04-08-2026, 11:05 AM
A persistent buzzing dragged Ayesha out of yet another heated Aditya
dream. For this entire past week, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking
about him.
At work, she tried to focus on her data, but the words and numbers turned
into body parts that fit together in fascinating ways. She fantasized about his
hands, his mouth, his smile, his eyes, his words, his laugh, his presence.
When she slept, dreams of Aditya plagued her, so intense the craving of
her body woke her at odd hours of the night.
Last Friday had tipped her over the line. There was no doubt about it.
Ayesha was officially obsessed with Aditya.
And they might never see each other again. It was Friday now, and he still
hadn’t texted or called. Was this one of those situations where no news meant
no? Her heart sank, and her limbs went heavy with sadness.
The internal buzzing continued, distracting her. She groped at the
nightstand until she located her phone. Squinting at the screen, she saw it was
her housekeeper.
She coughed to clear her throat of the sound of hot dream sex. “Hello?”
“Ms. Naz, I can’t make it today. My daughter is sick, and ...
“Oh, that’s fine. Thanks for calling. I hope she gets better soon.”
“Can I make it up next week?”
“Sure, no problem.” She glanced at the clock, and her heart almost
stopped. It was just short of eight o’clock. She was usually sitting at her desk
by now.
She’d almost hit the end button when she heard her housekeeper say, “Oh,
Ms. Naz, you’ll want to take your clothes to the dry cleaners since I can’t do
it.”
“Oh, all right. Thanks for reminding me.”
“No problem. Good-bye.”
Ayesha considered skipping the dry cleaners. Not only did she not know
which one she used, she didn’t like the idea of ruining her morning routine by
adding an extra step. It was . . . irritating and anxiety-causing. New place.
New people. And after the disaster at the club, her tolerance for new things
was at an all-time low.
In the end, it was the idea of having the wrong number of skirts and tops
hanging in her closet that had her perusing Yelp for nearby dry cleaners. She
settled on an establishment that was ranked above all the others even though it
was a little out of the way.
After about five minutes, she turned into the parking lot of a small mall
with well-maintained Old-fashioned signs labeled a coffee shop, a martial arts studio,
and CLEANOVO Dry Cleaning and Tailors.
She looped her purse and bag of clothes over her shoulder and clicked
over the asphalt toward the dry cleaners. A tiny old lady with a hunched back,
and sunken lips stood before the doors. She was quite possibly the cutest
grown human Ayesha had ever seen.
The old lady smiled as patted Ayesha’s shoulder.
Then she eyed Ayesha’s laundry bag, pulled the lip open so she could peer
inside, and placed her hand on the strap, steering Ayesha toward the front doors
of the dry cleaners. The old lady pushed the glass door open with surprising
strength. After Ayesha entered, the old lady disappeared through
a door behind the vacant front counter.
Ayesha gazed about, taking in the two headless mannequins in the window
display who modeled a precisely constructed Sherwani and a form-fitting
wedding lehanga. The interior of the store was calming blue-gray walls, soft
white dbanging curtains, and lots of natural light.
A fitting was going on in an adjacent room. A respectable-looking matron
in a sleeveless white blouse and lehanga stood on a raised platform before
a trifold of mirrors.
Ayesha went numb with astonishment.
At the woman’s feet kneeled Aditya.
He wore loose jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretched around his
biceps, looking wholesome and beautiful and completely at home. A
measuring tape looped behind his neck and dangled down his chest,
Balanced over his right ear was a blue chalk.
“What kind of heels are you planning to wear with this?” he asked.
“I was planning on these, actually.” The lady pulled her pant leg up to
reveal regular white pumps.
“You should go open toe, Meghana. And one inch higher.”
Meghana’s lips thinned, and she angled her foot, turned it side to side. After
a moment, she nodded. “You’re right. I have just the pair.”
“I’m going to add another inch to the hem, then. How does the waist feel?”
“It’s too comfortable.”
“I figured you planned to eat in this.”
“My tailor thinks of everything.” She pivoted and stared at the profile of
her pinned-up waistline in the mirrors.
Aditya rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “Remember the lipstick.”
“Yes, yes, how could I forget? Fire-engine red. You’ll have this ready by
next Friday?”
“Yeah, it’ll be ready.”
