“Styles were notthisdifferent,” I gasp.
I pull the hanger out.
The tuxedo is white.
Not a subtle, ivory, James BondGoldfingerwhite. It is a blinding, reflective, radioactive white. The lapels are satin and wide enough to land a plane on. The fabric is 100% pure, unadulterated polyester that feels like it would melt if it got within ten feet of a candle.
And the shirt?
The shirt has ruffles.
“It’s…” I struggle for words. “It looks like a marshmallow had a breakdown.”
“I looked good in it!” Luke defends, though his face is bright red. “I had frosted tips. It was a vibe.”
“It is a crime scene,” I correct. “If you wear this to the gala, they will arrest you. Not the police. The fashion police. They have snipers in the rafters.”
I shove the monstrosity back into the closet and slam the door.
“Get your coat,” I order.
“Why?”
“Because we are going to see Giovanni. And we are burning this apartment down on the way out to ensure that thing never sees daylight again.”
Giovanni’s shop smells of espresso and judgment. It is the only place in the city where I feel truly understood.
When the bell chimes, Giovanni looks up from his cutting table. He is measuring a piece of silk with the intensity of a surgeon.
“Preston!” he exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “The Prodigal Son! I haven't seen you since the… what was it? The velvet incident?”
“It was a smoking jacket, Giovanni, and it was iconic,” I say, embracing him. “But I am not here for me. I have brought you a challenge.”
I step aside, revealing Luke.
Luke is standing by the door, looking like he’d rather be intubating a angry badger. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and he is eyeing the bolts of fabric with deep suspicion.
Giovanni lowers his glasses. He circles Luke slowly. He pokes Luke’s bicep.
“Solid,” Giovanni murmurs. “Dense. Like the other one.”
“The other one?” Luke asks.
“Dr. O’Connell,” Giovanni explains with a shudder. “The vending machine made of meat. I dressed him for Christmas. It took three fittings to accommodate the trapezius. You have the same problem.”
“It’s called lifting patients,” Luke says defensively.
“It is called a geometry problem,” Giovanni corrects. He grabs his tape measure. “Up on the block. Shoesoff.”
Luke looks at me. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” I say, sitting on the leather ottoman and crossing my legs. “Do as the man says. He’s a wizard.”
Luke sighs and steps onto the podium.
Giovanni begins to measure.Inseam. Waist. Chest.He mutters numbers under his breath, shaking his head.
“He is broad,” Giovanni complains to me. “But the waist is narrow. If I fit the shoulders, he looks like a box. If I fit the waist, he rips the seams when he hugs someone.”
