by Koko Brown
Wow. Tyson, you are forgiven!
Eager to get her hands on him, Shoshana launched into the proper introductions, “Mr. Kelly, I’m so sorry….”
On the other side of the room, she assumed he was blond. Dappled by sunlight streaming through the window, his hair color appeared white. Up close, she discovered it was simply a play of light. His chin length locks were a beautiful silver gray.
Inside, Shoshana performed the horah. Her day had finally taken a positive turn. From her father’s pre-dawn episode over his missing (but not really) Sudoku book to the fabric fiasco, she expected her day to end with Jack and Coke.
Now. Drinking booze didn’t hold the same appeal.
Amazing what a good smelling man could do for one’s temperament. Anticipation mounting, she willed him to hurry up and turn around.
Most men got better looking with age. Shoshana had the niggling feeling Patrick Kelly had entered the world already beautiful. Age didn’t refine those high cheekbones, sculpt his near perfect nose, or put that sensual curve in his lips. The passing of time would only complement it. Like his mane of grey hair. She bet it had always been thick and glossy. No shampoo or conditioner could provide that natural luster, and no box color could match that particular shade of silver.
Attempting to regain her composure, Shoshana glanced back down at the client card. Get it together! She berated herself. In her line of work, she came across good looking men often. Even silver foxes with gray hair and bodies made for sin. Then why did her mind keep drifting to shtupping him?
Bewildered, she glanced back up. Again, she found herself struck by his handsomeness. Fringed with sweeping black lashes, his baby blue eyes flashed with an inner fire and struck a startling contrast to his fair complexion and even fairer hair. A freakin’ dimple in his chin completed the genetic lottery.
He seemed equally baffled by her appearance. He stared down at her while completely ignoring her outstretched hand.
“Shoshana…Haufman?” he asked with a dubious expression.
“In the flesh.”
“Shoshana Haufman of Haufman Clothiers?” Still, he ignored her hand.
“I’m not the Haufman. That honor belongs to my great-grandfather, the founder of the company. I’m the current head tailor.” She wiggled her fingers at the showroom behind them. “I own it.”
“You’re definitely not what I was expecting.” Gushing, he finally took her hand. Pleasantly warm and with just the right pressure, his handshake delivered a jolt of I-want-to-mate hormone thrumming through her system.
“Dark and lovelier than you expected?”
He chuckled, but didn’t release her hand. “I hope you don’t think I’m a close-minded bigot.”
“Oh, not at all,” she rushed to reassure him. “Most people think Sammy Davis Jr. and Whoopi Goldberg have a corner on the market of being both black and Jewish.”
“Not only am I a bigot. I’m ignorant too boot.” His voice was sensual, the stuff of wet dreams. And it rubbed her from the inside out.
“You’re a potential client.” She slipped her hand from his because an unsettling heat was beginning to settle between her thighs. And it had nothing to do with her Spanks. “Your money is green like everyone else’s.”
“You have a great sense of humor.”
Shoshana smiled prettily. She even batted her lashes. “I’ll be playing here all week,” she said surprising even herself. Where was this easy back and forth coming from? Awkward and unsure around men, she tended to come off a little aloof.
“This is going to be fun.”
Shoshana’s gaze flicked over him. She noted the inflexible set of his shoulders, the absence of smile lines around his mouth, and she got the impression having fun hadn’t been the norm in many, many years.
“A satisfied customer is a happy customer. The more fun you have, the more you’re willing to part with your money.”
With her sudden desire to mate riding her back like a howler monkey, Shoshana linked her arm with his, and proceeded to guide him through the showroom. Past Tolly, who looked at her as if she’d lost her marbles. And her sales reps, who did double takes because they’d obviously never seen their boss wrap herself around a customer like an invasive plant.
Completely oblivious, but apparently preening over the attention, Patrick smiled as he diddled with his tie. “I should be offended by your preoccupation with parting me from my money, but for some reason, I’m not the least bit concerned.”
“That’s because we excel at putting our customers at ease. Undressing in front of a complete stranger isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
“I can imagine. I tend to over indulge,” he ran his hand over his flat belly. “Is it noticeable?”
Playfully, Shoshana pulled his jacket aside. “Lay off the stadium hotdogs and ding dongs, you’ll be fine.”
“No can do,” he retorted with a flick of his hand. “There’s no way I’m sitting through a Red Sox game without a Fenway frank smothad with onions in one hand an’ a cold beah in the other.”
Shoshana blinked. “Did I just catch a Boston accent?”
His sculpted cheekbones took on a tinge of pink. “Slip of the tongue,” he said tightly.
What was that all about? His whole demeanor changed. Gone was the playful tone in his voice, and he even stepped away from her while he toyed with his jacket lapels.
Not liking the wall he’d put up between them, she opted for more tongue in cheek, “Now I see why Marilyn Monroe couldn’t get enough of them.”
As she’d hoped, his reserve slipped, and another chuckle tumbled from him. “I think it was more than just the accent.”
“It didn’t put her off either.”