She slinked off to a changing room in the blouse and lehanga, and Aditya picked up
a floral print garment that had been dbangd over the back of a chair. He
adjusted the pins and snatched the chalk pencil from above his ear to mark the
fabric, his eyes focused and his hands competent.
Inside Ayesha’s mind, missing pieces clicked into place. This was Aditya
in his natural state. This was what he did when he wasn’t escorting. Aditya
was a tailor.
He shook the garment out and dbangd it over his arm before turning to
retrieve yet another pin-strewn piece.
Catching sight of her from his peripheral vision, he said, “I’ll be with you
in a sec—” His eyes locked on hers, and his face went slack.
He froze.
She froze.
“How did you . . . ?” He glanced out the front windows like maybe he’d
find the answer to his unfinished question outside.
Her heart exploded. This had to look really bad—stalker bad. Not
fair, not fair. She’d only just realized she was obsessed with him today. She
hadn’t had time to stalk him like a fanatic. Now, she’d cost herself whatever
slim chance she’d had at a full-time arrangement.
She backed up a step. “I’ll go.”
He strode quickly across the room and caught her hand before she could
leave. “Ayesha . . .”
Her whole arm jumped in response to his touch, and she wanted to cry. “I
just needed my clothes dry-cleaned. I didn’t know you worked here. I-I’m not
stalking. I know it looks bad.”
His expression softened. “It actually looks like you have clothes in need of
dry cleaning.” He lifted the bag of clothes from her shoulder. “Let me ring
you up.”
He took her things to the front counter and began counting blouses with
professional efficiency. His cheeks, however, were unusually pink.
“Is this awkward?” she asked, hating that she was making him
uncomfortable.
“A little. Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve run into a client here.
Seven shirts. I’m assuming seven skirts, too.” He counted them out into a
separate pile and searched her face. “Do you work every day?”
She nodded jerkily. “I prefer the office on the weekends.”
His mouth tilted up at the corner. “You would.” There was no judgment
from him, no criticism, no advice that it was bad for her health and her social
life. He didn’t think there was something wrong with her. Ayesha wanted to
leap over the counter and throw herself into his arms.
He began to set the laundry bag aside when he noticed there was still
something inside. As he upended it, the blue dress tumbled out.
His eyes lifted to hers and smoldered.
Ayesha gripped the counter as ice cream memories flickered through her
head. Chilled silken lips, mint chocolate chip, and the taste of his mouth.
Unhurried kisses in a room full of people.
“Do you have any special directions for your clothes?” he asked in a rough
voice.
Blinking away her memories, she forced her mind into the present. “No
starch. I don’t like the feel of it on—”
“Your skin,” he finished, running his thumb over the back of her hand.
She nodded and searched for something to say. Her gaze landed on the
blue cocktail dress. “I bought this dress because I liked the color and the
fabric.” With its crisp silk texture and structure, it must have complemented
Aditya’s gorgeous suit nicely . . . “The suit,” she whispered. “Did you make
it?”
His eyelashes swept downward, and a boyish grin covered his face.
“Yeah.”
Her mouth fell open. If he could do that, then why in the world was he
escorting?
“My grandfather was a tailor. Apparently, it runs in my blood. it started as a hobby,
apart from being an architect, I like making clothes.”
“Would you make clothes for me?”
“You’d have to stand still for a long time. It’s not sexy. Would you really
want that?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the look in his eyes was not. It
took Ayesha a moment before she realized it was vulnerability.
Was it possible Aditya didn’t think someone could be interested in him
for more than his body?
“I’ve had clothes made for me before, remember? I know what it’s like.
It’s worth it to me. You’re talented. I want your designs.”
“That’s right. I forgot.” That boyish grin flashed again, looking almost shy,
and she wanted to wrap herself around him and hold him forever.
“I’ve been expecting news from you,” she whispered.
His smile faded as his expression went serious. “I needed to think about
it.”
“Are you accepting my proposal?” Please don’t say no.
“Are you sure you still want to issue it?”
“Of course.” She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would have
changed her mind.
“No sex?”
She took a breath and nodded. “That’s right.”
Leaning forward, he asked in a low voice, “So you can be sure the next
man to kiss you or touch you only does it because he wants to?”
“Y-yes.” She leaned toward him as she anticipated his answer, almost
afraid to exhale.
“I accept.”
