Page 14 of Sew Matcha in Love
I led them to June and July and removed the gowns from the bags to set them up on the dress forms. I pinned the gloves to July at each side and stepped back. “What do you think?”
The girls each ran to a different dress. Of course. I sighed. “You want to be the tiebreaker, Mr. Marsch?”
He shook his head no, but his lips twitched.
I braced.
“I think you should try them both on,” he suggested.
“You do, do you?” I smiled tightly, convinced he was making this harder on purpose for his own entertainment.
“Yes! Try them on!” the girls echoed.
“Fine,” I agreed, turning back to him. “But first let me make sure your costume is set, okay?”
He nodded and continued to hold my gaze. The seconds ticked by, making the blink of time feel like eternity and derailing my whole train of thought. “Fair enough.”
Compose yourself, Arwyn.
Easier said than done.
CHAPTER 4
Zaki
Arwyn wasall businesswhen she worked.
“Shoulders back,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Every so often, her fingers would brush against my neck, cheek, or hand, and each time we touched generated a jolt of static electricity. She felt it, too. I saw a flicker ofsomethingcross her face before she looked away and focused on her task.
Maybe one of us needed to use a new fabric softener.
I did as I was instructed, standing tall while she moved around me, checking the fit at my chest, waist, and shoulders. Pulling here, tugging there. Using chalk and pins, which she held in the corner of her mouth. Her concentration was so intense that I almost forgot to breathe.
“Your shoulders were made for this costume,” she mumbled.
Was that a compliment? I stood a little taller and puffed out my chest. “I do have pretty amazing shoulders,” I agreed. “Hey, aren’t you afraid you might swallow those pins?”
She glanced up at me, unamused. “No. Arms out to the side.”
“Like a scarecrow?”
“Like someone with uneven arms who wants their costume to fit properly.”
“Got it. No scarecrow vibes,” I said, holding my arms out.
She stepped closer, smoothing the fabric of the shirt from shoulder to wrist, her brows furrowed in focus. “Hold still.”
“I’m holding still!”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“Am not,” I said, shifting slightly. “Ow!”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she gave me a look that could probably stop traffic. I smirked and immediately locked into position, because something about her quiet authority was strangely impressive.