She clasped his arm and steered him through the shop’s entrance. She splayed her fingers over the blend wool material, and took note of the play of muscles beneath the expensive material. Touching him proved to be an aphrodisiac, and her groping grew more insistent.
“You’re a toucher.” Smiling, he looked pointedly at his arm.
“N-n-normally no,” she stammered, letting him go and secretly hating it. “I’m checking out your suit. The material’s really nice.”
“If you want to keep inspecting, have a go.” He jingled his arm. “I love it when a beautiful woman can’t keep her hands off me.”
She didn’t think she had a sucker-for-compliments bone in body. Then why did she feel this urge to fish for more? Could be the buzz his comment triggered.
“So where are we going?” He looked up at the cloudless sky. “You’re not taking my measurements in front of all of New York City are you?”
“That can be arranged. Are you an exhibitionist?” Shoshana had no idea where that came from. A little harmless flirting wasn’t frowned upon, anything within bounds to seal the deal her father would say, but this blurred that boundary in a way she might get burned.
“I’m sorr—
“Normally, no,” he interrupted her apology, “But with the right woman, like you per se, I could be talked into it.” His eyes were brightly teasing, and Shoshana’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t remember the last time a look had aroused her as much as his.
Shoshana glanced away before she pulled him into the alley. Before she leaped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his slim hips. Before their tongues fought for dominance and he stuffed his lucky charm in her.
“I’m taking you on a tour of the factory,” she breathed, still feeling waist deep in the gutter. “We treat all our potential clients to one.”
“The grand tour before I drop my pants.”
“And open your wallet,” she added. Handling his money seemed a whole lot safer to her raging libido than seeing him undress.
“Kind of you. By the way, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Your assistant told me the waiting list is pretty long.”
“You lucked out.” Or more like I did.
“I sure have. Maybe in more ways than one.”
She pe
eped his dangling carrot, and yearned to devour it, yet knew she could not. One never pooped where you ate. No matter how good he looked with the mid-afternoon sun making love to his hair.
“When a client,” she continued as if his innuendo hadn’t caused her blood to pound through her veins, “sees the full process of how their garment is made they tend to justify the cost of one our suits as a good investment.”
“So, you’re reducing buyer’s remorse?” His gaze drifted over his off-the-rack Brioni. You’d be lucky if you walked out of their showroom paying less than five thousand. And they produced a beautiful product, yet nothing matched the uniqueness or fit of a tailored suit.
“Pretty much,” Shoshana chuckled. “We’re also extremely proud of our operation. So, we love rolling out the red carpet and showing ourselves off.”
They walked a few more feet to the factory next door. Shoshana stepped forward and punched a four number code in a box adjacent to a set of double glass doors. Unlike the showroom, the factory remained off limits to the general public or their clients unless they had an escort.
“Unlike ninety-nine point five percent of New York’s garment makers, we produce all our suits on site.” She walked ahead of him and held the door open. “We have seventy-five employees, and I can confidently say that each of them will have a hand in making or touching your suit at least once.”
“Will you have your hands on my suit?” He asked, following her inside.
The way he said ‘your hands on my suit’ sounded dirty and all kinds of filthy images threatened to snatch the wig off her air of professionalism. To say she was aroused was an understatement.
CHAPTER THREE
To say he was surprised by Haufman Clothier’s master tailor was an understatement.
Patrick had expected a wizened old woman who smelled like Bengay and peppermint candy. And on the cab ride over, the thought of her laying her arthritic, sun-spotted hands on him made him shudder more than once.
Now he couldn’t wait for her to lay hands on him. Beautiful and vibrant, Shoshana Haufman had knocked him off kilter. A puzzling anomaly, she’d pulled him out of the affected façade he’d painstakingly erected, and wheedled his inner Southie (despite his best efforts to pummel him into oblivion) into making a rare appearance.
And to think she wasn’t even his type. Tall, slim, and fiery redheads had always been his kryptonite (Southie habits die hard) but this master tailor was making him rethink his wish list. Almost immediately, his mind began to riot with exploring her ample curves.
His eyes dropped to her far from slender waist, and then to her high, full breasts pressing against her long-sleeved blouse. Heart pounding, he imagined pressing those two beauties together and burying his face in them.
He never dated a woman larger than a size four. Huge mistake. She had to be one of the sexiest women he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. And he found himself wondering if she’d object to being bent over his desk.
Her dark skin reminded him of roasted chestnuts. Finely arched eyebrows framed eyes that were equally dark. His gaze drifted to her merlot red lips and the urge to kiss her was beyond disturbing.
But it just wasn’t her mouth watering curves and her external beauty that had him reacting to her. Her affable personality and overt confidence had sucked him in and confounded him. Far from gregarious, and more than a little standoffish, Patrick didn’t like his women too forward or touchy feely. But for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t mind her back and forth banter, blurring the lines with sexual innuendo. She touched him often and even that he didn’t mind. All he kept thinking about was an opportunity to do the same without courting a harassment suit.
They had what all those men’s magazine called chemistry. That earth-moving, spark-flying phenomenon that made fools of otherwise rational people. Like his father.
