Chapter 12 - I Wouldn’t Let Adrien Rescue Me
Six weeks.
Minimum.
The inspector said it twice, as though repetition might improve it.
Water damage.
Electrical damage.
Ceiling replacement.
Mold prevention.
Insurance review.
Permits.
I stood in the middle of my shop surrounded by industrial fans and plastic sheeting while he explained timelines.
Every sentence sounded like money.
After he left, Emma sat on the fitting platform.
“What do we do?”
I looked around.
The shop smelled like wet plaster.
“We work somewhere else.”
“Where?”
I had no answer.
My clients had deadlines.
Three weddings.
A gala.
A retirement dinner.
Seven custom suits.
Four evening gowns.
Two emergency alterations.
Shutting down for six weeks could destroy me.
Adrien arrived at ten.
Of course he already knew.
“I have space.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“You don’t know what I’m offering.”
“Space.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Where?”
“A vacant storefront two blocks east.”
I paused.
That was not what I expected.
“You own it?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“The cooperative will if the purchase closes.”
“What?”
“One of the ground-floor units is empty.”
I blinked.
“That unit is enormous.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Current market rent.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Actual market rent?”
“I have paperwork.”
“You came prepared.”
“I’m learning.”
He handed me a folder.
Numbers.
Lease term: two months.
No automatic extension.
Insurance provisions.
Utilities.
Everything painfully normal.
I looked at him.
“You had an attorney prepare this.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“It’s ten.”
“I wake up early.”
Niko appeared behind him.
“He terrified three lawyers before breakfast.”
Adrien turned.
“I did not.”
“You sent an email at 5:12 a.m.”
“That isn’t terror.”
“To attorneys, it is.”
I read the lease again.
It was fair.
More than fair, because it wasn’t unfair.
There is a difference.
No hidden favor.
No ownership.
No rescue.
Just a workable option.
I signed.
Adrien said nothing.
That mattered.
He didn’t look victorious.
Didn’t say I told you so.
He simply took the folder.
“Keys are in the unit.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I hesitated.
“Adrien.”
“Yes?”
“Dinner tonight.”
His eyebrows rose.
“We canceled because of the flood.”
“I’m uncanceling.”
A smile appeared slowly.
“Seven?”
“Seven.”
“I’ll meet you.”
“I remember.”
We went to a neighborhood Italian restaurant where nobody cared who he was because the owner, a sixty-eight-year-old woman named Rosa, cared only that Adrien had apparently not visited his aunt enough.
“You’re too skinny,” Rosa told him.
I nearly fell out of my chair.
Adrien looked at me.
“Do not.”
I smiled into my menu.
Dinner lasted three hours.
We talked about everything except work for the first hour.
Then Adrien ruined it.
“What made you start tailoring?”
“That’s work.”
“It’s history.”
“Technical distinction.”
He waited.
“My grandmother.”
“Same machine?”
“Yes.”
“She taught you?”
“She tried.”
“Meaning?”
“I was terrible.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I sewed my sleeve to a pillowcase.”
Adrien stared.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Why?”
“You’re annoyingly competent now.”
“Years of not sewing myself to bedding.”
He laughed.
The sound made Rosa look over approvingly.
After dinner, we walked toward the lake.
Chicago glowed around us.
Adrien didn’t reach for my hand.
I noticed.
I also noticed I wanted him to.
That irritated me.
We stopped near a railing.
Water moved black beneath the city lights.
“Your father’s jacket is finished,” I said.
“I know.”
“How?”
“You texted me.”
“Right.”
“You’re tired.”
“Very.”
“You should sleep.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an instruction.”
“A suggestion.”
“Better.”
Adrien looked at the lake.
“I used to come here after meetings with my father.”
“Why?”
“To remember the city was bigger than him.”
I turned toward him.
He gave a small shrug.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“You are dramatic.”
“I am not.”
“You entered my shop with two men behind you.”
“I was going to another meeting.”
“You stood in the doorway like winter had acquired a mortgage.”
He stared at me.
“That sentence makes no sense.”
“It made enough.”
He shook his head.
Then became quiet.
“Claire.”
I knew.
Before he said anything.
I felt it.
The air between us had changed.
“Can I kiss you?”
Of all the things I expected from Adrien Moretti, asking permission should not have surprised me anymore.
It did.
I looked at him.
The man who used to expect rooms to move.
The man learning to ask.
“Yes.”
He touched my face gently.
No rush.
No performance.
The kiss was soft.
Almost cautious.
A question more than a claim.
When we separated, his forehead rested briefly against mine.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I don’t do that often.”
“You should consider it.”
“With everyone?”
“No.”
He smiled again.
“Good.”
I kissed him this time.
Then a camera flashed.
We both turned.
A photographer stood across the street.
My stomach dropped.
Adrien’s entire body changed.
Not with fear.
With anger.
I touched his wrist.
“No.”
He stopped.
The photographer ran.
Adrien looked at me.
“Tomorrow this will be everywhere.”
“I know.”
“I can stop some of it.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Claire.”
“I’m done hiding because other people can’t behave.”
He stared at me.
I was surprised by my own certainty.
For months I had demanded that my work be seen before my relationship with Adrien.
That still mattered.
But refusing to live was not the same as protecting my independence.
“I’m not ashamed of you,” I said.
Something moved across his face.
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“No.”
“Then let them print it.”
They did.
By seven the next morning, photographs of our kiss were everywhere.
And alongside the predictable gossip came something neither of us expected.
A national fashion editor recognized the jacket Adrien was wearing.
My jacket.
She published one sentence beneath the photograph:
Forget the romance. Who tailored Moretti’s shoulders?
By noon, Hart & Hem had received 1,806 inquiries.
My life was about to become much bigger.
May you like
And I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.
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