“I’ll step out while you change,” Billie said. “There’s a robe on the hook. We’ll start once you’re ready.”
“All right.”
Billie paused at the curtain and turned back. “And Debra?”
“Yes?”
Her smile was bright, doing everything it really shouldn’t be to Debra’s body. “Welcome to Brown & Co. I think today is going to be just what you need.”
When the curtain fell back into place, Debra let out a shaky breath. The mirror caught her expression. Flushed, uncertain, but alive. She touched a hand to her throat, where her pulse still jumped, and wondered what exactly she’d signed up for. Because whatever she’d expected from a tailor’s appointment, it wasn’t this.
And it certainly wasn’t Billie Brown.
Billie waitedbefore drawing back the curtain. Years of practice had taught her that the pause mattered. It gave the client a moment to find herself in the mirror first.
When she stepped inside again, Debra stood by the chair, the robe tied loosely at her waist. The lighting worked exactly as intended, catching the edge of her collarbone and the fall of her hair.
Billie stopped behind her. “Comfortable?”
Debra met her eyes in the mirror. “As I’ll ever be.”
That small smile—nervous and self-deprecating—hit somewhere Billie hadn’t prepared for. She’d seen every shade of nerves in this line of work. Bravado, humour, fear. Debra’s carried none of that noise. She stood exposed in more ways than one, and still didn’t look away.
“You look perfect. And don’t worry, we’ll start easy.” Billie stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath her boots. “Hands here,” she said, guiding them to Debra’s sides. “Breathe for me.”
The robe shifted with Debra’s breath. Billie felt the heat beneath her palms and reminded herself of the script. Steady voice, steady hands, always calm.And don’t fall.
But that was harder than usual.
Beauty had never been the problem; Billie had seen all forms of it over the years. What caught her was the composure inside the uncertainty, and the honesty in those devastatingly blue eyes.
“This service, initially”—she kept her tone even—“is about how fabric meets the body. It’s also about reminding you what’s still yours.”
“You make it sound like therapy.”
“Not therapy,” Billie said. “Just honesty. Most people don’t realise how much they hide from themselves.”
“And you show them?”
Billie met her gaze in the mirror. “I help them see.”
The silence thickened as the robe loosened under Billie’s fingers, the knot giving way with a quiet sigh.
Her heartbeat remained measured and controlled. This wasn’t planned—it never was—but pretending to be detached now seemed impossible.
“Billie…” Her name emerged from Debra’s lips as a half-formed question.
Billie’s fingers found the curve beneath Debra’s ribcage, touching lightly enough to comfort, not to demand. “Say the word, and we stop.”
Debra gazed back at her through the mirror. “Don’t stop.”
Their eyes connected, and everything beyond them faded. Just glass reflecting silence, and Debra’s hands tensing as though she was holding onto this moment.
“Then,” Billie whispered as her lips brushed Debra’s ear. “Trust me.”
The mirror captured it all. Debra’s neck arching and the colour rising across her chest. Then a single shiver passed between their bodies. Watching herself, Billie recognised the familiar professional who understood limits perfectly, yet had just crossed one without hesitation.
She held herself still, her palm flat against the warm plane of Debra’s abdomen, feeling each breath grow steadier beneath her touch.
