Her Silver Fox

by Koko Brown

  “Sixty percent of our clientele are individuals. About ten percent are fashion labels with made-to-measure lines, the other are production companies. Did you see the recent biopic on Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “Hate to say I missed it.” Not really and it must have shown on his face because she chuckled.

  “We provided all the costumes for the male cast members.” She pressed a digital controller attached to the conveyor. After a few rotations, she hit the controller again, stopping the rack at a military uniform. “Two hundred Spanish-American War uniforms were produced along with over hundred suits and other garments dating back to the late 1800s and early 1900s.”

  “Impressive,” he said and he meant it. He stepped forward and admired the tan fatigue blouse and matching knee trousers. He’d never claimed to be a history buff, but the craftsmanship and detail were exceptional.

  Smiling with pride, she stepped toward him and his heart leapt in his throat. “Still want a Haufman suit?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In companionable silence, they took the catwalk back to the adjacent building. With each step, Shoshana’s heart raced. For the next thirty minutes, she’d have him all to herself. In a cramped, intimate space. And he would be naked save for a pair of briefs.

  Lord, please let them be tiny.

  More than a little hot and beyond bothered, she rubbed the back of her hand against her cheek and marveled at the heat. Her body had been aroused during the entire tour, now it was primed to set itself on fire.

  Reeling and confused, Shoshana concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other. She’d measured hundreds of men. What made him so different from all the rest? For one, none of them had ever caused this inexplicable desire, this desperate yearning to run her fingers through his hair, kiss his lips, to have his body pressing against hers.

  Her self-imposed drought had to be the culprit. She hadn’t shupted in God knows when. Between the demands of the job and her father, she didn’t have the time or inclination to entertain a relationship, much less a no strings attached entanglement. Preserving her sanity and the continued success of the family business depended on maintaining control, limiting external distractions. So instead of taking on the occasional tall drink of water, coldness and nothingness had become a security blanket.

  Adding a man to the mix would only make her life more complicated. And she couldn’t afford that. The business needed her, and so did her father. And what she needed didn’t factor in the equation.

  Shoshana pulled out her cell. She typed out a quick text message to Tyson, asking him to meet her in the tailor’s fitting room. In her way of thinking, having another person in the room would help distill this nagging compulsion to jump Patrick Kelly’s bones.

  “You can hang your jacket and trousers over there on the rack,” she said pulling out the measuring tape she kept in her pocket. “Also, remove you shoes.” She pointed at a cabinet directly beneath the bracket. “You can put them in the cubby for safe keeping.”

  A smile curled his lips. “I usually like foreplay first but if you insist.”

  “I need you to undress so I can take your measurements,” she said slowly as if speaking to a child.

  Suspicious, he lifted one eyebrow. “You’re taking my measurements?”

  Smiling, she unfurled a yellow tape measure

  “I’m the only master tailor in the building,” she pointed out, grateful she had her libido back under control. “I’m in charge of every single step in the production of your suit.”

  Her explanation didn’t placate him like she’d hoped. He continued to stand in the middle of the room, still fully dressed, and not looking like he would be dropping his pants any time soon. Seeing him so uncomfortable by the possibility of her getting all close and personal with his junk (minus the sex) helped curb her runaway hormones.

  With the ball firmly in her court again, she moved to smooth his ruffled feathers, “Don’t worry. My assistant Tyson is on his way.”

  Still, he didn’t move.

  “What if I said you can get even with me during the selection process? It’s the most tortuous aspect of the job. I hate them so much I make sure my appointments are scheduled in the afternoon. Afterward, I usually have to drink my headache away.”

  “A little tit for tat?”

  Shoshana nodded. At the moment, she couldn’t speak. The way his tongue lingered on ‘tit’, she couldn’t shake visions of him handling hers.

  He glanced over his shoulder and pointed. “That hook?”

