Page 26 of Native Hawk
Chapter 8
It was probably just the whiskey, but Catalina felt giddy. It was the first time she’d felt so deliriously happy since she’d left Italy. She liked this American, Drew. He was funny and handsome, with his swarthy skin and big white teeth and hearty laugh.
“You are very pretty, Mr. Drew Hawk,” she blurted out.
“Pretty?” he said with a grin. “Why, ma’am, in some circles, those are fightin’ words.”
She didn’t know what that meant. But the fact she’d made him smile again made her heart beat faster.
He laughed, and she laughed at his laughter.
Then he took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his vest.
Her breath caught.
He didn’t seem to notice.
“So what brought you to California, Cat?”
“I…” She hesitated, wondering how much of his clothing he planned to remove. “I came to make a new start.”
Her nostrils flared as she watched him unbutton the vest, exposing the crisp white shirt beneath. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such broad shoulders. She forced her gaze away.
“A new start. In a brothel?” he asked.
“No!” she hastened to say. “No, no.”
“Then what?”
He unfastened the last button and slipped the vest off carefully so as not to spill the contents of the pockets, hanging it on the bedpost.
“I am a designer of clothings.”
He tugged his white shirt out of his trousers. She swallowed.
“Ah, well, that explains it,” he said.
“Explains what?”
“Why you can’t seem to take your eyes off my clothings.” He gave her a crooked smile.
She felt the color rise in her cheeks. She’d been staring. She knew she had. And he probably knew it had nothing to do with the cut of his shirt.
“So if you’re a designer,” he said, “why are you workin’ at The Parlor?”
He started unbuttoning his shirt. She tried very hard not to look. But she didn’t do a very good job of it.
She was definitely feeling the effects of the whiskey now. Her eyelids were growing heavy. But it was a rather pleasant feeling. And when she spoke, her voice came out low and husky. “To be a dressmaker, I must have a sew-” Her breath caught as she saw how deftly he managed the buttons. “Sewing machine,” she finished.
He paused. “You can’t just…” He made a stitching motion with his hands.
A giggle bubbled up inside of her and nearly escaped. If that was how Drew sewed, he was lucky his clothes did not fall apart.
“It is too slow,” she explained. “But to get a sewing machine, I must have money.”
“Money? How much money?”
“With the delivery?” The vee of his shirt was widening with each button he unbuttoned. It was quite distracting. “Almost one hundred dollars.”
