Page 3 of Tailored for You

I jumped, spinning around, and threw my hands up in front of my face, screeching in fright.

Enzo Lombardi stood in the doorway in an impeccably tailored pinstriped suit, his presence filling the room.

My hands immediately went to my pants, smoothing out the wrinkles. Then, to my hair, which I knew was wild and frizzy and held up by a pen.

My stomach did a somersault, and I had to force myself not to giggle like a schoolgirl.

I swallowed, lowered my hands, and brushed off my embarrassing reaction.

I gave him my best customer service smile and walked over. “Hey. Is it two already?”

Play it cool, calm, and collected. He’s just another client.

“I’m early.” His voice was deep and rough, like he had just woken up. Or at least, that’s what I imagined him sounding like when he just woke up.

I needed to focus and keep my mind on the task at hand. I had work to do and couldn’t be distracted by Enzo.

“Oh, good. I hate when I lose track of time.” I went to the hangers, pulled out three suits, and walked over to him.

I handed them over and headed to the counter to have him pay.

“You don’t want me to try them on? I have time.”

Did I want him to try on each suit? Yes, but that was purely for selfish reasons. Enzo was big, topping six foot three, built like a heavyweight boxer, with hair cut short on the sides but long on the top. He had tattoos everywhere. A big Italian devil was across his throat; his arms each had their own themes. There were more, but over the year-and-a-half I’d been tailoring suits for him, I hadn’t gotten a good look at them, even though I knew exactly how tight he liked his shirts and how thick his thighs were.

We had a mutual appreciation for fine clothing, me making them and him wearing them.

He came to me because I was the best. I had a waitlist longer than both of my arms.

We’d first connected because he came on behalf of a man I’d blacklisted at the request of someone I considered family. They were rival mafia families, and I wasn’t going to get on anyone’s shit list for ‘disrespecting the boss’ or something I didn’t fully understand.

Plus, my friend Adrienne Vinci, now Adrienne Parisi, was the first person to hire me to create her wardrobe after she met me in Bergdorf's as a shopping assistant.

Once my friend gave me the green light to work with both Enzo and his boss, they kept me constantly busy.

I didn’t need him to try anything on because I knew his measurements—knew how each fabric lay on him, which ones needed more room, and which ones were fine as is.

I loved going over every fine point, making sure each pleat lay perfectly. For some reason, I was most inspired to create after working with him.

“No, I think we’ve worked together enough that I don’t need to try on every suit every time,” I said, giving him a small smile. “Here are the damages.” I handed him the receipt.

His fingers closed around the paper, brushing mine. The contact was brief, but it lingered in a way that made me oddly aware of it—of the warmth of his hand, of how large it was compared to mine. Tattoos contrasting against pale skin.

I pulled my hand back and shifted on my feet, annoyed with myself for noticing at all. I dropped my gaze to the cash he handed over, focusing on counting it.

It was too much money, and I told him so.

“This is what they would charge me in Italy for the kind of work you do. You need to raise your prices.” He narrowed his eyes at me, like he was going to intimidate me for talking back, but pulled back at the last minute. I’d worked with enough men like him to know that I couldn’t withdraw when he was challenging me.

“I like my prices the way they are.” I wasn’t sure how many clients I might lose if I raised them. The idea of one regular client leaving because it cost them more made me panic, and I was seconds away from mentally calculating what that would do to my finances.

Enzo turned around, walked to a table near the door that had a white bag I hadn’t noticed, and brought it back to me.

“Eat it. It’s from Martina. She’s afraid you’re withering away.” Enzo took his time scanning me from head to toe.

I checked myself in the window’s reflection, noting just how frazzled I looked, but in no way was I withering away. I was fine.

I slipped a hand into my pocket but couldn't muster a snappy comeback by the time he turned on his heels and walked out the door.