1 APRIL

NINE MONTHS EARLIER

“Third Chance Tailor Shop, how can I help you?”

Holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I sweep through the racks. It’s taking me forever to tidy up the approximately one million items of clothing Mrs. Kurt left lying around during her fitting. She must have found them interesting—because she took great care to pull each one off its hanger—and then not so interesting—because she took way less care in leaving them heaped in ragged piles in every corner of the shop.

You can always tell when a customer’s an artist. A con artist, in Mrs. Kurt’s case, but an artist nonetheless. Being twice widowed and thrice married at the age of twenty-eight is nothing short of impressive, especially when your husbands are old enough to recognize your grandfather from the trenches.

“We absolutely do make custom wedding gowns,” I say to the customer on the phone. “Did you have anything specific in mind?”

Trick question: brides-to-be always do. As the customer launches into a detailed explanation of the dress of her dreams—a natural white fishtail model with a pearl-studded Bardot neckline—I finish dismantling Mrs. Kurt’s masterpieces, stash everything back where it belongs, and make for the back of the store.

I ask the bride-to-be about her veil. That’ll buy me another five minutes to finish boxing up Mr. Boyd’s suit for pickup.

I can recognize my boss Elias’s handiwork in the stitching, the perfect details that sign a piece as his. At the age of “seventy plus a few,” as he puts it, Elias Turner is still the most renowned tailor this side of the East River.

There’s so much to do; I feel like my head might explode. I sigh and curse myself for my stubbornness. I could have really used an extra pair of hands around the shop, especially an expert pair like my boss’s. But I can’t exactly complain—I’m the one who sent him home.

I can handle it, I told him, like a big, lying liar. And Elias, bless his soul, eventually relented and took the afternoon off.

Leaving little old me in charge of the whole shebang, which is precisely what I wanted.

“Mhm. That sounds lovely.” I take stock of the work I’ve got left before closing: patch up Mr. Connor’s coat, alter the waistline on Ms. Forrest’s skirt, sketch out a pantsuit for Dr. Brown’s conference, count the change in the register, fix the lightbulb in the bathroom, and take out the trash before the raccoons wake up. All in an honest day’s work.

Like I said: I can handle it.

The door chimes. “Be right with you!” I call out, covering the phone as Ms. Holland finishes explaining the concept behind the corset’s elaborate decorations. I give her an appointment for a first fitting, jot down her details, and wish her a happy day.

By the time I make it out the back, the new customer’s already tapping his shoe.

Very bad sign.

“About time,” the customer growls, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “I was starting to wonder if I’d have to come fetch you myself.”

Normally, I’d tell anyone who spoke to me that way to take that sass and stick it where it rhymes. However, in this case, there are two very good reasons why I can’t.

The first is that I’m at work. And, in my line of work, you can’t just ask the customer to kindly fuck off. You can think it—very hard—but you have to do it with a smile.

So I smile. “My apologies,” I say, keeping my middle fingers holstered for the time being. “Is there anything I can help you w…”

The second reason I don’t tell him off is that, as soon as he turns, I can no longer form words.

Clear, piercing, cerulean eyes root me to the spot. I’ve never seen a color like that on a human being—like the surface of a frozen lake. Being on the receiving end of that stare, I feel like I’m standing right in the middle of one. One wrong step, and I’d be plunged into the icy depths below.

Those eyes are dangerous.

“With…?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, come again?”

The customer walks up to me. Slowly, like a panther on the prowl. “‘With.’ Is that the word you were looking for?”

“I—Uh, yes. Sorry. I’m a bit out of sorts today.”

“I noticed.”

That snide comment immediately brings me back on solid ground. Just who the hell does this guy think he is?

“So what can I help you with?” I say instead, my best smile on display.

The man gives me a long once-over. It makes me feel exposed. Like I couldn’t hide if I wanted to. “I need a suit.”

I exhale quietly under my breath. Now, this I can work with. “What kind of suit did you have in mind?”

“Three pieces, made of fabric. You’ve heard of those, I assume?”

Deep breaths, April. You need this job. You want this job. “Why, yes, I have heard of those. Are we shopping for any occasion in particular?”

The man gives me an odd look. “None that you’d need to make it your business to know about, Ms.…” He tilts his head towards my name tag. “Ms. Flowers.”

You need this job, I keep chanting in my head, like a mantra. If you stab this customer, you’ll lose this job. You can’t lose this job, April.

It’s the only scrap of your dream you’ve got left.

“Just formal, then,” I settle on, knuckles whitening behind my back. Then I dive into the racks.

Clothes are my kingdom. When my hands are buried in fabrics, I am in my element. I pick out three vintage jackets that look roughly the customer’s size, eyeballing the measurements of his broad shoulders, and lay them on the table.

But there’s one in particular that I want him to pick; one that I just know would go stunningly with those blue eyes, his black hair, his fair skin. He may be an asshole, but he isn’t a bad-looking one. With that thought, I put my pick third.

Most customers will be drawn to the option in the middle. Put a cheap jacket first, a wildly expensive one third, and the costly but fairly-priced vintage one in the middle. Whenever I want to find an old-timey piece a good home, that’s how I do it. Most of the time, it works like a charm.

Sometimes, however, a customer will walk in and just smell like money. While we were talking—correction: while he was insulting me and I was trying to remind myself of all the good reasons not to end up in jail at twenty-four—I sized him up just as much as he sized me up. I was just more discreet about it.

I know, for example, that his current suit is Tom Ford; that his watch is the brand-new Rolex they’ve been advertising nonstop in Times Square; and that his cologne is Dior Sauvage X.

A man like this would never settle for second-best.

The customer approaches the jackets. I begin to describe the first piece: “This is a 2009 Dolce I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does. I guess I thought that the man with icy eyes would be just as cool to the touch. “Nothing this beautiful should ever be left behind glass.”

He looks at me. At my hand, still on his. Belatedly, I realize how wildly inappropriate the air feels suddenly. We’re close—when did that happen?

“Would you, um…” I mumble something incoherent and pry my fingers gingerly from his grasp with sheer force of will. “Would you like to browse some mo?—”

“I’ll try it on.”

I blink. “Pardon me?”

“I said I’ll try it on.” His gaze on me is even, steady, but there’s an undercurrent of impatience in his voice that I don’t want to test. “Lead the way.”

And, God help me, I do.