“Tell me about the fabric selection again.” She curls her legs under her, settling in for a thorough interrogation. “This time, don’t leave out any details.”
I take a fortifying sip of soup and let myself remember yesterday in all its confusing glory. “He arrived exactly on time, which Henri appreciated as he turned him over to me. We went through the seasonal collections first of wool, cashmere, and some beautiful Italian cottons.”
“Standard stuff?”
I nod. “Right, but then he asked to see our specialty items.” I remember how Henri had beamed with pride when Iskander requested access to the exclusive fabrics we keep locked away for our most discriminating clients. “We have this gorgeous midnight blue wool from a Scottish mill that only produces fifty yards per year.”
“Expensive?”
“Prohibitively.” I’d quoted him the price expecting him to reconsider, but he’d simply nodded and asked to feel the texture. “He didn’t even blink at the cost.”
“What happened when you showed him the fabric?”
This is where the memory becomes difficult to share, because it involves acknowledging how affected I was by his proximity. “Ihad to demonstrate the drape, so I held it up to the light. He stepped closer to examine the weave, and...”
“And?”
“Our hands touched when he took the fabric from me.” The contact had been electric, sending awareness shooting through my nervous system. “He didn’t pull away immediately.”
Harper’s expression grows concerned. “Willa, that could just be normal attraction. Rich, powerful men can be incredibly charismatic. It doesn’t mean anything beyond surface chemistry.”
“I know that,” I set down my spoon, no longer hungry, “But it didn’t feel surface level. When he looked at me, it was like he was seeing parts of myself I don’t show anyone.”
“That’s exactly what worries me.” She’s frowning now. “Men like that—wealthy, mysterious, and intense—often carrying baggage you don’t want to inherit.”
I know she’s speaking from experience. Harper’s romantic history reads like a cautionary tale about charming men who turn out to have dark secrets. Her last relationship ended when she discovered her boyfriend was married, and the one before that involved a guy who seemed perfect until his gambling addiction destroyed both their finances and her trust.
“You think I should stay away from him.” I state rather than ask, already knowing the answer.
“I think you should be very careful.” Her tone softens. “You’ve worked hard to build a stable life. Don’t let some mysterious stranger with pretty eyes derail everything you’ve accomplished.”
The advice is sound, logical, and exactly what I’ve been telling myself for three days, since the very first meeting with him. Iskander Taranov represents risk in a life I’ve put a lot of effort into creating. Getting involved with him would complicate things, possibly beyond repair.
“You’re right.” I straighten my shoulders, feeling some of the tension leave my body. “I’ll keep things professional. He’s just a client and nothing more than that.”
Harper smiles with relief. “Good. Besides, you don’t even know if he’s available. A man like that probably has women lined up around the block.”
The thought bothers me more than it should, sending a little electric tingle through my face, but I push down the irrational jealousy. Iskander Taranov’s romantic life is none of my business. I’m his tailor, not his girlfriend, and it needs to stay that way.
My phone rings, interrupting our conversation. Henri’s name appears on the screen, and I frown. He rarely calls on my days off unless something urgent has come up. “Henri?” I answer on the third ring.
His voice carries an apologetic note. “Willa,ma petite, I am so sorry to bother you at home, but I have a small crisis.”
I’m immediately concerned. “What’s wrong?”
Harper mutes the television, clearly eavesdropping as Henri explains his predicament. “Monsieur Taranov called thirty minutes ago. He has an important dinner tomorrow night and needs his suit altered. The hem is too long, and the shoulders need a minor adjustment.”
I check the time on my phone. It’s eight-fifteen on a Thursday evening. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow morning?”
“He needs it first thing Friday, and I have three other rush orders to complete tonight.” Henri’s distress comes through clearly. “I would not ask, but you know how particular he is about fit.”
I do know. Two days ago, when we’d examined his existing jacket for sizing reference, Iskander had pointed out minute details most people would never notice, like the way the lapel rolled, the precise width of the trouser cuffs, and the exact position where the sleeve met his wrist. He has the eye of someone who understands that perfection lies in tiny increments. “How long would it take?”
“Perhaps two hours for someone with your skill. The workshop is empty and very peaceful for concentrated work. I’m completing a rush fitting at a client’s home and will be back shortly after you arrive.”
Harper shakes her head vigorously, clearly sensing where this conversation is heading. She points at me, then makes a slashing motion across her throat, silently commanding me to decline.
“Henri, I don’t know...” I begin, but he cuts me off with a hint of desperation that illustrates he genuinely needs help.
