Page 10 of His Haunted Desire
“You’ll have to find someone then,” I say. “I have to go. Talk soon.”
“Yeah.”
I park across from Needle & Muse. Orange Halloween decorations ring the large front window, with costumes hanging on display. The work is always expertly done. Margot Maren, the owner, specializes in Halloween costumes. Plus, they do regular tailoring too.
As I walk across the street, I feel eyes on me. Two women talk outside the bakery down the street. One nudges the other, and they outright gawk in my direction. It’s no secret that plenty of women in this town would love to bag Raiden Blackwell.
I’ve been on dates, sure, but I’m not the playboy type.
Could I do this to keep Grandma happy, maybe? Forget about the will; forget about the challenge. I could find a woman and put on a show just to make Grandma smile.
I walk into the store, surprised that Margot Maren isn’t sitting behind the counter.
Instead, it’s a woman I don’t recognize. She’s got tousled brown hair haphazardly tamed into a bun. She isn’t wearing makeup, but her blemishes and a light smattering of freckles make her prettier for it.
She stands, showing a curvy figure in denim jeans. When she speaks, her voice is harder, distant. “Mr. Blackwell?”
I smirk. “The one and only.”
She pulls a face that she quickly tries to hide, but I caught it. She might as well have said,I thought you’d be a rich jerk.
“You must be the granddaughter?” I say. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Yes, I’m Aurora. My grandma isn’t feeling great. Are you comfortable with me handling you today?”
I almost look her up and down. I’ve never been one for ogling, but there’s something about her wild bun, her ample curves and a smoky voice that makes me want to make an exception.
“You can handle me,” I tell her.
“The job,” she murmurs, avoiding my eyes and looking at the counter. Is she blushing?
“What else?”
She doesn’t look at me. “Let’s get started then. Tell me what needs adjusting.”
“It’s baggy in the middle, see.” I point at my suit. “And the pants need taking in some too.”
“We’ll sort it. If you’d like to come into the back.”
I walk around the counter. She nods to a three-mirror setup once I step into the fitting area. I stand in the middle, looking at myself, wondering if I always have that half-smug, half-grumpy look on my face.
She follows me. “Could you face me so I can get a look at how the suit sits on your frame, please?”
“Sure. I didn’t come here for the riveting conversation.”
I say it in a lighthearted tone, which earns me a blank look. “That’s good.”
I almost laugh. Normally, people are tripping over themselves to please me. The Blackwell name carries weight. But not with her, apparently.
“Is this natural enough for you?” I stand like Napoleon in a portrait, like some grand historical hero, chin raised, looking off into an unknowable but inevitably epic future.
Her lip twitches like she wants to smile, but she doesn’t let herself. “Just standing normally is fine.”
I face her head-on, my shoulders squared. “I see where you mean. Now I’m going to pin the fabric and mark it with some chalk.”
She picks up a small bag and approaches me, bringing the scent of perfume with her. When her hand brushes along my sleeve, I feel… something. I don’t know. Curiosity? It’s not unpleasant, even when she attaches pins to the fabric.
“Have you always worked here?” I ask. “I haven’t been here often, but often enough that I thought I would’ve seen you.”
