I find Giovanni seated at his vintage machine next to a large cutting table. Even though he has many,manyfaults, I can’t help but admire him while he works. With a measuring tape hanging loosely around his neck, semi-rimless Wayfarer glasses perched on his nose, fingers on the fabric, and a foot on the pedal, he’s in full-on tailoring mode. It’s almost beautiful, how focused he looks. A light brown curl hangs over his forehead, and I wonder if it ever tickles his face mid-sew. His large frame hunches over the delicate machine in a way that would appear uncomfortable, if you didn’t know that he’s customized everything in his shop to fit him perfectly—including the wide leather chair.
I roll my shoulders back. “Hello, Giovanni.”
“Take a seat,” he instructs lazily, like he’s a clerk at my local DMV.
I stay standing. “I’m not sure if you’ve already spoken with Lamont this morning, but he’s selected my design for the new finale gown.”
He briefly lifts his foot from the pedal to yawn and flex his fingers. “Good for you.”
I try not to grip my rendering too tightly. “He’d like me to oversee you while you execute my design.”
“Hm. I don’t remember him using the word ‘oversee’ on our phone call a few minutes ago.” He doesn’t even bother to look up from his sewing machine. “Idoremember something aboutseeing to myevery whim, though.” Giovanni’s accent is restrained, only faintly wrapping around the words in a rhythmic cadence.
After adjusting his sewing glasses on the bridge of his prominent nose, he continues working. “I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m in the middle of something.”
“What’s the point of having an exclusive tailor if I have to wait for you to finish your…” I step to his side, trying to get a peek of what he’s working on, but Giovanni angles his body to block my view.
The peaceful look he wore while sewing has officially left the premises. In its place is cool indifference—a far cry fromMr. I Help Old Ladies Cross the Street. I massage my temples in hopes that my Giovanni-shaped headache will disappear. When he stands and steps closer to me, I’m forced to look up at him—an infrequent occurrence for me with most people.
“Your patience is always wearing so thick, Tessa,” he observes, his deep voice a low rumble.
“It’s wearingthin.” I set my shoulder bag on the floor, suddenly wishing my therapy appointment was tonight instead of next week.
“Do you have other pressing work commitments outside of this?” His tone is calm and unbothered.
Meanwhile, my tone is completely bothered as I slide my rendering back in the bag. “As long as you stay on deadline, I see no reason why I need to be here for extended appointments.”
I try not to stare as he runs his hands through those stupid thick curls on his head.
He takes a step closer. “You know how it goes. You’ve worked for Lamont—and by extension, me—for, how long again?”
“It’s more like I workin spite ofyou.”
I move to put more space between us, but my heel gets caught in a stray divot on the floor, and I stumble backwards. Flailing, I brace myself for impact. Instead, I feel Giovanni’s hand on the small of my back, pressing me against his chest. My fingers sink into his body, and the crisp broadcloth fabric of his dress shirt feels smooth to the touch. His craftsmanship on the hand-sewn buttons is so impeccable that I wonder how he managed to tailor each one so perfectly to his form without a single pucker.
He is exceptionally… sturdy.
His brawn. His height. The sheer magnitude of him.
Giovanni reminds me of a defensive lineman. He’s well beyond six feet tall and hefty. And much to my inconvenience, I find him very attractive.
I shake my head, desperately grasping for a topic that will pull me out of this terrifying thought spiral.
Cloche hats. T-strap shoes. Micro purses.
The visuals of heinous fashion crimes help my mouth stay closed, and my heart rate calms a bit.
“Is it the fabric of my shirt you’re interested in or just my body?”
The speed with which I remove my hand from his chest rivals the time it takes me to down an iced coffee during brand previews.
Wiping my hand on the side of my dress, as if the upcycled suede will magically erase the past five minutes, I clear my throat. “I was simply… steadying myself,” I retort weakly.
A pathetic excuse, and the look of bemusement on his face confirms we both know it. His thick eyebrows raise over the rim of his glasses, a smirk brushing his lips.
“Seemed to take you a while.Steadying yourself.”
I clear my throat, gesturing to my stilettos. “Well, you try finding your center of gravity on a pair of toothpicks.”