She smiled in dizzying relief. “Thank—”
He tipped her face upward with a hand on her jaw and kissed her. Electric
sensation crackled through her. If it weren’t for the counter, she would have
fallen. At her murmur, he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth with his tongue
in the same way she wanted him to—
The door behind the counter opened, and someone marched out.
They tore apart like guilty teenagers. Aditya cleared his throat and busied
himself with the clothes on the counter. Ayesha pursed her lips, tasted Aditya
on her skin, and wiped the moisture away with the back of her hand.
From the look on the older woman’s face, she’d seen everything . . . and
was curious. Round-lensed glasses perched on the top of her head at a
gravity-defying angle, and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail,
though several strands stood out in busy disarray. Like Aditya,
she wore a measuring tape
around her neck.
As he bent over the garment with that sexy thinking look on his face, the
woman aimed a distracted smile at Ayesha and patted Aditya’s arm. “I taught
him when he was little, and now he teaches me back.”
Ayesha eked out a smile. Had his mother just caught them kissing? She tried
to find similarities between them, but nothing stuck out. Aditya’s facial
features were a striking balance of edges and angles. Broad
shouldered, thick, and vital, he towered over the old woman.
Ayesha pushed her glasses up and smoothed her hands over her skirt,
wishing she had a white lab coat and a stethoscope.
“What do you do for a living? Are you a doctor?” the woman asked with
ill-disguised hope.
“No, I’m a statistician.” Ayesha linked her fingers together and stared
at the tips of her shoes, awaiting disappointment.
“Is that economics?”
Ayesha’s eyes darted back up in surprise. “Yes, it is, but with more math.”
“Has your girlfriend met Pinky yet?” she asked Aditya.
Aditya looked up from his garment, his expression worried. “Mom, no,
she hasn’t met Pinky, and she isn’t my—” He stopped speaking, and his gaze
jumped from his mom to Ayesha.
His dilemma was perfectly clear. What did they call one another in public
situations now?
“She’s not what?” his mom asked in confusion.
He cleared his throat as he focused on the garment in his hands. “She
hasn’t met Pinky.”
Warmth splashed at Ayesha’s body in unexpected waves. He didn’t correct
his mom. Did that mean they were going by boyfriend and girlfriend in public
situations?
A desperate yearning gripped Ayesha, surprising her in its intensity.
“Who’s Pinky?” Ayesha managed to ask. She remembered that name from
before.
“Pinky is his sister.” There was a thinking slant to his mom’s eyes before
she brightened and said, “You should come to our house for dinner tonight.
Talk to Pinky about economics, ah? She’s studying that at KJ Somayya Institute and is
trying to get a job. His other sisters will want to meet you, too. We didn’t
know he had a new girlfriend.”
His mom’s words swamped whatever giddiness she’d experienced from
being called Aditya’s girlfriend. House. Dinner. Sisters. The words rattled
around in her head, refusing to make sense.
“Just come, ah? Even if you two have plans, you still have to eat. Aditya
can make fish curry. His fish curry is very good . . . I forgot to ask. What is your name?”
Dazed, she said, “Ayesha, Ayesha Naz.”
His mother smiled her approval. “Don’t eat anything before you come, ah?
We have lots of food.” With that, she brushed her hands together like business
was settled, filled out the invoice slip for Ayesha’s clothes, and handed it to her.
“This will be ready Tuesday morning.”
In a state of panic, Ayesha stuffed the slip into her purse, murmured a quiet
thank-you, and walked out to her car,
House. Dinner. Sisters.
The front door swung open and Aditya jogged to her side. She opened
the window, and he propped his hands on the side of the car. “You don’t have
to come if you don’t want to.” A notch formed between his eyebrows as he
hesitated. “But maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?” she heard herself ask.
“Maybe it’s the kind of practice you wanted.”
“You’d let me practice with your family?” The fact that he trusted her with
the important people in his life touched her in ways she didn’t understand,
made her feel off-kilter. That yearning from earlier returned.
“Would you be good to them?” he asked with a searching gaze.
“Yes, of course.” She always strove to be good to people.
“And keep our arrangement between us? They don’t know about . . . what
I do.”
She nodded. That went without saying.
“Then I’m okay with it. If you want to. Do you?”
“Yes, I do.” But not because she wanted practice.
“Let’s do it, then.” His eyes fell to her lips. “Come closer.”
