by Koko Brown
“They banned real tortoise shell more than forty years ago. Get over it.” Again, her eyes went to the clock.
Eleven minutes.
“A plastic button versus the real—”
Unwilling to hear the noble merits of an endangered species hunted to near extinction because of human vanity, Shoshana cut her off, “I’ll look into another distri…” She eyed the button in Sukey’s hand. “…what if we forget about a new vendor and look into vintage replacements?”
“Two things.” She held up her middle finger. “One: Is it possible? And two: Is it cost prohibitive?”
Shoshana shrugged. “I don’t see why not. We can buy them by the bag from thrift stores or online where they sell them in complete sets.”
Sukey’s expression turned pensive. “It would make the suite more one-of-a-kind.”
“Tyson hipped me to this cool website, Depoca.com. It’s filled with thousands of users buying and selling vintage items and handmade goods.”
Glad to put off the inevitable, Shoshana pulled out her cell but Sukey swatted her hand. “Go. I’ll look it up. You have an appointment, remember.”
Her gaze lifted to the wall clock.
Seven minutes.
“We’ll touch base again on Monday?”
“If I’m still alive.”
Unaware of her dilemma, the octogenarian returned to recording and itemizing the factory’s notions and sewing supplies. A large and never-ending job, it could easily be handled by two people. Every year they’d offered her an assistant, each and every time she refused, opting to personally handle every button, stick pin, and spool of thread that passed through the factory.
She’d wrapped things up. She should be on her way, do a once over of the fitting room. Then why couldn’t she move?
Sensing her, Sukey glanced over her shoulder. “What’s the holdup kid? Want a ticker-tape parade?”
“Har, har,” Shoshana put on. “Just making sure I covered all bases.”
“The bases can wait. Now get out of here. Customers before buttons. No customers, no need for buttons.”
Before things turned uber awkward, Shoshana backpedaled down the aisle and out the door. The aggressive growl of century-old sewing machines slammed into her, jostling her frayed nerves and sending her straight for the nearest exit.
Filled with anxiety, Shoshana appreciated the catwalk’s cocoon-like serenity. Too bad the sunlight spilling through the glass roof couldn’t dash the hot and cold chills coursing through her veins.
Just this morning she’d sworn up and down she didn’t feel anything for Patrick Kelly. She even vowed to keep it professional. And yet, this wild pendulum of body temperatures could only be caused by one thing--make that person.
Far too soon she reached the back of the showroom. Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she threw back her shoulders, “KeepitprofessionalKeepitprofessional,”she chanted, willing away a rush of jitters. Emotionally shored up, the rest of her journey passed in a blur of warm caramel painted walls, black and white photos of suits and spotless wood floors.
“Cock blocker one and two reporting for duty.” Tyson held out Gryff. Cone-collard, tongue lagging, his black eyes lit up when he saw her. Careful not to aggravate his broken leg, she settled him against her side, an arm cradling his belly.
“How’s my little man?” she cooed as she lifted him to place a peck on his nose. Her eyes lifted to scan the showroom. Customers stood in line at the checkout counter. Others perused racks of ready-to-wear. None of them possessed the beautiful fall of salt and pepper tresses belonging to her silver fox.
“He’s not here yet.”
Shoshana ignored the roller coaster pitch of her stomach, and applied an enthusiastic lilt to her tone, “He’s not coming, and I’m calling it a day. If anyone needs—”
More than willing to retreat to the tea room and a fresh Americano, Shoshana did an about face.
Tyson hooked his arm through hers and wheeled her about. “Oh, no you don’t! The Silver Fox is only five minutes late. We’ve waited on other clients far longer. Like that Peruvian rancher, what was his name?” he asked, snapping his fingers.
“Omar Sandoval.” The cowpuncher hung his spurs around the corner at the Four Seasons but couldn’t see fit to honor his appointment by at least thirty minutes.
Two points for Tyson.
“Which wall?”
“Back.”
Conceding this victory, she retraced her footsteps—dog and assistant in tow. They both planted their backs against the wall, facilitating a better view of the entrance.
Warm ambient light from strategically placed pot lights bathed the light wooden floors. The smell of dry-cleaned wool mingled with the invigorating scent of hundreds of cedar hangers. Thelonius Monk spilled through the overhead speakers.
“And how’s your day going?”
Shoshana side-eyed her assistant. Arms crossed, perched against the wall, a conspiratorial smile curled his lips.
“Much better when it’s ov…oh.”
Awareness crackled along her skin as a pair of unbelievably broad shoulders bathed in sunlight filled the shop’s entrance. Elegantly attired in an expensive, off-the-rack, three-piece gray suit, his matching silver locks kissed the collar of his jacket lapel. A tangible force that made everything blend into the background, Patrick Kelly loomed larger than life.
An unseen magnetic force drew her to him. She put one foot in front of the other, then another. She didn’t–more like couldn’t stop–until she toed into his personal space.
Mesmerized, she studied his handsome features, noting his knitted brow and the uncompromising line of his kissable lips. Despite his closed off expression, he remained at the top of her list of the most stunning men she’d ever encountered.
