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Whether he means to or not, he’s somehow put me at ease straight away.
I almost forget about my stiff nipples, and about his even stiffer front. But having someone like him even take a remote interest in what I’m passionate about is like that fresh air I was needing a few moments ago.
“I do,” I chirp. “Usually when a client can’t find something off the rack or has something special in mind,” I tell him, finding some confidence.
“And what about suits?” he asks, looking hopeful until I explain that Mark’s the men’s tailor.
“I just do gowns...” I explain, hearing my voice trail off, flat once I register his disappointed look.
“I see,” he murmurs, holding my eyes with his gaze. Dark like coal with a blazing center, it’s like he can see right into my soul as well as take in my curvy stature, so short compared to his own huge frame.
Worried he’s about to turn and go back to the other side of the store, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
The small talk I was trying to avoid, but if it means talking to him just a moment longer…
“So. When’s the big day?” I ask, forcing a smile, dying inside as I imagine the type of woman who’s snapped Brandon up.
She must be thin, athletic like him most likely. Probably curvy too, but only in the way society finds acceptable. No behind, top heavy with a fake chest and big hair, a look that I see so often here.
He looks confused for a moment, like he has to think about it.
“Uh… It’s in a few weeks, I think. There’s a rehearsal tomorrow,” he says, looking to the side for a second as if he’s reminding himself.
Jeez. Doesn’t seem too excited about his own wedding. Maybe it’s a marriage of convenience?
Or maybe it’s none of my business.
It’s nothing to do with Brandon or how he says it. It’s me.
Since working here I’ve grappled with my own demons about how I look, about never finding a boyfriend let alone someone who’d ever want to marry me.
In my mind I have the perfect gown, the perfect day planned. My own fantasy wedding with Mr. Right.
Then I catch glimpses of myself in the store mirrors.
Moments like this one, where I’m talking to one of the beautiful people that the world seems to be made for.
I’m just a chubby dressmaker at the end of the day, not someone anyone would even think twice about. Especially someone like Brandon.
Mark reappears and apologizes from across the store for keeping Brandon waiting.
Without turning his face from mine, he only shrugs, murmuring that it’s no problem.
“I was just asking Ashlee here to help with my suit,” he says firmly, making me flush with embarrassment.
I shoot Mark an apologetic look, his own expression’s become puzzled.
“Uh. Ashlee usually does gowns, ladies wear,” he explains politely, but Brandon doesn’t budge.
His eyes are fixed on me and I watch his whole upper body tense a little.
“So I hear,” he rasps. “But I’d really like Ashlee to help me with my suit,” he adds in a commanding tone.
The kind of tone that I sense reminds Mark who’s paying for everything as well as being the customer who’s always right.
“Umm. Okay then,” Mark says shortly, sounding more than a little wounded as well as confused.
Mark’s an engineer, sure. But he’s also an excellent tailor. He takes pride in his work, and a job like this with someone as uniquely proportioned as Brandon is a big deal for him.
“I’ve got enough to go on with the pants, I guess,” he concludes.
“Ash? Would you like to try these jackets on Brandon and mark out the panels that need adjusting? It’s the sleeves mostly, but the back… The shoulders...” he trails off.
I nod eagerly, feeling myself smiling and looking up at Brandon who seems to have relaxed now he’s gotten his way.
Why he’d want me to help him instead of Mark, I’ll never know. But if it means more time in his presence, actually talking to him, who cares?
Brandon’s eyes stay fixed on me, ignoring Mark altogether.
I grimace, signaling it’s a little awkward, but Brandon only stares harder at me, eventually lifting his brow when I invite him over to the menswear side again.
He waits for me to move first, and I can feel his eyes on me as I walk ahead of him.
Feeling self-conscious about my behind isn’t something I thought of when I walked ahead, but in the reflections, as we walk across more mirrors I see his eyes taking me in.
Not exactly the characteristics of a man about to be married, but maybe he’s just enjoying his last weeks of freedom before the old ball and chain is attached.
I’m trembling by the time we get over to the men’s side. I can hear Mark, on the phone again.