She leaned toward him but glanced at the front of the shop. “She might be
watch—”
He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. Just one. And he pulled away. “See
you tonight.”
dream. For this entire past week, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking
about him.
At work, she tried to focus on her data, but the words and numbers turned
into body parts that fit together in fascinating ways. She fantasized about his
hands, his mouth, his smile, his eyes, his words, his laugh, his presence.
When she slept, dreams of Aditya plagued her, so intense the craving of
her body woke her at odd hours of the night.
Last Friday had tipped her over the line. There was no doubt about it.
Ayesha was officially obsessed with Aditya.
And they might never see each other again. It was Friday now, and he still
hadn’t texted or called. Was this one of those situations where no news meant
no? Her heart sank, and her limbs went heavy with sadness.
The internal buzzing continued, distracting her. She groped at the
nightstand until she located her phone. Squinting at the screen, she saw it was
her housekeeper.
She coughed to clear her throat of the sound of hot dream sex. “Hello?”
“Ms. Naz, I can’t make it today. My daughter is sick, and ...
“Oh, that’s fine. Thanks for calling. I hope she gets better soon.”
“Can I make it up next week?”
“Sure, no problem.” She glanced at the clock, and her heart almost
stopped. It was just short of eight o’clock. She was usually sitting at her desk
by now.
She’d almost hit the end button when she heard her housekeeper say, “Oh,
Ms. Naz, you’ll want to take your clothes to the dry cleaners since I can’t do
it.”
“Oh, all right. Thanks for reminding me.”
“No problem. Good-bye.”
Ayesha considered skipping the dry cleaners. Not only did she not know
which one she used, she didn’t like the idea of ruining her morning routine by
adding an extra step. It was . . . irritating and anxiety-causing. New place.
New people. And after the disaster at the club, her tolerance for new things
was at an all-time low.
In the end, it was the idea of having the wrong number of skirts and tops
hanging in her closet that had her perusing Yelp for nearby dry cleaners. She
settled on an establishment that was ranked above all the others even though it
was a little out of the way.
After about five minutes, she turned into the parking lot of a small mall
with well-maintained Old-fashioned signs labeled a coffee shop, a martial arts studio,
and CLEANOVO Dry Cleaning and Tailors.
She looped her purse and bag of clothes over her shoulder and clicked
over the asphalt toward the dry cleaners. A tiny old lady with a hunched back,
and sunken lips stood before the doors. She was quite possibly the cutest
grown human Ayesha had ever seen.
The old lady smiled as patted Ayesha’s shoulder.
Then she eyed Ayesha’s laundry bag, pulled the lip open so she could peer
inside, and placed her hand on the strap, steering Ayesha toward the front doors
of the dry cleaners. The old lady pushed the glass door open with surprising
strength. After Ayesha entered, the old lady disappeared through
a door behind the vacant front counter.
Ayesha gazed about, taking in the two headless mannequins in the window
display who modeled a precisely constructed Sherwani and a form-fitting
wedding lehanga. The interior of the store was calming blue-gray walls, soft
white dbanging curtains, and lots of natural light.
A fitting was going on in an adjacent room. A respectable-looking matron
in a sleeveless white blouse and lehanga stood on a raised platform before
a trifold of mirrors.
Ayesha went numb with astonishment.
At the woman’s feet kneeled Aditya.
He wore loose jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretched around his
biceps, looking wholesome and beautiful and completely at home. A
measuring tape looped behind his neck and dangled down his chest,
Balanced over his right ear was a blue chalk.
“What kind of heels are you planning to wear with this?” he asked.
“I was planning on these, actually.” The lady pulled her pant leg up to
reveal regular white pumps.
“You should go open toe, Meghana. And one inch higher.”
Meghana’s lips thinned, and she angled her foot, turned it side to side. After
a moment, she nodded. “You’re right. I have just the pair.”
“I’m going to add another inch to the hem, then. How does the waist feel?”
“It’s too comfortable.”
“I figured you planned to eat in this.”
“My tailor thinks of everything.” She pivoted and stared at the profile of
her pinned-up waistline in the mirrors.
Aditya rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “Remember the lipstick.”
“Yes, yes, how could I forget? Fire-engine red. You’ll have this ready by
next Friday?”
“Yeah, it’ll be ready.”
She slinked off to a changing room in the blouse and lehanga, and Aditya picked up
a floral print garment that had been dbangd over the back of a chair. He
adjusted the pins and snatched the chalk pencil from above his ear to mark the
fabric, his eyes focused and his hands competent.
