It’s worse.
“Oh no,” I mutter. “Never mind. Stop. Absolutely stop. Just… go back to looming.”
They do.
Honestly? Slight improvement.
Now, if only my customers don’t faint when they walk in.
I take a step back and really look at them.
It’s not that they’re not attractive.
They are.
Just… in a very specific, mildly terrifying way.
Both of them are tall. Not Tank tall…but close enough that most men would have to look up slightly. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. The kind of lean muscle that says they don’t lift weights for show…they lift for damage.
Their skin carries that deep olive tone that looks permanently sun-kissed, like they were carved out of some southern Italian stone and shipped here fully formed. Dark hair, cut short and practical. Thick brows. Strong noses. Sharp cheekbones that look like they could slice glass.
And their mouths…
Full. Firm. Usually pressed into a flat line that suggests patience is a limited resource.
If you caught them standing still in a photograph, you might think they belonged in some high-end cologne ad.
Until you looked at their eyes.
Dark. Cold. Assessing.
There isn’t a single visible difference between them.
Same height. Same build. Same faint scar near the right eyebrow…weird.
Same quiet stillness that feels less like calm and more like coiled restraint.
It’s almost unsettling how identical they are. Like someone copy-pasted a dangerous Italian soldier and hit “print” twice.
And yet…
For all the brooding intensity and murder-eyes, there’s something undeniably compelling about them. Rugged. Refined in a brutal sort of way.
Not sexy….But dangerously close.
And unfortunately, they’re standing in my boutique…looming.
Like matching designer bodyguards from a mafia-themed fever dream.
I sigh.
My customers are absolutely going to think I run a front for organized crime.
Which, technically…
No.
Focus, Abby.