She didn’t have long to ponder the reason for his current mood because his face softened and with it, her wall of professionalism, she’d vowed, to uphold. Once again, she felt that pull. A predatory switch flipped and she took a step closer.
“Glad you could finally make it, Mr. Kelly,” Shoshana said—suggestively? Was she coming onto him?
“About that.” His kissable lips quirked appealingly. “My car got stuck in traffic, so I had him let me out at Penn Station.”
“Do you need to rest before the fitting?”
His expression clouded over. “It was only a three block hike. You and I both know I have the stamina to go much farther than that.”
A spasm of emotion washed over his face, spoiling the heated rush stimulated by his insinuation. Or had it been an innuendo? She couldn’t tell by the blank slate staring back at her.
“I’m sorry that was uncalled for,” He flipped his wrist to check the time. “Do you think we can get started? There are some things I need to attend to back at the office.”
Shoshana blinked up at him. What was up with the dry tone, the business-like demeanor? Last time she’d seen him, he’d gone all primal, busting in on her and a client, demanding her undivided attention.
Did Tyson’s warning prove prophetic? Had her snub resulted in him losing interest?
Another woman would wallow in self-pity. Retreat to a safe distance, preventing more damage, possibly heartache. None of those reactions were applicable. They required an emotional investment. Patrick Kelly made her heart perform somersaults—he didn’t own it. Her father remained the sole proprietor. Patrick Kelly was simply a distraction, a delicious disruption that triggered an intense longing for his mind-numbing kisses and toe-curling, above-average cock. Her desire for him, especially now in his presence, was becoming all-encompassing and consuming. It wouldn’t go away or fade. She had three weeks’ worth of wet dreams to prove it.
Why couldn’t she do something about it? They were both consenting adults, and at one point both of them had been interested in the other. All she needed to do was give him a dose of his own medicine. The very same prescription that made her break protocol and do things she normally didn’t do with other clients.
He’d tugged her strings. She would yank his.
The idea of seducing him sent a tingle of anticipating tiptoeing down her spine.
“Tea Room again?”
His voice flowed over her like a warm embrace, radiating a palpable energy that powered the sudden bounce in her step.
“We’re doing it in a different location.”
“Doing it?”
Shoshana smiled sweetly. The cutest blush had stolen over his face.
“We’re doing the fitting in the fitting room,” she explained slowly as if describing to a kindergartner which two colors made the color green.
“Fitting just what I came for,” he deadpanned. His gaze dropped, eyes traveling over her in a studious manner. “Well, what happened to you El Capitan? You look like a cuddly snow cone”
Sensing he was now the center of attention, Gryff’s ears pricked forward and his notched tail beat wildly.
Unashamed, she purred in a baby tone, “He’s my cuddly, wuddly snow cone with a hard head.” She suddenly turned serious. “He got out of the apartment then made a break for freedom. Manhattan traffic won.”
Tsking, he cupped Gryff’s chin. “Bet you gave your mama a fright.”
Shoshana glanced away. Watching him make out with her dog—throwing kisses and stroking Gryff’s ear—made her heart flutter.
“How about we get started,” she suggested before she did something stupid like open her heart.
The head tailor’s fitting room had once belonged to her father, and his father before that. Not much had changed over the past eighty years. The three-way mirror and built in cabinets--all original. Even a pair of tobacco colored leather club chairs, facing the client dais, had been procured by her grandfather from a Soho furniture maker at least a decade before the Second World War.
“Finally!” Tyson exclaimed, abandoning one of the chairs. Hand extended, he scuttled over.
“You’re joining us?” Patrick glanced at her as he returned her assistant’s handshake.
“I am—”
“—in need of more information on the PBS order—”
“—PBS? I thought—”
“—we still have some things to wrap up. Isn’t that right?”
Unaware of her change of mind, floundered. Shoshana took advantage of it.
“I’ll get with you in the morning.” With very little effort, she backed him toward the door. “Can you be a doll and take lil’ man upstairs to my apartment?” She said it with so much sugar he accepted Gryff from her.
“So we’re all done here,” Tyson clarified as she lingered on the threshold.
“See you later alligator.” Smiling, she slowly walked the door shut.
“After while…”
She slowly pivoted on her Manolo’s.
He stood there in the middle of the room, hands shoved in his pockets. Dark and predatory, his graze pinned her. Shoshana dragged in a breath. The taunting throb between her legs was steadily building, and the idea of a slow seduction looked a lot less appealing. She wanted him so badly, she wondered how she could skip the foreplay and jump right to it.
“Want me to take it all off?” He punctuated his joke with a wink and a sexy upward twist of his lips. Adrenaline trickled into her veins, her inner thigh muscles tensed as she stood there sopping him up like a biscuit in gravy.
Hunger gnawing at her insides, she jabbed a manicured thumb at a chalk-lined jacket and matching slacks, proudly draped on an antique valet, an empty one stood beside it.
“Your suit’s over there. You can hang the off-the-rack on the empty stand.”
Smiling, he slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Cute dig.”
“I give all my clients a hard time about their store bought suits.”
“All your clients?” His eye narrowed.
“All but very few look as good as you do in yours.”
