3. Hartley

I didn't get flustered often. I'd learned early on that size didn't make a man. At five foot eight, I made up for my shorter frame with confidence. Under the assessing hazel gaze of Jordan Altair Sr., I wasn't sure if I should cower or pant.

Of course, I'd seen photos of him and searched his name online. Jordan was well-known for a multitude of reasons. And here he was, standing in my studio with his perfectly combed silver hair and his trimmed silver beard, easily six inches taller than me. In photos, I'd seen him have his beard longer. I liked the length it was now, perfect to tickle my skin or cause a bit of a burn.

"Mr. Weathers?" His voice coasted over my skin like a physical touch.

"Please, call me Hartley."

"Very well. What do you think of the selections I've made?"

I glanced at the table, remembering why he was in my space with his expensive cologne wrapping around me like a blanket, engulfing me, and drawing me close. If Tristan were here, I could navigate this better. Jordan wasn't just another client. He was the type of person who could make or break my career.

Having him in this building, one that certainly didn't match with the level of luxury I provided my clients, I had wondered if he'd turn around and leave before coming inside to see what I offered. He surprised me by not only entering the building but also not mentioning the appearance of it.

If Tristan wasn't on a tour bus with his famous boyfriend, he'd be here alongside Jordan with his gentle tone. Tristan was a kind man; one I wouldn't mind becoming friends with if we weren't already in a professional relationship.

"They're wonderful," I said. "I'd pair these with…" I moved the swatches around the table. "These. I think they would complete each other. Since we agreed on one suit to start, which one would you like to move forward with?"

"Are you certain you only want to make one suit? I'd be happy to pay for all three."

I gripped the edge of the table as my knees nearly buckled. All three? The price I'd quoted for one suit wasn't small. If I wanted to be treated as an equal in this business, I had to hold myself to a high standard. That meant finding clients who could afford my prices. It had been a slow start since coming back from a hiatus in a new studio, but having Jordan wearing my design would certainly help. Others might not want him anywhere near their clothes, and that was well within their right. But for me, a designer who couldn't seem to get far from the ground floor where he started all over? I took what I could get. Within reason, of course. The rules I emailed Tristan were necessary when dealing with powerful people. I didn't want Jordan to come in here and think he ran the show or that if we had a falling out, he'd retaliate. There was only one person left in my life I gave a fuck about, and he was on the other side of the country, still coming to terms with the loss of our grandfather, the man who raised us.

"What if you hate the first suit I make? I require a deposit for each one. I'd need the money I quoted, plus a lot more."

"Then you keep the deposit."

Swallowing became difficult. "Let me show you around a bit before you make your final decision. I'd like you to see my designs in person. It's different from viewing them in photos."

Together, we walked through two rooms on the same floor where I had men's fashion on multiple mannequins to prepare for Jordan's visit today. His expensive loafers clapped on the wooden floor with every step he took. I was caught somewhere between lust for him and the need to put money into my bank account so I could climb out of the debt I incurred when my grandfather passed away. I wanted to hire back my staff. Being a one-man show was difficult. Taking the break I had, I had to do everything fresh. Clients didn't want to wait around. Orders got canceled and they moved on.

Jordan's fingers ran over the fabric as he passed them, stopping in front of a suit I made with him in mind. I wanted him to see it in person, to look at the labor I put into it and appreciate my craftsmanship. "This is the style you're offering me, correct?"

"Yes, I made this as a sample. I don't have your measurements yet, so I went with my best guess."

"I'm here. You can measure me."

And now I'd swallow my tongue. Measuring him was a necessity. Being able to put my hands on him, or my tape measure rather, would be an exercise in restraint. "We'll do that next. Are you sure this is up to your standards?"

"Hartley, I'm not the asshole everyone makes me out to be. Sure, I can fill that role, but when someone gets on my good side, they stay there until they do something to warrant me reconsidering their place in my life. You're creating fine clothing here. I would like to wear your design. And yes, I'd like to put down a deposit for three suits." He turned toward the front of the house where his guard stood and snapped his fingers once.

Heavy boots hit the floor as a guard came into view and handed Jordan an envelope. The guard turned and went back to his post without a word.

"Here," Jordan said, giving me the thick, white envelope. "That should be more than enough to cover it."

I couldn't resist and opened the flap to look through the stack of money within. "This is too much."