  Shoshana breathed a sigh of relief as he retreated to the other side of the room. Back turned, he shrugged out of his blazer, the play of muscles apparent beneath his fitted dress shirt. Shoshana bit down on her bottom lip. Minus one less layer of clothing, Patrick Kelly played havoc with her hormones. His shoulders were exceptionally broad, his arms and thighs fuller than she’d expected. And his ass, so rock hard she could probably bounce quarters off it.

  “So where do you want me?”

  Lying on top of me, she thought but said, “Front and center, please.”

  Shaking visions of the porn variety from her head, she joined him, her stepping stool in tow. As she set it down, his cologne assailed her.

  Oy vey! How was she going to do this? Trembling, she focused on her hands and the yellow tape sliding between her fingers as she took an inordinate amount of time straightening it out.

  Shoshana finally looked up and met his gaze in the trifold mirror. Too bad they didn’t do advertising or she’d contract him as a model. He exemplified their ideal client: successful, wealthy, and oozing with self-confidence. On top of it all, he was extremely easy on the eyes.

  “Any time you’re ready,” he said, winking. Thank goodness for a dark complexion or he would’ve notice the tell-tale blush heating her cheeks.

  “Sorry. I’m not sure where my head is at today.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” he murmured.

  Choosing to ignore his frankness, she climbed the foot stool. She reached around and wrapped the measuring tape around his neck. Her fingers brushed against his smooth skin and a tingle sprinted up her arm.

  “Sixteen inches,” she said aloud, hoping it would diffuse a burning impulse to loop her arms around said neck while he sank balls deep. More an act of self-preservation than doing her job, she moved on.

  “Face the mirror head on, please.” Inwardly, Shoshana gave herself a fist pump. Despite her inner chaos, her voice sounded surprisingly even. She loosened the slack on the tape so it draped his shoulders.

  “Nineteen inches.”

  She positioned the tape down his spine. He slurped in a barely imperceptible breath and she smiled. Just desserts! He had her hormones in a riot.

  “Nape to waist, twenty-four inches.” She tapped his shoulder. “Turn to the left, please?”

  He pivoted slowly. At some point he stepped closer, and his shoulder ended up grazing her breast. Her turn to suck in a calming breath. He must have heard her because he peeked at her and said, “Sorry about that.”

  Shoulders rising and falling, she murmured, “It happens.” Matter of fact, it occurred quite often, minus this sudden wave of dizziness washing over her.

  Rattled, she pushed through by sticking to safe areas like his arm length, the circumference of his waist and hips. All the while, she made sure their bodies didn’t touch or she feared she’d fall down the rabbit hole.

  Speaking of in the hole, where was Tyson? She’d texted him over twenty minutes ago. And right now, she desperately needed his assistance. Filled with trepidation, Shoshana stepped down from her stool.

  “Something wrong?”

  If wanting to jump your client’s bones was kosher, then everything was fine!

  “This might get a little personal. I need to measure the width of your thigh and your inseam.”

  “Promise to be gentle?” he asked, wiggling an eyebrow.

  “Of course, I’m a professional. Now spread ‘em.”

&nb
sp; He immediately widened his stance.

  Chuckling, Shoshana leaned down to measure his thigh. He definitely used his gym membership. His legs bulged with well-defined muscle, reminding her of an Olympic cyclists. She took her sweet time adjusting the tape all while surreptitiously feeling him up.

  “Blow. Me.”

  Shoshana jerked back. His whispered explicative had to be a figment of her imagination. If not, she’d earned it. She’d lingered over his sculpted quads, fingered his hams, and almost diddled his adductors. She’d barely kept it PG. An apology on the tip of her tongue, she lifted her gaze and caught him staring straight ahead.

  Well. Blow. Me.

  She didn’t know what to think other than the fact runaway imagination poked in the vulnerable wall she’d erected to keep herself out of trouble. Needing a breather, Shoshana walked over to a floating counter top running the length of the back wall. She located a pencil among the clutter then pulled his client card from her back pocket. Placing lead to paper, she paused.

