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All things considered, I’m doing alright. Granny Ruth didn’t raise a quitter. Just because my dreams have been dashed for the zillionth time, I refuse to give up. Failure simply isn’t an option. I’ll have to hustle three times as hard if I want to give my daughter the life she deserves. Until then, it’s time to put my nose to the sewing machine and work until my fingers bleed. I just wish…
I just wish I could stop thinking abouthim.
It’s been over a week since I wandered into Dominic’s office, yet he occupies my every waking thought. His hulking frame, his luscious hair, those hauntingly beautiful eyes that seemed to see every inch of me. I’m still marveling at the fact that the father of my child has been in New York this entire time, only three subway stations and a transfer away.
Maybe I should go back and tell him about Felicia. But that’d be kind of embarrassing, wouldn’t it? Especially on the heels of being rejected for a loan. And if he really is a loan shark, do I want to expose Felicia to that kind of person?
A million and one thoughts swim around in my head, punctuated by the rhythmic beat of the sewing machine needle bobbing up and down as I sew a hem.
“Mommy!” Felicia whines from her play area. I have a little spot set up in the back corner of my shop where she spends most of her Sundays with me at work. My budget is unfathomably tight, and that means I can really only afford to take her to daycare from Monday to Friday. The weekends are just for us, even if I do have to work.
“Yes, sweetie?” I ask, momentarily looking away from my work.
“Pudding!” my daughter announces.
I smile at her gently. “You had a snack pack twenty minutes ago. Plus, Auntie Lana’s making tuna casserole tonight. You don’t want to be too full.”
I’m not at all surprised when my daughter’s face crinkles up, her cheeks red and her nose runny. She starts to whimper before breaking into an outright wail, throwing a tantrum in the back of my empty store. She cries and cries, pouting with distressing effectiveness. She’s as cute as a button and she knows it.
Abandoning my desk, I go and pick her up, holding her close as I press kisses to her wet cheeks. “Look at this!” I gasp, snagging a swatch of soft emerald green satin. “Isn’t it beautiful? Don’t you think your Barbie would look pretty in a dress made out of it?”
Felicia takes the fabric in her tiny hands, running her fingers along its surface. My distraction works like a charm because she sniffles once, twice, before she stops crying altogether. “Pretty,” she echoes in agreement.
“Tell you what. I’ll make your Barbie a new dress right after I’m finished with my client’s, okay? And then we can show Auntie Lana once we get home.”
The bell over my front door chimes. In walks a familiar redhead, shaking out her umbrella beneath the small awning outside.
“Ah, speak of the devil,” I say. “I thought your shift at the restaurant wasn’t over until after five.”
Lana sighs, exasperated. “My manager sent me home. Someone fu — I mean — messed up the schedule so we had way too many servers. And here I was hoping to make a little extra in tips, too. My MetroCard is about to expire, and I could’ve used the money to top it up. I’d really hate to stall hop again.”
I grimace. “Didn’t you get caught last time?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.”
“You can just borrow my card if you need to. I can work out of the apartment for a little while.”
Lana shakes her head. “I can’t ask you to do that. You’re already paying out the ass to cover the store’s overhead.”
Felicia gasps. “Bad word!”
I chuckle as I say, “Let’s give Auntie Lana a break today, hm? She deserves it.”
“C’mere, you little troublemaker,” she says, walking over to take Felicia from me. “How was it today? Slow going?”
I gesture around to my empty store. “What are you talking about? Can’t you see I’m swamped?”
“Sorry, babe. If that’s the case, feel like heading home early? I can get a head start on that casserole and—”
The bell over the door chimes yet again.
When I look up to greet the customer who just walked in, I’m stunned into silence. This massive bull in my tiny dress shop is no customer at all. Instead, it’s a familiar man dressed in a sharp suit and a tan peacoat. Behind him, two similarly dressed men I’ve never seen before gaze around.
“Dominic?” I breathe.
He tips his head. “Afternoon.”
The air rushes from my lungs. I’m suddenly very aware of how small and underwhelming my store is. Dominic looks misplaced here, far too classy and rich for the likes of my humble business.