Inside Ayesha’s mind, missing pieces clicked into place. This was Aditya
in his natural state. This was what he did when he wasn’t escorting. Aditya
was a tailor.
He shook the garment out and dbangd it over his arm before turning to
retrieve yet another pin-strewn piece.
Catching sight of her from his peripheral vision, he said, “I’ll be with you
in a sec—” His eyes locked on hers, and his face went slack.
He froze.
She froze.
“How did you . . . ?” He glanced out the front windows like maybe he’d
find the answer to his unfinished question outside.
Her heart exploded. This had to look really bad—stalker bad. Not
fair, not fair. She’d only just realized she was obsessed with him today. She
hadn’t had time to stalk him like a fanatic. Now, she’d cost herself whatever
slim chance she’d had at a full-time arrangement.
She backed up a step. “I’ll go.”
He strode quickly across the room and caught her hand before she could
leave. “Ayesha . . .”
Her whole arm jumped in response to his touch, and she wanted to cry. “I
just needed my clothes dry-cleaned. I didn’t know you worked here. I-I’m not
stalking. I know it looks bad.”
His expression softened. “It actually looks like you have clothes in need of
dry cleaning.” He lifted the bag of clothes from her shoulder. “Let me ring
you up.”
He took her things to the front counter and began counting blouses with
professional efficiency. His cheeks, however, were unusually pink.
“Is this awkward?” she asked, hating that she was making him
uncomfortable.
“A little. Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve run into a client here.
Seven shirts. I’m assuming seven skirts, too.” He counted them out into a
separate pile and searched her face. “Do you work every day?”
She nodded jerkily. “I prefer the office on the weekends.”
His mouth tilted up at the corner. “You would.” There was no judgment
from him, no criticism, no advice that it was bad for her health and her social
life. He didn’t think there was something wrong with her. Ayesha wanted to
leap over the counter and throw herself into his arms.
He began to set the laundry bag aside when he noticed there was still
something inside. As he upended it, the blue dress tumbled out.
His eyes lifted to hers and smoldered.
Ayesha gripped the counter as ice cream memories flickered through her
head. Chilled silken lips, mint chocolate chip, and the taste of his mouth.
Unhurried kisses in a room full of people.
“Do you have any special directions for your clothes?” he asked in a rough
voice.
Blinking away her memories, she forced her mind into the present. “No
starch. I don’t like the feel of it on—”
“Your skin,” he finished, running his thumb over the back of her hand.
She nodded and searched for something to say. Her gaze landed on the
blue cocktail dress. “I bought this dress because I liked the color and the
fabric.” With its crisp silk texture and structure, it must have complemented
Aditya’s gorgeous suit nicely . . . “The suit,” she whispered. “Did you make
it?”
His eyelashes swept downward, and a boyish grin covered his face.
“Yeah.”
Her mouth fell open. If he could do that, then why in the world was he
escorting?
“My grandfather was a tailor. Apparently, it runs in my blood. it started as a hobby,
apart from being an architect, I like making clothes.”
“Would you make clothes for me?”
“You’d have to stand still for a long time. It’s not sexy. Would you really
want that?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the look in his eyes was not. It
took Ayesha a moment before she realized it was vulnerability.
Was it possible Aditya didn’t think someone could be interested in him
for more than his body?
“I’ve had clothes made for me before, remember? I know what it’s like.
It’s worth it to me. You’re talented. I want your designs.”
“That’s right. I forgot.” That boyish grin flashed again, looking almost shy,
and she wanted to wrap herself around him and hold him forever.
“I’ve been expecting news from you,” she whispered.
His smile faded as his expression went serious. “I needed to think about
it.”
“Are you accepting my proposal?” Please don’t say no.
“Are you sure you still want to issue it?”
“Of course.” She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would have
changed her mind.
“No sex?”
She took a breath and nodded. “That’s right.”
Leaning forward, he asked in a low voice, “So you can be sure the next
man to kiss you or touch you only does it because he wants to?”
“Y-yes.” She leaned toward him as she anticipated his answer, almost
afraid to exhale.
“I accept.”
She smiled in dizzying relief. “Thank—”
He tipped her face upward with a hand on her jaw and kissed her. Electric
sensation crackled through her. If it weren’t for the counter, she would have
fallen. At her murmur, he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth with his tongue
in the same way she wanted him to—
The door behind the counter opened, and someone marched out.
