Stella searched about the parking lot, but there wasn’t anyone else here. She stepped onto the sidewalk and took the giant and very heavy shears from the lady. These things were a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Maybe we should call the landscaping company. They’d probably be happy to send someone . . .”
The old lady shook her head. Once again, she pointed at Stella’s chest and then the tree. “Cut.”
“Cut this?” She indicated the low branch with the tip of the shears.
“Mmmmm.” The old lady nodded enthusiastically, her black eyes shining within her wrinkled face.
It appeared Stella had no choice. If she didn’t do it, she feared the old lady would try doing it herself and mortally wound herself in the process. How she managed to hold the shears without slipping all the discs in her spine was a mystery.
Moving awkwardly in her high heels with her bags over her shoulder and enormous shears in her hands, she prepared to step into the landscaping at the base of the tree so she could get near enough to cut the branch down.
“No no no no no.”
Stella froze with one foot in the air, her heart hopping around her chest like a Mexican jumping bean.
The old lady pointed at the landscaping, which, now that she looked more closely, was not landscaping at all. It looked like . . . an herb garden.
Teetering, Stella dropped her foot in the dirt between plants.
“Mmmmm,” the old lady murmured before pointing at the branch again. “You cut.”
Through a miracle or adrenaline-induced superhuman strength, Stella lifted the shears above her head, wedged them around the base of the small branch, and snipped it free. The branch fell onto the cement sidewalk like a felled bird. When the old lady set a hand on her knee and prepared to bend over to retrieve it, Stella hurried away from the tree and grabbed it for her.
The old lady smiled as she took the branch and patted Stella’s shoulder. Then she eyed Stella’s laundry bag, pulled the lip open so she could peer inside, and placed her hand on the strap, steering Stella toward the front doors of the dry cleaners. The old lady pushed the glass door open with surprising strength. After Stella entered, the old lady snatched the shears, hid them behind her back like no one would notice them there, and disappeared through a door behind the vacant front counter.
Stella gazed about, taking in the two headless mannequins in the window display who modeled a precisely constructed black tux and a form-fitting lace wedding gown. The interior of the store was calming blue-gray walls, soft white draping curtains, and lots of natural light.
A fitting was going on in an adjacent room. A respectable-looking matron in a sleeveless white jumpsuit stood on a raised platform before a trifold of mirrors.
Stella went numb with astonishment.
At the woman’s feet kneeled Michael.
He wore loose jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretched around his biceps, looking wholesome and beautiful and completely at home. A measuring tape looped behind his neck and dangled down his chest, and his sculpted wrist sported a small pincushion, replete with dozens of protruding pins. Balanced over his right ear was a blue chalk pencil.
“What kind of heels are you planning to wear with this?” he asked.
“I was planning on these, actually.” The lady pulled her pant leg up to reveal regular white pumps.
“You should go open toe, Margie. And one inch higher.”
Margie’s lips thinned, and she angled her foot, turned it side to side. After a moment, she nodded. “You’re right. I have just the pair.”
“I’m going to add another inch to the hem, then. How does the waist feel?”
“It’s too comfortable.”
“I figured you planned to eat in this.”
“My tailor thinks of everything.” She pivoted and stared at the profile of her pinned-up waistline in the mirrors.
Michael rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “Remember the lipstick.”
“Yes, yes, how could I forget? Fire-engine red. You’ll have this ready by next Friday?”
“Yeah, it’ll be ready.”
“Excellent.”
She slinked off to a changing room in the jumpsuit, and Michael picked up a floral print garment that had been draped over the back of a chair. He adjusted the pins and snatched the chalk pencil from above his ear to mark the fabric, his eyes focused and his hands competent.
Inside Stella’s mind, missing pieces clicked into place. This was Michael in his natural state. This was what he did when he wasn’t escorting. Michael was a tailor.
He shook the garment out and draped it over his arm before turning to retrieve yet another pin-strewn piece.
Catching sight of her from his peripheral vision, he said, “I’ll be with you in a sec—” His eyes locked on hers, and his face went slack.
He froze.
She froze.
“How did you . . . ?” He glanced out the front windows like maybe he’d find the answer to his unfinished question outside.
Her heart pitter-pattered. This had to look really bad—stalker bad. Not fair, not fair. She’d only just realized she was obsessed with him today. She hadn’t had time to stalk him like a fanatic. Now, she’d cost herself whatever slim chance she’d had at a full-time arrangement.
She backed up a step. “I’ll go.”
He strode quickly across the room and caught her hand before she could leave. “Stella . . .”
Her whole arm jumped in response to his touch, and she wanted to cry. “I just needed my clothes dry-cleaned. I didn’t know you worked here. I-I’m not stalking. I know it looks bad.”
His expression softened. “It actually looks like you have clothes in need of dry cleaning.” He lifted the bag of clothes from her shoulder. “Let me ring you up.”
He took her things to the front counter and began counting shirts with professional efficiency. His cheeks, however, were unusually pink.
“Is this awkward?” she asked, hating that she was making him uncomfortable.
“A little. Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve run into a client here. Seven shirts. I’m assuming seven skirts, too.” He counted them out into a separate pile and searched her face. “Do you work every day?”
She nodded jerkily. “I prefer the office on the weekends.”
His mouth tilted up at the corner. “You would.” There was no judgment from him, no criticism, no advice that it was bad for her health and her social life. He didn’t think there was something wrong with her. Stella wanted to leap over the counter and throw herself into his arms.
He began to set the laundry bag aside when he noticed there was still something inside. As he upended it, the blue dress tumbled out.
His eyes lifted to hers and smoldered.
Stella gripped the counter as ice cream memories flickered through her head. Chilled silken lips, mint chocolate chip, and the taste of his mouth. Unhurried kisses in a room full of people.
“Do you have any special directions for your clothes?” he asked in a rough voice.
Blinking away her memories, she forced her mind into the present. “No starch. I don’t like the feel of it on—”
“Your skin,” he finished, running his thumb over the back of her hand.
She nodded and searched for something to say. Her gaze landed on the blue cocktail dress. “I bought this dress because I liked the color and the fabric.” With its crisp silk texture and structure, it must have complemented Michael’s gorgeous suit nicely . . . “The suit,” she whispered. “Did you make it?”
His eyelashes swept downward, and a boyish grin covered his face. “Yeah.”
Her mouth fell open. If he could do that, then why in the world was he escorting?
“My grandfather was a tailor. Apparently, it runs in my blood. I like making clothes.”
“Would you make clothes for me?”
“You’d have to stand still for a long time. It’s not sexy. Would you really want that?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the look in his eyes was not. It took Stella a moment before she realized it was vulnerability.
Was it possible Michael didn’t think someone could be interested in him for more than his body?
“I’ve had clothes made for me before, remember? I know what it’s like. It’s worth it to me. You’re talented. I want your designs.”