The Sailor and the Seamstress Read online

  Sucking in a slow yet staggered breath, she pasted a smile on her face.

  “I understand, Mrs. Langley,” Angela offered, her heart thudded erratically.

  She understood, alright. She understood that a newcomer had taken at least one customer from her, and, more than likely, several more, if her lack of business were any indication.

  And how had she never heard of the man until now? How had she not noticed that the shop, just on the other side of the wall, had a new proprietor?

  She could blame it on her lack of contact with other townsfolk; she never ventured far from her shop, even on Sundays. She could blame it on her inability to market herself—she’d never been good at selling her attributes. Because it seemed so arrogant. She could also blame it on the fact that, while she did see several of the town wives in her shop during the week, she didn’t listen to them as they gossiped about all the town goings-on.

  Darn it! Why couldn’t I have been better at listening…or at least trying to get to know more about the people of Aurora Lake?

  “You mean to tell me that you haven’t met Mr. Gryffud yet?” Mrs. Langley asked, her eyebrows arched high on her forehead.

  Heat spread through her cheeks as she admitted, “No, I haven’t.”

  Mrs. Langley clicked her tongue. “I know you are a little…peculiar, dear, but I didn’t think you were downright rude.”

  Gasping at the woman’s words, Angela stared. “Rude?” When had she been reduced to such a lack of intelligent thought? Drawing in a steadying breath, she continued, “I haven’t been rude, I’ve been busy.” But had she? In the last seven days, she’d only had a handful of customers.

  Mrs. Langley pursed her lips, her expression telling Angela that the older woman wasn’t convinced. “Not so busy that you couldn’t take a few steps out your shop door to at least introduce yourself to the man.”

  Smacked with her own failure, Angela pushed the sudden and growing anger—at herself and the tailor stealing her business—down into the pit of her belly.

  “I will go introduce myself later today,” she said, hoping to appease the disappointed look in Mrs. Langley’s eyes. It wouldn’t do to alienate her best and most frequent customer, not when the wealthy woman very well might mean the difference between keeping Flower’s Sewing open or losing everything.

  Again.

  Moments later, Mrs. Langley said goodbye, reminding Angela that she expected her newly hemmed skirt to be ready in the morning.

  Blowing golden tendrils of hair from her face, Angela put her measuring tape, pin cushion, and scissors away in her polished cedar sewing box, then turned toward the front door of her shop to stare out the window at the boardwalk. It was nearing early evening when businesses were preparing to close, and wives were preparing supper. Which meant that her chances of another customer coming in that day were next to none.

  Turning her gaze to the white-washed wooden wall of her shop, the one she shared with the man next door, Angela’s thoughts began to spin.

  Who was the man next door? How was it that he’d become so popular so quickly? And how could she get rid of him as soon as possible?

  Chapter Three

  It was silent next door. More than likely it meant that Angela was without a customer, which meant she was probably closing up for the day. Would she head right on back to her apartment at the back of her store, probably a mirror image of the one at the back of his, or would she actually venture out this evening?

  Perhaps she was busy with mending and would do neither. Perhaps she was winding down and looking forward to a well-deserved night’s rest.

  Unlike him. He’d just escorted Lewis Bledsoe to the door, shaking his hand and thanking him for his business, and now he was settling in to finish the second of five orders of tailored trousers. It was the first order he’d received from the hotel, The Aurora, for their growing army of bellhops, butlers, and grooms. Apparently, even the men who mucked out the hotel stables were required to wear fancy livery. It was frivolous to his mind, but, then again, it was also busy that kept food in his belly. It was also that business that kept Mr. Colvin from coming around.

  The more money Jarren made, the happier Colvin became.

  Fighting a sneer, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose where the band of his spectacles had been rubbing him all day. When he worked, he sweated, and the sweat made keeping his spectacles in place a labor. Sighing, he pulled the wire-rimmed glasses from his face and placed them on the worktable in front of him. He was grateful he only needed to wear them while he was working.

  A noise sounded from the shop next door.

  It was the sound of a bell tinkling. The bell over her door.

  So, she was venturing out this evening.

  He held his breath, waiting for her to pass in front of his window like she had that day he’d first come to town. Seconds ticked by and no sighting of the woman who’d stirred him with a single glance.

  Finally, her shadow cast itself against the shining glass of his window, and then…she was pushing the door open and stepping inside.

  She’s here.

  His breath left his chest in an audible whoosh, and he shot to his feet. He could already feel his tongue knotting, his words of greeting weaving themselves into a tangle in his mouth. Now, more than ever, he was aware of everything about himself; his work-wrinkled clothing, the wrappings at the tip of two of his fingers from where he’d pricked them a dozen times that day, and how tired and utterly unapproachable he must look with his finger-combed hair and his sharp features. There’d been a few of the dock molls who’d called him fine, but he’d never tossed a penny of belief in their direction.

  What was she seeing when she looked at him?

  He knew what he saw when he looked at her. Perfection.