"No, it's just enough. You should be paid for your work. Your price was lower than others I'd been quoted. Your work is superior; therefore, you'll be paid as such."

"But I don't need this much."

"Mr. Weathers." Jordan leveled me with his gaze. I didn't shrink back. It was more like a stern talking to rather than a threat. At least, I hoped so. "When I offer you money, you take it. I'm not asking you to do anything illegal. You're to make me clothes like we agreed upon. If I think your work and time are more valuable than you do, that's for me to decide since I'm the one paying you. Consider it your fee plus a hefty tip for your time. Now, I think you need to take my measurements. I have another appointment to get to."

The money he handed me could cover my rent here for months. It could also help me put a dent in my other debt. It wouldn't completely climb me out of the hole I was in, but it would help.

I had a sudden urge to call my brother and tell him the good news. Then I remembered he'd probably be drunk and passed out in his apartment instead of coherent and trying to help me. He wasn't the responsible one though. That was me. That was also why our grandfather left everything he owned to me. I couldn't bear to watch the house we grew up in turned over to the bank to settle the money he owed, so I decided to pay the debt on my own. This was why I had to move out of my other studio and let my staff go. My sentimental heart couldn't witness losing the last part of my childhood, no matter how foolish it was to hold on to it.

Taking the envelope with me into the other room, I placed it in a drawer before grabbing what I'd need to take Jordan's measurements down. When I returned, he had his suit jacket off, exposing his clothed chest and arms, which weren't small, but not massive either. Jordan clearly worked out by the strain his shirt went through on his biceps.

I'd done this countless times when I was working my way through school and learning everything I could. I even had a few clients when I started my label. That was well before everything went to hell and I put my family ahead of my career and gave myself time to mourn. Now, my fate rested on the mafia boss of East Dremest.

With every movement, I concentrated on my breathing, keeping this as professional as possible. My career was literally in Jordan's hands. And my hands, well, they were currently measuring Jordan's waist. Thankfully, I kept having to turn away to write down his details. It gave me time to close my eyes and focus on the task at hand, instead of the way my dick kept trying to point in his direction.

But when I crouched to get his inseam, I nearly fell on my ass. Face level with the impressive outline in Jordan's slacks, I was a goner, surprised I didn't lean in to run my nose along the length of it. Obviously, I wouldn't. Hell, I didn't even know if Jordan had any interest in me. No way would I presume to know that, nor would I cross that line with him. He was a client, nothing more. Even if I wondered how thick he was and how much he'd stretch me.

His fingers flexed by his side, drawing my eyes to them. There was no wedding ring, although I'd read he was married once. It was reported his wife was murdered during a robbery. Jordan had to have killed whoever did that to her. In his line of work, crimes didn't go unpunished.

I quickly took the remainder of his measurements and got to my feet to make sure I had everything written down. Jordan's phone rang, a soft vibration he ignored.

"You can take that," I said, stating the obvious. Idiot. "I have everything I need."

"It can wait. I'm in a meeting with you." Right. That's all this was. My lusting over him would get me nowhere. I was the bottom of the barrel and Jordan was top-shelf liquor.

Turning to fully face him, I plastered on a smile I didn't feel, even though I had much-needed money in a drawer. "Thank you for taking the time to come here today. I'll be in touch with Tristan as I work on the suits. I'll do one at a time to make sure I get every detail right and have any changes sent his way for your approval."

Jordan reached into his pocket to withdraw a card, holding it between two fingers. "Contact me directly. It will be easier given that Tristan is traveling."

"We've been communicating fine while he's been gone."

"Hartley, take the card and contact me with questions, details, changes, or whatever you need. My phone number is on there, as well as my email address. Texting is preferable, considering it's easier for me to reply when I'm juggling multiple tasks."

"Okay, whatever is best for you." I took the card from him, my finger brushing his.

Jordan leaned forward ever so slightly, like he was going to whisper something to me. Instead, he inhaled. "You smell like the air after a summer storm," he said softly.

Oh god, he was so close. If I pushed up on my toes, I could press my lips to his. "Thank you?" I squeaked out.

He hummed and leaned away. "No, thank you, Mr. Weathers. Good day."

With that, he lifted his suit jacket to put it back on and turned for the door without another word, taking his scent and commanding presence with him while his whispered words lingered in my mind.