Page 2 of Net and Chill

2

BRIDGET

It’s just…so much…man… So muchthighmeat.Somuch chest. So muchshoulder.Sooooo much butt.And his stick! Good lord almighty, how does he maintain his center of gravity with that thing weighing him down? He’s just got so muchmoreofeverythingthan I’m used to dealing with. Just. Really. A lot.

I glance up at my new customer without smiling. My damn eye just twitched, because dammit his stubble is very sexy, but I’ve been staying pretty cool and professional given the circumstances. Asked him with clinical detachment what the issue is with his suits and shirts. What his goals are. The timeline. He explained the photo shoot for the men’s magazine the day after tomorrow. I nodded calmly, trying not to stare intohis striking blue eyes. I have, after all, done alterations like this for at least a dozen hockey players in this town by now—all of whom are outstanding athletes, some of whom have been drafted by the NHL, but most of them were still in high school.

I don’t know why this feels so awkward. I mean, this is just a job. My seamstress job, I mean. This is not theotherkind of job.That’snot why I’m on my knees right now. That was just a thing that I happened to imagine doing to him last night because I saw him at Peak Brew.

In all my twenty-two years of life and the five years since I started my Cross Stitch business, I have never been on my knees in front of quite so massive a trouser python. Nor have I ever been in such a small space with such a large, attractive, manly man. I’m visually assessing and writing in my Notes app where the fabric is pulling and straining (everywhere except for the waist—there isa lotof thigh strain). How the seat is sitting (tightly—it looks like two bowling balls wrapped in light gray linen with absolutely nowhere to go back there). This linen is gorgeous but unforgiving. It has absolutely no give. It hides nothing. And this man has a lot to hide. Like, a lot.

He doesn’t fidget the way most men do when I’m measuring and assessing them. He has a certain kind of stillness. He’s different from other hockey players too. Defensemen take up a lot of space, but the ones I’ve had in here weren’t quite full-grown men. They’re always looking around, and I have to keep telling them not to move. Wingers are constantly shifting from one foot to another. Centers tend to lean forward, even when they’re standing still. But this guy. He’s not fidgeting, but he’s not rigid either. He just seems…ready. For anything. Even though he isn’t really watching me, it feels like he’s aware of every move I make, even before I am. His breathing is so controlled and even.

Myself, I’m finding it hard to breathe. I definitely don’t have claustrophobia, but this fitting room isn’t big enough for Craig Bowman and me and all three of the legs in his pants. And I certainly never wanted to be in this situation with my dad hovering around on the other side of the curtain.

“Be sure to ask him to show you his range of motion, honey!” Dad says from about five feet away. He should not be in my workspace. “Oh hey, I have a video saved on YouTube of him doing frog stretches if you want to watch that first! Fantastichip flexibility! Although I don’t suppose you’ll be doing those in your suit, huh, Bowie?”

I glance up at Craig, whose face is expressionless, but his hands are clenched.

“Dad! Didn’t Mom ask you to update the website before she gets back from the nursery? She said she’d only be gone an hour!”

“Exactly! When has she ever spent less than two hours at the nursery in June? She went to get ‘a few more plants for the shop,’ but she’ll drop off two trunkfuls of annuals and perennials at home first.”

He’s not wrong. He needs to stop being sohimright now, but he’s not wrong.

I roll my eyes at Craig, who might be even more uncomfortable than I am. He’s wearing a white cotton T-shirt and the Dolce & Gabbana pants I asked him to change into. The T-shirt is fighting for its life to keep from ripping at the seams every time he inhales. It’s not a compression shirt, but it fits him like a compression shirt. It’s fascinating. And these poor Italianpantaloniwere designed for men who eat gelato and wear loafers with no socks. It’s like driving an Alfa Romeo up a logging road.

The good news, I note as I check the inside of the hem, is that there’s plenty of hem allowance for me to let it out. Sograzie mille, D&G!

I reach for the arm of the chair for leverage when I stand up. “I actually do need to ask you to move around, so I can assess a few things,” I tell Craig. What I don’t tell him is that my professional tailor’s assessment of his body iswow. Just wow.

“Okay,” he says. “Cool.”

“But first, I just need to ask—which side do you normally dress to?”

I watch as his brain shuts down and then reboots. “Huh?”

“The, um… For accurate tailoring purposes, I need to know which side do you…does it… Which side do you prefer it to hang on? From? To? Currently it’s down and to the?—”

“Left.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Down, left.”

“Great. Dresses downward and to the left.” I type that into my Notes app before taking a step back, literally one step back, up against the mirror, to give him room to move. “Would you just have a seat in that chair and sit the way you’d normally sit in dress pants?”

“Yep.”

I watch as he studies the chair, still frozen, hisbrain still rebooting. Poor guy. I need to make this easier for him somehow.

I’m about to suggest I open up the curtain and move the chair outside so there’s more room, but I hear the door chime and a lot of voices entering the shop. I know it would be too much to ask for my dad to be discreet about our celebrity client, but even I am surprised to hear him say, “Hey, you’ll never guess who’s in there with Biddy! Check out this video of him doing a frog stretch!”

I think Craig “The Wall” Bowman and I both know there’s a fifty-fifty chance his inseam is going to give up the fight when he sits down. So. We’re stuck in here together.

Slowly, he turns his back to the chair, takes in a shaky breath, and carefully, slowly, lowers himself into the seat. I swear, I can hear the threads of every seam on those pants screaming. He sits with his knees as close together as his thighs will allow, with the particular stillness of someone who knows one wrong move will be catastrophic.

I watch with professional assessment and so much sympathy. The poor guy. This is so much more awkward for him than it is for me. Trying to keep my tone light and airy, I say, “So, I remember when you went to Kenton High. You were twoyears ahead of me, I think?” What I don’t mention is that he was already basically a celebrity in this town, even at sixteen. All the guys who play for the Comets are a big deal around here. It’s a top-tier junior team. Countless players have made it to the NHL over the years. Craig Bowman in particular, though—everyone thought of him as a big deal from the start. But I was into stoner-artist types, so I hardly paid attention. Hockey was my dad’s thing, not mine.