I sighed.“Oh, for heaven’s sake.Can no one cross a street without tearing silk anymore?”
Laurence pressed on.“Mr.Tennant asked me to inform you that he hopes you will do Mr.Lewis’s fitting in his stead.The assistant fitter, Claire, is home sick today, and Mr.Tennant wishes to ensure the ambassador receives the very best service possible.”
I blinked at him.“Mr.Lewis.”
“Yes, sir.”
For a heartbeat, the room seemed too small, the air too close.Of course this would happen.
I could picture Chris’s smug grin already.Ever since the embassy reception, he’d been teasing me mercilessly about having a “schoolboy crush” on the ambassador.Clearly, this had his fingerprints all over it.A ripped gown in Leicester Square was a convenient cover for shoving me into Bryce’s path again.
“Very clever, Chris,” I muttered, half to myself.
Laurence frowned.“Sir?”
“Nothing.”I pressed my palms flat against the desk and exhaled slowly, steadying myself.Professional.I could be professional.I had to be.“Very well,” I said at last, summoning a smile I didn’t quite feel.“Of course I’ll do the fitting.”
Laurence visibly relaxed, as though he’d been bracing for an explosion.“Excellent.I’ll see that everything is prepared.”
As the door closed behind him, I allowed the smile to fade.My stomach fluttered like a net full of trapped birds.There was no reason for it—I’d fitted hundreds of clients, many of them far more intimidating than an American diplomat.Yet the thought of Bryce Lewis standing in my fitting room made my pulse quicken.
I shook my head at myself, disgusted and amused in equal measure.“Get a grip, Arthur,” I whispered.Still, the corners of my mouth tugged upward into a smile I couldn’t suppress.
Whatever Chris thought he was playing at, I wasn’t about to back down.If fate—or meddling business partners—insisted on throwing me into Bryce’s orbit, then I would stand tall.Bryce Lewis would get nothing less than the very best service Clarence Atelier had to offer.
Even if my heart insisted on thundering like a drum every time I thought of him.
* * *
The mirrored fitting room was far too small for the size of my nerves.I paced the length of the carpet, back and forth in front of the podium at the centre, arms folded tightly against my chest as if I could physically squeeze composure into myself.
It had been months since I’d done a personal fitting for anyone.My realm these days was sketches and swatches, the suiting line that paid Clarence’s bills season after season.The formalwear—those grand, sweeping dinner jackets and midnight-silk ensembles worn once at galas and in society columns—were Chris’s department.He thrived on them, the drama and the glamour.I thrived on sharp suits and well-cut blazers that men could actually wear to the office without feeling like they were in costume.
And now here I was, expected to hold pins in my mouth and drape fabric like some fresh-out-of-school apprentice.I cursed Chris under my breath for manipulating me into this.He’d orchestrated this whole thing—I was certain of it—leaving me alone in here to meet Bryce Lewis with nothing but a measuring tape and a galloping pulse.
I tugged at my jacket sleeves, paced once more, and forced myself to breathe.Professional.I would be professional if it killed me.
The door opened.Laurence stepped in, composed as ever, though he gave me a quick, searching look as if to check I hadn’t fainted.“Your Royal Highness, the United States ambassador is here for his fitting.”
And then he appeared.
Bryce Lewis stepped from behind him, and for a moment the room seemed to tilt, the floor an unsteady ship’s deck.He wore a charcoal suit, sharply tailored, the kind that looked deceptively simple until you noticed the way it sat across his shoulders—broad, square, the fabric pulled just so across his chest.His dark hair was neatly combed, though that stubborn wave at the front threatened rebellion, and his jaw was clean-shaven, catching the light from the mirrors in a way that made my throat tighten.And his eyes—clear, grey-blue—met mine with a warmth that did nothing for my equilibrium.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice low and even, with just the faintest drawl curling around the edges of his vowels.
Something fluttered low in my stomach.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”Laurence asked from the doorway, his tone pointed.
I swallowed, dragging my attention from Bryce.“No, thank you, Laurence.I’ll see you on Monday.”
Laurence gave the smallest of bows, glanced once at Bryce—was that amusement on his face?—and then closed the door behind him.
It left just the two of us in the mirrored chamber.My nerves immediately staged a rebellion.
“You can set your things down there,” I said, pointing to a chair in the corner.My voice, mercifully, was steady.“Then, if you’ll step onto the podium, we can begin.”
He crossed the room, unhurried, setting down a leather briefcase on the chair as instructed.Then he mounted the podium with a faint creak of the carpet beneath his polished oxfords.He turned slowly, taking in the walls of glass.