  I’m shaking!

  Squeezing her hand, she counted backward from five. The save worked. Smooshed, yet serviceable, her fingers turned the pencil in lurching loops and haphazard lines. Far from pretty, her scribbles were legible enough for production. She wasn’t writing a peace treaty, just his measurements.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Haufman, you forgot something.”

  Shoshana looked over her shoulder and caught him watching her through the mirror. Hands planted on his hips, legs still in a wide stance, she envied his air of detachment while she felt like she’d just jogged up to 42nd street and back.

  Lips curling, he glanced down at his crotch then back at her. “You overlooked the inseam.”

  She picked up his client card and doubled checked it. Damn and double damn, she missed it. It was a wonder she’d got any measurements at all. Around him, she proved to nothing but a jumble of nerves.

  “I have no idea how I missed it,” she murmured.

  “No problem. I just want to make sure you got all of them. We want a perfect fit.” His voice had dropped an octave as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Temperature on the revolt, she lumbered over. The sooner she accomplished the task, the sooner he’d be out of her hair. Too bad it wouldn’t erase him from her memory. She feared he’d already gotten under her skin.

  “You have long legs,” she casually remarked, hoping it would ease her discomfort and slow the wild beating of her heart. Crouching, she ran the tape down the inside of his thigh.

  “Are you six two?”

  “Six-two and seven-eighths. And you?”

  Her gaze strategically lowered, she stepped back. “Only five feet.”

  “And here I thought you were wearing those sexy skyscrapers to get noticed, not to make up for a deficit.”

  “How did you manage to do that?”

  “Manage what?”

  “Compliment me and insult me at the same time?”

  His cheeks bloomed with pink. “I have a tendency to do that at times. This time it was more the former than the latter. You’re a hard woman not to notice.”

  With an inner glow she shouldn’t have, especially over a client’s come on, Shoshana edged over to his right. “Turn your head and cough.”

  “Excuse me?” he choked out.

  “Just kidding.” Shoshana positioned the measuring tape at the base of his spine. She ran it between his legs, over his crotch and then up to his belly button. Her movements were seamless like running on autopilot. But as she read the final measurement, her eyes were drawn to his crotch.

  Was he aroused?

  Shoshana didn’t think she had a masochistic bone in her body but she couldn’t resist adjusting the tape, sliding it gently back and forth between his legs. Hearing his groan, she inwardly smiled.

  “Is that too snug?”

  “Not at all,” he expelled on a ragged breath. “Not every day you have an extremely attractive woman playing with your junk.”

  Chuckling, Shoshana let him off the hook and the measuring tape. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?”

  “Depends,” he countered.

  Shoshana slowly rolled the tape into a circle. “Depends on what?”

  “Are you charmed?”

  “How would I know?”

  “The suit is still four thousand dollars?”

  “Plus tax.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Everything under control?” A dollar short and a day late, Tyson sauntered in. A book was cradled in his arms and a knowing smile curled his lips. If she had any doubts this was a setup, she didn’t now.

  “Nice of you to join us after we’re finished,” she drawled, then to Patrick, “You can get dressed. I have all your measurements.”

  Tyson’s eyes slid to Patrick and held. “I went looking for the Cambridge samples. We didn’t have a set in the tearoom.”

  Shoshana wasn’t surprised. They hadn’t used that sample in twenty-five years. “Why were you looking for the Cambridge collection? It’s older than you.”

  Eyes still on their client, Tyson said, “I thought the collection contained a few pieces which would look great with Mr. Kelly’s coloring.” His smile widened suddenly. Curious, Shoshana glanced over her shoulder. Now fully dressed, Patrick had turned his attention to their conversation.

  “And did you find it?”

  Tyson blinked at her. “Find what?”

  Shoshana pursed her lips. Seemed like the Patrick Kelly effect wasn’t an anomaly. Fanboy adoration glowed in his eyes.

