Never Tell. Karen Young

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СКАЧАТЬ she had holed up in the office at the rear of the store preparing tax records for their accountant. Finally done, she closed the books just as a ping sounded, announcing a customer. She glanced up, caught a glimpse of a tall man entering the store before he moved from her line of vision to browse. Jason had returned from a lunch date a few minutes ago, which relieved her of having to drop what she was working on to go out and sell. She knew it was silly that she found it awkward standing by while perfect strangers fingered her quilts, or squinted critically at her jackets. She had no problem accepting that what she created and stocked in the shop wouldn’t appeal to everyone, but it was so…well, awkward pretending that it wasn’t somehow personal, when creating every design was, in fact, somehow very personal.

      Turning to a shipment of fabric that had arrived an hour ago, Erica tore the wrapping from material intended for a series of jackets still in the design stage. She pulled yardage from the first bolt and ran a palm over the weave, pleased with both texture and color. She itched to get started, but she’d have to wait until Jason could help her take the shipment upstairs to her studio to begin cutting. She made all originals of her jacket designs herself before handing the pattern and fabric to the two women who sewed the numbered replicas. She never authorized more than six of a single design.

      “Psst! Erica, come out here for a minute.” Jason stuck his head around the door, doing funny things with his eyebrows.

      She frowned at him. “What?”

      “You’ll see,” he hissed. “Just drop that and walk out here on the floor.”

      “Not until you tell me why.” She’d been on the receiving end of his practical jokes before. Refusing the bait, she reached for a second bolt.

      He gave an exasperated sound but had to withdraw when someone—the customer, she assumed—called, “Hey, I’m on my lunch hour here.”

      “Sorry, I was just consulting with the designer,” Jason said, giving the man a boyish smile, one that was usually effective in softening up the most hardened sales-resistant browser. As she tore at the wrapping, she heard Jason launch full bore into his sales pitch. Apparently the customer’s choice was narrowed to one of the evening jackets. Dismissing them, she removed silk shantung in a stunning shade of crimson from the packing material. She held the length of silk up to the light, visualizing a beaded design. Jet beading, she decided with a forefinger pressed to her lips. With a long black skirt or skinny black pants, it would make a fabulous holiday outfit. She reached automatically for her sketch pad.

      “Why don’t we ask Erica to help us out.” Jason was again at the door, but this time he’d dragged the customer with him.

      It took her a moment to bring them into focus. She looked beyond Jason into dark eyes deeply set in an unshaven face of chiseled angles and shadowy planes, a bone-deep tan—which she knew did not originate in a tanning booth—and hair a rich, sun-streaked, tobacco-brown. He was tall with an athlete’s build and wore a battered leather jacket and black T-shirt. He looked tough and not quite housebroken. She noted all this with her artist’s eye before realizing with an unsettling start that he was studying her, as well. Setting her sketch pad aside, she said, “What’s the problem?”

      “No problem.” Jason glanced at his customer as if dishing him up on a platter for Erica. “This is Hunter McCabe. He’s thinking of buying his mother a jacket for her birthday. Hunter, meet the artist herself, Erica Stewart.”

      “My pleasure.” Hunter leaned around Jason and extended a hand.

      “Hello.” With no other option, she put her hand in his and found it as hard as his jaw. She quickly withdrew hers. He definitely did not spend his days behind a desk.

      “From Hunter’s description of his mother,” Jason said, beaming at the two of them, “she’s probably about your size, Erica. Am I right?” he asked Hunter.

      “Yeah, but that’s pretty much where the resemblance ends.”

      Erica flushed as his gaze held hers a heartbeat too long, before dropping to her chin, then drifting down past her midriff all the way to her feet. Her bare feet. She had a habit of kicking off her shoes while she worked. It irritated her that she hadn’t remembered to put them on after getting up from her desk and tackling the new shipments.

      “Erica’s a size six,” Jason said helpfully. “I know it’s difficult to judge one person’s size by another, but if you think she’s about Erica’s height and weight, we should be safe in choosing a size six.”

      Standing with his arms crossed, Hunter cocked his head, considering. “I’d know for sure if you’d put on one of your jackets.”

      “Great idea.” This from Jason.

      “Jason, I don’t think—” But he was off like a shot. “Excuse me,” she said to Hunter, then turned to find her shoes. Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel stripped as bare as her feet. Which was a ridiculous reaction, she told herself, gazing around the tiny room. Where the heck had she put her shoes?

      “Looking for these?”

      She turned to see him pluck her shoes from beneath the pile of wrapping paper on the floor. “Yes, thanks.” She took them and stood on one leg to put them on, thinking she must look like a flamingo. That done, she took a deep breath, straightened, tugged her sweater down over her jeans and met his eyes. He was openly amused.

      “Do you always work in bare feet?”

      “It’s a habit and a silly one,” she said. “I somehow shed my shoes once I get caught up in what I’m doing.” What was keeping Jason?

      He leaned one shoulder against the door frame, as if settling in. “If that’s the secret to your creativity, then I’d forget trying to break it. I don’t know much about quilts or fashion, but I’m told an Erica Stewart label is the hottest thing going.”

      “We’ve been very fortunate,” she said, and went back to her desk before looking at him again. “Tell me something about your mother, her hair, eyes. Just because we’re the same size doesn’t mean our style and color should be the same. Does she tend to wear subtle colors or bold ones?”

      “Her eyes are blue and her hair is blond. She tints it to cover the gray, I think. Not that I’ve ever seen a gray hair.”

      She put a hand to her own wild and curly mane. No matter what she did, her hair tended to take on a life of its own in Houston’s humidity. “And colors?” she prompted.

      “Not too much bold stuff. Subtle, I guess.” His gaze went to her black T-shirt and jeans before wandering back to her face. “She hangs out with a lot of artists, but she doesn’t dress like one. She doesn’t look like one, either,” he added.

      Jason returned just then. “The champagne silk, I think.” He displayed the jacket over one arm with a flourish. “Size six. How tall is she? Erica’s five-six. If your mother’s around the same height, this should be just perfect. Come out from behind that desk and try it on, Erica. He needs to see it on to get the full effect.”

      “His mother’s a blond and she has blue eyes,” Erica said, staying put. “The champagne should be right for her. There’s no need—”

      “Champagne is right for anyone, sugar. What Hunter needs to see is whether it fits. Come on.”

      Before coming СКАЧАТЬ