting for again?”

  “Dakota Lane.”

  Lillie put her hands on her ample hips. “That skinny white girl who looks like she could use a double cheeseburger and an extra-large order of fries?”

  Grace nearly choked on her bottled water. Dakota Lane was a woman who worked primarily as a male model. Images of her wearing men’s suits, flirting with scantily clad women, and showing off her washboard abs while she modeled designer briefs had been appearing in print ads, on billboards, and in the tabloids for the past several years. Grace had seen several adjectives used to describe her—mysterious, androgynous, butch, gender fluid, and smoking hot were the most frequent terms bandied about—but Lillie’s description was certainly the most colorful.

  “No wonder you’re walking around as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs,” Lillie said. “We don’t get many women in here. And when we do, it’s usually church ladies from the neighborhood ordering something special for Easter Sunday, not someone who makes women, even straight ones, want to drop their drawers. Is Dakota your type?”

  “I don’t have a type.”

  “Child, please. Everyone has a type, whether they want to admit it or not. Sometimes, though, those preferences are subject to change. Take me, for example. I like my men tall, dark, and handsome, but I’ll take short, light, and ugly as sin as long as he treats me right. Dakota might not be your type, but she definitely has you off your game. That’s not like you.” Lillie laid a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Your father picked you to help him run this place because you don’t get starry-eyed when celebrities walk through the door. Actors, musicians, athletes, and other high rollers pay us a visit all the time, but you don’t let their fame turn your head. Your sisters, on the other hand, would treat the business like a dating service until each of them managed to land a rich husband.”

  “I’m not looking for a husband.”

  Lillie pursed her lips. “You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve known what you’re about since you were ten years old and I caught you kissing one of your little playmates in the fabric room. You being a lesbian don’t make no nevermind to me, Grace. I love you like family. I always will. All I’m saying is, you’re treating this Dakota person different from the rest of your female clients and you haven’t even met her yet.”

  “What am I doing differently?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Every other time a woman has come into the shop, you’ve treated their appointments just like everyone else’s. You don’t stress over them. You just go about your business. Not today.”

  “Because she’s an hour late and I’ve got someplace to be.”

  “Where?” Lillie asked skeptically. “The only places you ever go are home, church, and work. I shake my tail feather more often than you do, and we both know I haven’t done much of that since Cotton came to Harlem.”

  Grace tried not to laugh but failed miserably. Lillie had that effect on people. She was nearing seventy and had reached the age where she said what was on her mind instead of holding her tongue. Like now, the results were usually humorous rather than off-putting. “If you must know, I’m meeting someone for drinks tonight.”

  Lillie cocked her head so hard her wig nearly flew off. Thanks to her vast collection, she sported a different look every day. Unlike Grace, who had been rocking the same style since she finished college. Seven years was a long time, but Grace was in no rush to change a winning formula. She was, however, anxious to end her losing streak. She hadn’t been in a serious relationship since she started apprenticing with her father ten years ago. At first, she was too busy juggling her class load at the City College of New York while she learned the ins and outs of her chosen profession. Now she had her economics degree in hand, but she was too busy keeping up with the steadily growing demand to have time for a social life. Not tonight, though. Tonight, she was taking some much needed downtime.

  “You’re meeting someone like who?” Lillie asked.

  “A friend of a friend.” Lillie’s eyes lit up, but Grace tried to temper her obvious excitement. “Don’t get too worked up. It’s just drinks. If it turns into something more, I’ll tell you all about it. If it doesn’t, you were better off not knowing in the first place.”

  And, by extension, the whole neighborhood. Lillie was a valued employee and an even dearer friend, but she couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. Grace wasn’t in the closet by any means, but she didn’t want Lillie spreading the news about her and whoever Lynette had dug up for her until she knew there was something to tell.

  When the downstairs buzzer sounded, Grace walked over to the intercom mounted on the wall and pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “Hi, it’s Dakota Lane. I have an appointment with Grace Henderson.”

  “Finally,” Grace said under her breath.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I had a problem at work.”

  “A problem at work?” Lillie said. “Did she forget how to smile or something?”

  Grace hastily pulled her hand away from the speaker button. “Shh. She might hear you.”

  Lillie furrowed her brow. “A few minutes ago, you wanted to wring her neck. Now you’re acting like she’s your best friend.”

  Grace wouldn’t go that far, but she had to admit Dakota sounded stressed. And sexy as hell. Her voice was like a cat’s purr—low-pitched and comforting. At the moment, however, she sounded as if she needed to receive some TLC rather than dish it out. Grace leaned toward the speaker. “I’ll buzz you up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where is she from?” Lillie asked as Grace pressed the button that disengaged the downstairs lock. “She sounds like she’s from down South. She even remembered to say thank you, so she definitely ain’t from around here.”

  Grace returned to the cutting table while she listened for the service elevator. “I think she’s from Savannah.”

  “You think or you know?”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure I read it somewhere.” In the vast selection of articles Grace had come across while she prepared for today’s meeting, the interviewers had done their best to drag details out of Dakota to no avail. “She doesn’t seem to like talking about herself or her family.”

  “Good,” Lillie said decisively. “I can’t stand people who put their business in the streets. I don’t want to know what somebody had for breakfast this morning or who they slept with last night unless I’m sitting across the table from them or lying in bed next to them.”

  As she reached for a noteb
ook and pen, Grace tried to scrub the images Lillie’s comment had evoked from her mind. She had seen Dakota’s name in the gossip columns more than once, but she didn’t know if those mentions were by accident or design. Publicists often fabricated stories in order to garner attention for their clients. Perhaps Dakota’s were no different. If so, they might want to rethink their strategy because it often seemed as if they were taking the old adage about there being no such thing as bad publicity too much to heart. If the gossip columnists were to be believed, Dakota was a train wreck waiting to happen. Each time she picked up a newspaper or tabloid that featured a mention of Dakota within its pages, Grace mentally braced herself for the collision.

  Her breath hitched in anticipation when she heard the freight elevator rattle to a stop. The building was almost a hundred years old and the elevator was nearly as ancient. Both added character to a neighborhood that was historic in some areas and thoroughly modern in others. To many, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, was the hipster capital of New York if not the world. To Grace, it was simply the area she and her family had always called home. But with increasing gentrification, home might not feel that way for much longer.

  Her father owned the building they worked in, and the brownstone they lived in was rent-controlled. Many of their friends and business associates, however, were slowly being priced out of the neighborhood. At times, Grace felt like she and her father were the last ones standing. How long would he hold out before he pulled up stakes, too?