Apparently placated by her compliment, he sauntered over to his suit, giving her a pleasant view of his you-can-bounce-quarters-off-it ass. Hypnotized by the view, she watched him remove his tie. When he moved to hang it on the empty valet, he paused.
“Are you staying?”
“I can leave,” she murmured, surprised her voice sounded remarkably composed. The man was creating havoc with her senses.
He turned to face her. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”
Gaze locked with hers, he went back to undressing. Unbidden, her eyes dropped to his fitted dress shirt. Like a glove, the pristine white material molded to his physique, emphasizing his trim waist and muscular arms. If she didn’t know he was a money guy—Tyson had debriefed her weeks ago regarding his unsanctioned Google search—she’d wrongly assume he’d spent a decent portion of his life in a gym. He resembled a Men’s Health poster boy rather than a successful venture capitalist. And from her experience, one percenters were all the same: make money eat, sleep, and then repeat.
His shirt was next.
He slowly undid each fastening. With each button pop, a hot helix of tension coiled inside her. Heat creeped past her collar, spread over her neck and flooded her face. By the end of the slow reveal, Shoshana could hardly breathe. In her experience, bright lights and the human body were mortal enemies—the former throwing the latter under the bus by revealing every unflattering roll or dimple.
This wasn’t the case with Patrick Kelly. Bare from the waist up, he proved to be one of those rare creatures that artificial lighting cooperated for, adored even. Right now it rained down on him and accentuated every long, sinewy inch of him and threw it into stark relief.
Suddenly everything seemed too vivid, too loud, and most of all too intense. And when his hands reached for the band of his trousers, she felt like she was melting from the outside in.
He turned the tables on her. She was supposed to seduce him, not the other way around. He still appeared calm, cool and collected while she felt like a ticking time bomb. Essential she regroup, before she completely lost her bearings, she went in search of her tailor’s chalk and pen bonnet. Organized to a fault, she found them tucked in a cabinet drawer. System still on overdrive, she set them aside then pretended to look for something else.
Why did he have to be so darn mouthwatering? Why was her body hardwired to be so attracted to his? Why did he make breathing more difficult? Why did he turn her knees into champagne? Why, why, why?
Deficient in answers, she came up for air. Assuming a glance in the mirror would be safer than the actual full-on view, she instantly found herself at a loss for words. Well…not a complete loss, she was able to muster up a muffled ‘hot damn’.
Back turned, poured into a pair of snug black trunks, Kelly deserved a stack of small bills raining down on him but it was the best she could do. Taking advantage of his unsuspecting position, she slipped her index finger between her teeth and chomped down.
“The material of this shirt is nice.”
Not as nice as that bum of yours! “It comes from a supplier in France,” she said, voice wavering with longing. “First cut from the bolt.”
He peeked at her through a pair of unusually dark lashes. “How’d you know I liked being first?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
He’d planned on keeping his distance.
Play it cool.
But the moment he laid eyes on her he’d been walking on thin ice. Her warm smile, the lilt in her voice, and even her perky topknot made his self-control evaporate.
He’d hoped to find a safe zone in the dressing room, a brief respite while he undressed. She’d snatched that haven from him by refusing to leave.
Things went from bad to worse when her demeanor changed--her friendly façade bordering on flirty ingénue. He could’ve been imagining that as well. Everything she did had him thinking of sex. Even the simple task of walking caused his blood to stir, his balls to tighten eventually facilitating an about face while he changed clothes. Thankfully, he’d completed dressing before he’d embarrassed himself.
“How handsome,” she purred, her eyes roaming over him like a fat kid eyeing a Twinkie.
Toes curling, Patrick glanced over his shoulder. “Not bad?”
“Not bad at all, but then I’m a little prejudiced. Ready to get started.”
Get over yourself, Patrick Kelly. She only had eyes for the suit. Even now as he slowly turned around, her gaze remained firmly fixed on the finished product. His erection somewhat quelled, he followed her direction and stepped onto the dais.
Her compliment hadn’t been embellished. The suit was beautiful, bordering on a work of art. Each line complimented his body, fitting him like a glove.
“How does it feel?”
“Like it was made for me, and nobody else.”
In the mirror, he watched her smile widen, and the cold lump in the center of his chest sizzled to life.
“Now test her out by raising your arms.” She lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers.
Patrick followed her lead. To his amazement, the jacket didn’t gape open or bunch but moved with him.
“Go ahead and drop ‘em.”
Once his arms fell by his sides, she ran her hand down his back, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles. Patrick gritted his teeth as his cock started throbbing against his pants zipper.
“Like the color?”
Attention focused on his suit, she missed his gaze traveling over her bare skin exposed by her cap-sleeved bloused. The rose color lent her dark complexion a velvety luminosity that reminded him of finely ground coffee and made him yearn to lick every inch of it.
“It’s absolutely lovely,” he managed.
Oblivious to his compliment, she tugged on the jacket hem. “And the length?”
“Perfect.” Like you.
Patrick rolled his eyes. Why was she affecting him this way? He’d never been a moon-eyed teenage boy and he sure as well wouldn’t be one today.
