Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I consider lunging her way threateningly because if it’d been only Mom guilting me into this, I could’ve gotten out of it, but Wren took her side, and the two of them together wore me down. I’m out of practice, I guess, but Wren was the extra push that got me here.
I’ve had dozens of suit fittings over my life, but this one is by far the most unusual. Mrs. Hinsley—or as Wren calls her, “the Duchess”—has a no-nonsense attitude and a silver-streaked bun, and every time I shift in the slightest, she stabs me with a pin. I suspect she rather enjoys that part of her job. But for all her harsh seriousness, she is humming off-key theme songs from children’s movies. It took me a while to recognize “Pure Imagination” from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory because her version is somehow slowed down and off beat.
Mrs. Hinsley wraps her red tape measure around my right thigh . . . again. She’s measured me all over, checking and double-checking her numbers and scribbling them in a notebook in sharp, old-school cursive.
“I know I’m a big guy, but are we almost done?” I ask.
She stops her humming in an instant and rises to her full height, which puts her at my chest level. Ripping her glasses off, she pins me with a glowering sneer. “It will take however long it takes. Normally, I’d be done already,” she says acidly, “but most of my clients are not as large as you are, nor do they fidget like an eight-year-old child hyped up on sugar.”
I’m going to ignore the comparison to a squirmy child, and typically, a woman calling me “large” would be a compliment, but I can tell by her tone that it most definitely isn’t. Especially since she’s talking about my thigh and not my other “leg.”
Wren snorts but covers her mouth and turns it into a cough. When both me and Mrs. Hinsley turn fiery eyes her way, she says, “I think I’ll step out for a minute. Let you two wrap this up.”
She twirls a delicate finger through the air at Mrs. Hinsley and me, and for the first time, I feel more than frustration. I feel desperation. “No! Don’t—”
It’s too late. Wren steps out of the large private dressing room, closing the door behind her and leaving me alone with the female version of Edward Stabbyhands.
Realizing that pissing off the woman who could easily stab me in the balls and sell it as an accident isn’t my smartest move, I try to backpedal. Slightly. “I appreciate you helping on such short notice. I want everything to be perfect for my brother.”
Her sigh is one of long-term suffering. Maybe it is. She probably does shit like this all the time. “I understand. Let’s cut to the chase here: I need accurate measurements so I can begin making your suit, and you want to be done with me.” She pauses and I nod agreeably. “Good, then strip.”
“What?” I exclaim.
“Oh, pishposh, boy. Don’t act so scandalized. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before. Not like I’m asking to see your pecker anyway. Just to your skivvies, so I can get the best measurements with minimum of fuss,” she explains as though it’s no big deal and completely normal. She glances at her watch and taps the dial. “Strip and let’s get this over with.”
Her gesture toward her watch is the only thing that makes me do it. I want to be done so I can follow up with Winston about what the hell’s been going on around here while I’ve been gone. I need more than the cursory version he shared at the bar. I want the details.
And Mrs. Hinsley’s right—I’m sure she’s seen and done worse as a custom seamstress.
I sigh, resigned but still grumbling. “This is madness, you know?” I pull my T-shirt over my head, tossing it to the chair in the corner. My hands go to my belt and freeze for a moment, but I ultimately make quick work of losing my pants too. Standing in my boxer briefs and my sock feet, I tell Mrs. Hinsley, “Let’s get on with it.”
Her face stays neutral as she bows her chin deferentially, but I swear I see the smallest uptilt of her lips as she steps behind me to climb back onto her step stool. Stretching her tape measure across my shoulders once more, she triple-checks her numbers and makes more notes.
She does the same down my right arm and then left, before encircling each bicep.
“No tattoos?” she asks conversationally. “That’s unusual these days.”
I grunt, not wanting to make half-naked small talk.
She follows the same progression she did earlier, ending up kneeling in front of me again. The tape measure stretching from my ankle up my inseam feels especially invasive. Thankfully, nothing “moves.”