Chapter 1 - The Six-Week Lesson
"You laughed," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a register so low and flat that the fabric scissors on Claire’s cutting table vibrated slightly against the wood.
Claire took the pin out of her mouth, smoothing the charcoal wool of his sleeve with two fingers. "I didn't laugh, Mr. Moretti. I snorted. There’s a distinct professional difference."
"A job interview," Adrian repeated, staring at his reflection in the three-panel fitting mirror. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in a tight, analytical line. "I asked her three questions about her foundation's quarterly budget, two questions regarding her family's shipping interests in Baltimore, and whether she preferred mineral water or tap. How is that an interview?"
"Because you didn't ask her if she liked the weather, Mr. Moretti. You cross-examined her like she was applying for a loan at a bank you intend to foreclose on," Claire replied calmly, placing another pin near his wrist. "And for the record, calling a woman at six on a Tuesday to ask why she’s canceling a Wednesday charity dinner isn't romantic. It’s an audit."
Adrian went quiet for five full seconds. Outside, rain tapped against the glass of Bennett Custom & Bridal, blurring the yellow streetlights of South Philadelphia into soft, shimmering smudges.
"I don't do 'romantic,'" Adrian said neutrally. "I do efficiency."
"Well, efficiency just left you without a date for the Children's Hospital Gala," Claire said, snapping a piece of thread with her teeth. "Which means you're going to sit at Table One looking like an orphaned guard dog while the Mayor's wife asks you why a thirty-four-year-old bachelor needs six bodyguards to eat chicken parmesan."
That had been six weeks ago.
The next day, a black sedan had pulled up to her shop at 7:00 AM. A driver in a dark suit had stepped out, carrying a box of high-end silk thread from Milan, two dozen hot sfogliatelle from the bakery on 9th Street, and a handwritten note on heavy cream cardstock:
I require seventeen hours of social instruction before the Mid-Winter Charity Ball. State your rate. - A.M.
Claire had stared at the card for three minutes before calling him back.
"I am a dressmaker, Mr. Moretti. I alter gowns, hem trousers, and fix broken zippers for brides who cry when they gain two pounds before their fittings. I do not teach mafia bosses how to flirt."
"I am a real estate developer," Adrian had replied over the phone, his tone entirely unbothered. "And I don't need to learn how to flirt. I need to learn how to make conversational small talk without causing civil servants to burst into tears. One hundred fifty dollars an hour. Two hours every Tuesday and Thursday."
She should have said no. Any sensible woman running a modest tailoring shop in South Philly would have locked the door and called her uncle in the police department. But Claire had two months of back rent due on the shop, her mother’s medical bills were stacking up on the cutting table, and Adrian Moretti—despite his terrifying reputation—had paid for his jacket repair in exact cash and tipped her assistant two hundred dollars for hanging up his coat.
So, the lessons began.
They were a disaster from hour one.
Adrian didn't understand compliments. When Claire told him to tell a hypothetical woman that her dress was lovely, he stared at her for ten seconds and remarked that the silk appeared to be an inferior polyester blend imported from Turkey. When she told him to lower his vocal tone to sound warm, he sounded like a federal prosecutor offering a plea bargain to a bank robber.
And then, around week four, something shifted.
He stopped bringing up hypothetical women. He stopped asking about small-talk strategies for charity galas.
Instead, he stood in front of her fitting mirror, leaning against the mahogany frame with a cup of black coffee in his hand, watching her measure hems, trace chalk patterns, and pin lace onto mannequin forms.
He began asking her questions.
Not about shipping interests or municipal bonds.
"Why do you keep the brass bell on the door if it squeaks?"
"Because my grandfather put it there in 1974, Mr. Moretti."
"Why do you always eat your lunch at 1:15?"
"Because that’s when the sun hits the bench across the street, Adrian."
He learned her name. He dropped the "Ms. Bennett." He started arriving fifteen minutes early for his sessions, carrying two coffees—one black, one with almond milk and half a spoonful of brown sugar, exactly the way she liked it.
And then came the compliments.
"Your hair looks different today. It’s loose."
"I didn't have time to braid it, Adrian."
"Don't braid it."
Claire had nearly pricked her own thumb with a darning needle.
Now, standing in her shop with Ethan Hayes watching them from the doorway, Claire looked at Adrian’s rigid jawline and realized the terrifying truth.
The man hadn't been practicing dating tricks to use at the Mid-Winter Charity Ball.
He had been practicing on her.
"Ethan," Claire said, turning her back on Adrian with a speed that made her tape measure swing like a pendulum. "Friday at seven is great. The new Italian place on Passyunk?"
"Sounds perfect," Ethan said, his eyes darting cautiously toward Adrian, whose posture had gone from rigid to preternaturally still. "I'll pick you up here?"
"I'll be ready," Claire said smoothly.
Ethan gave a quick, tight nod, backed out the door, and let the brass bell chime behind him.
The shop fell into an absolute, suffocating quiet.
Claire took three slow breaths, smoothed her apron, and turned around to face the six-foot-two problem standing by her fitting mirror.
"That was incredibly rude," Claire said, crossing her arms.
Adrian didn't move. His gray eyes were dark, cold, and fixed entirely on her face.
"He's wrong for you," Adrian said flatly.
Claire let out a short, incredulous laugh. "He's a photographer who donates to the animal shelter, brings me coffee when it rains, and doesn't have three armed men waiting in a suburban outside my shop. He's practically a saint."
"He wears shoes with rubber soles," Adrian observed, his voice dropping an octave. "And he looked at my hands three times before he spoke to you. He’s afraid of his own shadow."
"He’s afraid of you, Adrian! Because you're standing in my tailoring shop looking like an executioner who lost his axe!" Claire stepped toward him, her small frame coming to a halt just inches from his broad chest. "You don't get to comment on my dates. You hired me to teach you how to talk to society women so you can secure your land development permits in Center City."
Adrian leaned down slightly, bringing his face level with hers. The faint scent of expensive cedarwood cologne and cold rain washed over her.
"I don't give a damn about the society women, Claire," he whispered.
Claire’s heart gave a violent, irregular thump against her ribs. "Then why are you here?"
May you like
Adrian reached out, his long, calloused fingers closing gently around the tape measure draped over her shoulder. He pulled it slowly, inches at a time, drawing her a fraction closer until she could feel the heat radiating through his charcoal jacket.
"Because my jacket was torn," Adrian said softly. "And the woman who fixed it didn't bow."