Freakin’ idiot wasted his entire life fawning over a woman that didn’t want him.
Years ago, Patrick vowed he wouldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. To insure he never would, he’d distanced himself as far from his Southie upbringing as possible. He put two hundred miles between him and Boston, and he never talked about his past. Getting rid of the accent proved far easier than evading his family, appearing only when he let his guard down, which didn’t happen too often. Usually, he’d played it off as the butt of a joke. Not this time. He’d claimed his roots and to his surprise he didn’t hate himself for it.
What made her so different? Maybe it was because she was different, and so far outside his comfort zone, she’d pricked something inside him that knocked him off his game, and raised a level of awareness he’d never experienced with any other woman.
Flummoxed, Patrick silently followed this walking anomaly into her family’s factory. The expansive space looked like it hadn’t changed much over the years. The open space featured cavernous forty-foot ceilings, exposed brick walls, and large arched windows. As they walked down a narrow aisle, garment workers acknowledged him. Even a guy sweeping the floor, two aisles over, stopped and waved.
“I’m impressed,” he shouted. “I get a sense of family.”
She smiled up at him, and Patrick’s pulse quickened. He didn’t understand what she was making him feel as he gazed down at her, greedily drinking her in, learning her expressions, her quirky nuances-her sidelong glances, the way she talked with her hands, and how she took a measured breath before she spoke. And he wondered how much more he could take.
“We are a family,” she stressed. “The average employee’s tenure is twenty years.”
Patrick whistled between his teeth. “That type of loyalty is rare, especially in the financial sector.”
She lifted a round shoulder. “There’s no magic spell. We foster a sense of community and mutual respect. My great-grandfather believed if one liked the people you worked for and with, it would show in our products. His work ethic continues to thrive through three generations because it’s one of the secrets to our success.”
“Speaking of family, how did you end up the head of one of New York’s oldest men’s garment makers?” It would only be natural he had a deeper interest in her than a hundred-year-old factory.
“It almost didn’t happen. My great-grandfather, Satchel Haufman, was the son of Russian immigrants who arrived in Manhattan in 1907 from a small village in the Ural Mountains. His first job was carrying unfinished garments from one station to the next. He worked his way from garment presser to supervisor to vice president, and eventually bought the factory in 1935. His son, my zeyde Saul, was groomed to inherit the business. This inheritance came into jeopardy when he met my babba Rachel. Her father ran numbers in Harlem for the infamous Madame Stephanie Saint-Sinclair. He might have been one of my great-grandfather’s best customers but he was an immigrant from Jamaica and devoutly Episcopalian.”
“Was it love at first sight?” If she looked anything like her grandmother, Patrick wouldn’t be surprised considering his immediate reaction to her progeny.
“No way. Babba Rachel thought he was a putz. He eventually said the right things and she finally agreed to meet him for coffee. One thing led to another, they eloped to Connecticut. Neither of their parents was happy about it. Babba Rachel was kicked out of the house. My zeyde disowned. My great grandfather and zeyde didn’t speak for several years.
“A chance meeting between three generations proved to be the storm that turned the tide. My grandparents were strolling my father through the theatre district, and they ran into zedye’s mother. She threatened to leave her husband if he stood in the way of her getting to know her grandson.”
Eyes glittering, she reached up and dabbed her finger against her eyelid, staunching tears. “Sorry,” she whispered, “that story always…you know.”
Usually unaffected by emotional displays, Patrick had his fill of them throughout his childhood. His father had been a veritable water head. He was shocked at his response to her crying. For some reason, it felt like a knife twisting inside him and a
ll he wanted to do was pull her into his arms. “No worries. It’s a very romantic story.”
“Enough about my family,” she said waving her hands in her face. “You’re here for a new suit.” Before he could object, she walked over to a wall filled with large rolls of fabric. “We employ seventy-five people spread across four shifts. There’s always someone here in case of an emergency or to fulfill rush orders.”
Patrick shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “I can see popping a button being a state of emergency.”
“Don’t laugh,” she poked him, and an undeniable sexual hunger warred inside him. “You would be surprised at the number of after-hour calls we receive for everything from a loose hem to a broken zipper.”
“I’m sure,” he acquiesced. “When one enters the one percent bracket, a ton of us tend to lose the ability to function on our own.”
Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, she turned to the reams of material and pulled out a roll. “We buy our fabrics from around the world. We only work with businesses that use both ethical and sustainable practices.” Patrick reached out and touched the fabric. It felt like butter between his fingers.
“Once we take your measurements and you decide on the fabric, we cut your pattern which we can refer back to in case you decide to purchase another. Our suits require eighty man hours or about four weeks to complete. During that time, you’ll be required to come in for a minimum of three fittings.”
She turned and pointed to a loft above them. “We keep fabric up there in the bird’s nest as well.”
“That’s a ton of fabric.” Patrick squinted at the giant rolls wrapped in plastic and stacked one upon the other.
“If the material is usable, we never donate it. There’s a roll up there dating back to the 1920s.”
She walked a few steps to a garment conveyor filled with men’s suits. Like a puppy, he trailed after her.