  Her long, golden hair was caught up at her nape in a strange-looking clasp. The thing did little to keep her strands of silken hair in place. Some of the ribbons curled along her cheeks, which seemed flushed with the waning heat of the day, which only added to her glowing beauty. Her wide cornflower blue eyes seemed to flash with something he couldn’t quite read, though he knew that the determination on her face had something to do with why she’d finally ventured to his side of the wall.

  He cleared his throat, begging his tongue to obey. “Can…I help you?” Thank God, he hadn’t tripped up on those simple utterances. At least not this time.

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth, startling him. Was he supposed to smile? What would he look like smiling?

  Likely realizing silence had filled the space where her response was supposed to go, Angela drew her shoulders back and met his gaze with hers.

  “I have come to introduce myself,” she said, taking a step further into the shop. Her movements were hesitant, almost fearful.

  Was she frightened of him? Damn! He should have at least attempted a smile.

  “Oh?” he prodded, hoping she’d carry the conversation, no matter how short or awkward it would more than likely be.

  She nodded. “I am Angela Flowers—I own the shop next door,” she informed him, though he already knew all that.

  And it isn’t nearly enough.

  He dipped his chin in acknowledgment of her words.

  The blue of her eyes darkened, her cheeks growing pinker. “And you are?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips. Generous hips. Nothing like the rope thin molls he was used to seeing at the ports where the Hag Mor docked to unload her smuggled wares.

  In answer to her question, he replied, “Gryffud.” Easy enough to say.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Gryffud?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “Is that your first or last name?” she prodded, and he bit back the urge to grin at the frustrated glittering in her eyes.

  “Last.” He moved to step out from behind his work table and slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He’d made them himself, one of the first things he’d worked on once the ink was dry on his loan and lease documents. As
a tall and leanly muscular man—used to strenuous work and moving quickly—it was impossible to find wholesale trousers that fit his frame. So he’d made his own. They fit like a glove, hugging his legs and hindquarters perfectly. Once he was done with them, he’d tried them on, and he remembered how proud he’d been to wear a piece of his own workmanship.

  “Will you tell me your first name?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as if to take in all of his height in a single sweep.

  “Jarren.”

  “And you are the new tailor,” she stated. She crossed her arms over his chest, which only emphasized the trimness of her waist.

  He nodded, slowly becoming aware of the tension moving between them. On his part, there had always been a tension in regards to her, an awareness of her that had occupied his mind for weeks. But, for her, he knew that her issue had more to do with the silent lummox standing before her.

  Make your tongue work, for God’s sake!

  “Do you usually speak so little to people you’ve just met?” she asked, her tone sharpening. “Or is it just me?”

  Struck by that, he grunted, the sound low.

  Her eyes widened. “How is it possible?” Her voice carried a note of annoyed awe.

  Swallowing, he forced the question from his lips. “What?”

  It was her turn to grunt—and by God it was adorable.

  Angela opened her mouth to respond but then snapped it shut again, her expression growing taut. The soft, sloping curves of her cheeks sharpened, and her plump pink lips thinned to a string of displeasure.

  He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. For what did a man say to the woman who’d stolen robbed him of breath?

  “I can see that you were busy,” she finally spoke before turning on her heel to walk the few steps back to the door. “I will leave you to it.” She was out of the shop in a blink, the bell tinkling above her own door seconds later.

  She had been there, with him. But now she was gone. It was as though he’d been cast into a dream while still wide awake, although, in his dreams, he wouldn’t have been such an idiot. And she would have smiled at him.

  Lord, what would it be like to see her smile?

  Returning to his seat at his work table, Jarren determined to find out.

  Chapter Four

  It had been two days since she’d clapped eyes on the brooding tailor in the shop next door. He was tall, broad of shoulder but trim of waist, and his hair was nearly the color of pale wheat, though his neatly trimmed beard was darker. And his eyes... She had never seen a shade of green so…haunting. Angela had never been more intrigued by a person before, especially at first sight. He was also the most handsome man she’d ever seen. And that didn’t help the growing sense of dread clawing up her back.

  It had also been two days since anyone walked through the doors of her shop, and all the while, she heard the thuds and murmurs of conversation from that man’s store.

  Mr. Jarren Gryffud. What sort of name was that? It called to mind the books she’d read of knights and pirates, tales of dashing men who rescued damsels and wicked scoundrels who ravished them. Those were the books she’d hid from her mother.

  Mr. Gryffud, though he’d spoken so very little, had the hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place, and his deep, silky voice…it had caressed her, sliding over her until the hairs on the back of her neck took special notice.

  Stop thinking of him like that!

  He was getting all her business, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  Isn’t there?

  The second that question arose, she squelched it. She was a woman of honor, she refused to stoop to the same underhanded tactics her own father had used to get what he wanted…to destroy the honest and hardworking business owners in Waylon, Wyoming.

  I left home—and everything behind, including anything to do with that man.

  She shuddered, the image of her father flashing before her eyes, his cunning and evil expression drawing the warmth from her body.

  Pushing to her feet from the chair beside her empty dress form, Angela began to pace.

