For a moment, I wished he’d look away. Then I wished he wouldn’t.
Mr. Han moved between us, muttering something about sleeve length, and the spell broke.
Beckett adjusted his cuff, expression neutral again, like nothing had passed between us. Like he hadn’t just seen straight through me.
I went back to my clipboard, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
He went back to pretending not to care, and I went back to pretending I didn’t.
But the truth lingered between us — quiet, unspoken, impossible to ignore.
Mr. Han stepped away to fetch another handful of pins, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet tailor shop.
Beckett was standing on the platform, tugging at his tie like it was a noose. “How do people wear these torture devices?” he muttered.
I sighed, setting my tablet aside and crossing the room. “Here,” I said, reaching up toward him. “You’ll strangle yourself.”
He lifted his chin obediently, that infuriating flicker of a smirk ghosting across his mouth. “You sure you know how to do this?”
I arched a brow. “Please.”
That earned me a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled somewhere deep in his chest.
I ignored it. Or at least, I tried to.
The fabric slid smooth beneath my fingers as I straightened the knot, looping and pulling with practiced precision. But the distance between us shrank fast. Too fast. My fingertips brushed the edge of his throat, the heat of his skin catching me off guard.
He smelled like clean soap and cedar — the same faint cologne that clung to his collar and somehow made it harder to think. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his collarbone, a detail I tried not to notice and failed miserably.
“Hold still,” I said, voice a little thinner than I wanted it to be.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe, it seemed. Just watched me — steady, patient, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes.
It was ridiculous. It was a tie. I’d done this a hundred times before — charity events, press galas, last-minute wardrobe crises. Nothing about this should’ve mattered.
So why couldn’t I breathe?
My pulse was hammering, my hands suddenly unsure. I pulled the knot tight, smoothing it against his chest to cover the fact that my fingers were shaking.
“There,” I managed. “Try not to ruin it before the gala.”
“Depends,” he said, voice low. “You gonna be there making sure I behave?”
I forced a laugh, stepping back before I could get any closer. “You’re a lost cause.”
He grinned, the expression quick but genuine. “Maybe. But at least I’ll look good doing it.”
Mr. Han returned then, arms full of pins, and the spell broke like a snapped thread.
I picked up my tablet again, pretending to check my notes while trying to steady my breathing.
It was just a tie. Just another fitting. Just Beckett Mason being impossible.
But as I glanced at his reflection in the mirror — the loosened knot, the faint smile still lingering — I knew I was lying to myself.
Because somewhere between straightening his collar and meeting his eyes, something had shifted. And no amount of professionalism could tie it back into place.
Mr. Han adjusted Beckett’s cuffs one last time, then glanced toward me over his glasses. “And Mr. Reynolds?” he asked. “He isn’t on the schedule.”