They tore apart like guilty teenagers. Aditya cleared his throat and busied
himself with the clothes on the counter. Ayesha pursed her lips, tasted Aditya
on her skin, and wiped the moisture away with the back of her hand.
From the look on the older woman’s face, she’d seen everything . . . and
was curious. Round-lensed glasses perched on the top of her head at a
gravity-defying angle, and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail,
though several strands stood out in busy disarray. Like Aditya,
she wore a measuring tape
around her neck.
As he bent over the garment with that sexy thinking look on his face, the
woman aimed a distracted smile at Ayesha and patted Aditya’s arm. “I taught
him when he was little, and now he teaches me back.”
Ayesha eked out a smile. Had his mother just caught them kissing? She tried
to find similarities between them, but nothing stuck out. Aditya’s facial
features were a striking balance of edges and angles. Broad
shouldered, thick, and vital, he towered over the old woman.
Ayesha pushed her glasses up and smoothed her hands over her skirt,
wishing she had a white lab coat and a stethoscope.
“What do you do for a living? Are you a doctor?” the woman asked with
ill-disguised hope.
“No, I’m a statistician.” Ayesha linked her fingers together and stared
at the tips of her shoes, awaiting disappointment.
“Is that economics?”
Ayesha’s eyes darted back up in surprise. “Yes, it is, but with more math.”
“Has your girlfriend met Pinky yet?” she asked Aditya.
Aditya looked up from his garment, his expression worried. “Mom, no,
she hasn’t met Pinky, and she isn’t my—” He stopped speaking, and his gaze
jumped from his mom to Ayesha.
His dilemma was perfectly clear. What did they call one another in public
situations now?
“She’s not what?” his mom asked in confusion.
He cleared his throat as he focused on the garment in his hands. “She
hasn’t met Pinky.”
Warmth splashed at Ayesha’s body in unexpected waves. He didn’t correct
his mom. Did that mean they were going by boyfriend and girlfriend in public
situations?
A desperate yearning gripped Ayesha, surprising her in its intensity.
“Who’s Pinky?” Ayesha managed to ask. She remembered that name from
before.
“Pinky is his sister.” There was a thinking slant to his mom’s eyes before
she brightened and said, “You should come to our house for dinner tonight.
Talk to Pinky about economics, ah? She’s studying that at KJ Somayya Institute and is
trying to get a job. His other sisters will want to meet you, too. We didn’t
know he had a new girlfriend.”
His mom’s words swamped whatever giddiness she’d experienced from
being called Aditya’s girlfriend. House. Dinner. Sisters. The words rattled
around in her head, refusing to make sense.
“Just come, ah? Even if you two have plans, you still have to eat. Aditya
can make fish curry. His fish curry is very good . . . I forgot to ask. What is your name?”
Dazed, she said, “Ayesha, Ayesha Naz.”
His mother smiled her approval. “Don’t eat anything before you come, ah?
We have lots of food.” With that, she brushed her hands together like business
was settled, filled out the invoice slip for Ayesha’s clothes, and handed it to her.
“This will be ready Tuesday morning.”
In a state of panic, Ayesha stuffed the slip into her purse, murmured a quiet
thank-you, and walked out to her car,
House. Dinner. Sisters.
The front door swung open and Aditya jogged to her side. She opened
the window, and he propped his hands on the side of the car. “You don’t have
to come if you don’t want to.” A notch formed between his eyebrows as he
hesitated. “But maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?” she heard herself ask.
“Maybe it’s the kind of practice you wanted.”
“You’d let me practice with your family?” The fact that he trusted her with
the important people in his life touched her in ways she didn’t understand,
made her feel off-kilter. That yearning from earlier returned.
“Would you be good to them?” he asked with a searching gaze.
“Yes, of course.” She always strove to be good to people.
“And keep our arrangement between us? They don’t know about . . . what
I do.”
She nodded. That went without saying.
“Then I’m okay with it. If you want to. Do you?”
“Yes, I do.” But not because she wanted practice.
“Let’s do it, then.” His eyes fell to her lips. “Come closer.”
She leaned toward him but glanced at the front of the shop. “She might be
watch—”
He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. Just one. And he pulled away. “See
you tonight.”
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