  “The…Cambridge…sample,” she repeated slowly.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said as if coming out of a daze. “We had a copy up in the loft.”

  Dubious that a twenty-five year old fabric sample would appeal to their client, she accepted the sample book halfheartedly. It didn’t take long for her gaze to settle on a swathe of royal blue fabric. She also favored a charcoal gray threaded with hunter green and chocolate brown.

  “You’re forgiven for going MIA.”

  Tyson curtsied. “I accept your gratitude in a fifty-cent raise.”

  Shoshana glanced at Patrick. “Ready for a little tit for tat?”

  “You have me for the rest of the afternoon. I’m all yours.”

  Hand surreptitiously placed over his mouth, Tyson coughed. But it sounded an awful lot like ‘She wishes’.

  Shoshana chose to ignore Tyson only because their client hadn’t heard him.

  “Then let’s move this party to the tearoom.”

  “Boss,” Tyson stopped her just outside the dressing room. “If you don’t mind, can I skip the client consultation?”

  Shoshana stiffened. “It better be good.”

  “While trying to find the book sample, I left a mess behind in the bird’s nest. And you know how Joe is about his space.”

  Shoshana knew all about her fabric cataloger’s compulsive behavior toward order. It made him a royal pain in the ass but also perfect for the job.

  “Run along.”

  “You two have fun,” he threw over his shoulder.

  Patrick straightened from the wall he’d been leaning against. “I guess I have you all to myself, again. Lucky me.”

  Shoshana groaned. How was she going to survive Patrick Kelly part two?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Shoshana retreated to the far end of the conference table, putting some needed space between them. His last remark had her weighing the pros and cons of refilling her birth control.

  “The next phase of your fitting is the client consultation. Hopefully, before we’re through you’ll choose the overall design of your suit and the fabric.”

  Patrick’s eyes widened. “This really is custom.”

  “Having complete control of your suit is what makes our suits bespoke. You choose everything from the style of button to the number of vents in the jacket. And whether or not there will be pleats and cuffs in your trousers.”

  “Rest assured there will there be no pleats or cuffs in my suit,” he decla
red with an exaggerated shudder.

  “Some people can carry off pleats and cuffs.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But I’m not a dad of four from Poughkeepsie or an octogenarian. I might by prematurely gray but I’m closer to twenty-five than eighty.”

  “You’re closer to twenty-five?”

  Eyes narrowed, he closed the distance between them. It wasn’t much of a stretch. The tearoom had been designed to foster a sense of intimacy.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Early forties.”

  “Not even close,” he said tightly, obviously irritated by her guess.

  “I’m sorry it’s the—”

  “Premature gray,” he finished for her. “Couldn’t be helped. I started graying in college. Full on father of the bride before I was twenty-eight.”

  “You never thought about dying it?”

  “Not after I discovered a young face and granddaddy hair was a huge turn on. Women say it makes them feel like they’re getting it on with Clooney.”

  “Oh, really?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t understand the hoopla surrounding that guy, but if it helps me…” he stopped as if realizing he was in mixed company and talking to a stranger. “So…um do I choose from one of these?” He pointed at a gallery of mannequins lined up near the windows.

  Shoshana walked over. “These are our top bestselling suits,” she said removing an invisible piece of lint from The Gable, one of their most popular creations. “They’ll help narrow down the choices. This is the Cooper. Hudson. Lawford. Grant. Gable.” She touched each mannequin in turn. “But don’t let these limit you. We have a catalog containing all the suits we’ve ever produced with an accompanying floor sample. If these don’t strike your fancy, we can plow through those.”

  “Where’s the Steve Harvey?”

  Confused, Shoshana frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “You know those suits where the jacket hits the knee.”

  Eyes glittering, she pulled out her phone. “If you want, I can have Tyson bring it up.”

  He held up his hands.

  “I insist.” Shoshana started punching in numbers.