  “There has to be some way to get more business,” she muttered, her mind fluttering from one idea to another, and just as quickly dismissing them. She had very little money, so placing an ad in the newspaper wasn’t an option. She spent so little time in the community that she only knew a handful of people…

  I can meet people, offer them my services at a discount.

  She couldn’t afford to offer a discount, but she couldn’t afford not to. Her rent on the shop was due within the week, and she only had a quarter of what she needed to pay Mr. Colvin.

  Another round of murmuring from next door had her turning toward their shared wall. Biting back a curse her mother would have hated, Angela began pacing with gusto, her kid boots rapping a tempo into the wooden floor.

  She didn’t know how long she paced, but she did know that she had to do something else. Stopping at the door to her apartment, she placed her hand on the door that separated the spaces. Just on the other side was the single room she’d called home for the last year. It wasn’t as large or opulent as the home she’d left behind in Wyoming, but that didn’t matter to her. It was hers. Placing her head against the rough yet cool wood, she closed her eyes.

  As the wood wicked away some of the heat of the day, she allowed her body to relax, her shoulders falling from around her ears, and her chest loosening.

  The tickle of the bell over the door made her breath catch, and she turned on her heel to heartily welcome her first and most likely last customer of the day.

  Her grin fell.

  “Mr. Colvin,” she drawled, forcing her voice to remain devoid of emotion—namely disgust.

  The man before her grinned, his thick lips widening beneath his mustache. His dark brown eyes pored over her, boring into her like a rusty drill bit into a hunk of beef.

  “Hello, my dear,” the man drawled in return, taking a step into the shop.

  She forced her feet to remain planted, though she wanted to throw the door behind her open and hurry through it, just so she could slam it shut and secure the lock against Phineas Colvin, the owner of the bank, and one of her father’s closest associates.

  “I was just about to close the shop.” She would have done it sooner if she’d known he was coming. “What brings you here at this hour, Mr. Colvin?” she asked, her tone taut. She hated that the man could so easily wind her up and that she let him. He only had to step into the same room and she was holding back a full-body tremor. It didn’t help that he was her father’s friend, or that he always looked at her as though she were a belonging, a bauble he had yet to hold in his hand.

  To crush beneath his thumb.

  Colvin moved further into the room, closer to her, but stopped just beside the dress form. Reaching out with a wickedly thin finger, he ran the tip of it over the chest section, right where the cleavage of a woman’s breast would be.

  She wanted to gag.

  “You know why I’m here, dear Angela,” he replied, his voice low and suddenly raspy.

  Yes, she knew why he was there.

  “I do. And I still refuse,” she snapped, looping her arms around herself, though, she couldn’t hide from the man’s rapacious gaze.

  His fat lips quirked yet his eyes remained cold. Calculating.

  He took a step closer, and she took a step back. So much for standing her ground in her own store.

  “I beg you to reconsider, my darling…your father can only be held at bay for so long…before he comes for what belongs to him.”

  That snapped her right out of her stupor.

  “I belong to no one,” she retorted, squaring her shoulders. “Everything I have now I earned—myself. He cannot threaten me. I am grown and no longer living under my father’s malicious dictates.” She took a step toward him, raising a finger until it was level with his scrawny chest. “And I will not have you or anyone else come into my shop and try to force me to lower myself t
o being a pawn in my father’s games of greed.”

  Her chest rising and falling in huffed, heated breaths, she stood, stunned at what she’d said.

  Her gaze flew to Colvin’s whose face was screwed up into a sneer so foul, she knew his reaction would be swift. And terrible.

  Colvin opened his mouth, raising his hand as if to strike her, but the bell over the door tinkled merrily in opposition to the rage slithering out from him.

  They both turned, and her heart flew into her throat.

  Jarren. He was there, and he was scowling at Colvin, his green eyes darkening as it flicked between Angela and Colvin.

  Colvin recovered first. “Mr. Gryffud,” he greeted, his smile turning bright yet false. “How are you getting along?”

  Jarren’s expression didn’t change, he continued gazing at Colvin.

  “Well,” he answered succinctly.

  “Finding much success in our little town? Colvin continued, moving closer to Jarren as if to place himself between Angela and the perceived interloper.

  Blast that!

  “Mr. Gryffud, thank you for coming by. Mr. Colvin was just leaving,” she interjecting, noticing the older man’s eyes harden at her words.

  “I have just arrived, my dear. And besides, we haven’t finished our conversation.”

  She shook her head. “Our conversation was over last year.” She moved around Colvin, giving the thin yet menacing man a wide berth. “Now,” she continued, hoping Mr. Gryffud wouldn’t call her out for her next words, “Mr. Gryffud and I have a dinner reservation at the Aurora.” Mr. Gryffud didn’t make a sound, though she noticed his body seemed to tighten.

  Please, Lord, let him follow along with this…

  Colvin’s head snapped around, pinning her to her spot just beside the taller man.

  “Is that so?” he intoned, his gaze landing on Angela, the dark irises flashing with a silent threat. You will regret this, they said, and she knew it was the truth.

  From beside her, Mr. Gryffud reached out and placed a large, steady hand on her shoulder. Rather than find his touch awkward, she actually found it…comforting.