Baby In The Making. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      And they were the two words Hannah lived by. Not that she was a fearful person by any stretch of the imagination. You didn’t survive a childhood and adolescence as a ward of the state by being timid. But after nearly a decade on her own, she’d carved out a life for herself that was quiet, steady and secure, and she was careful not to jeopardize that. Oh, blissful predictability. Oh, exalted stability. Oh, revered security. She’d never had any of those things growing up. No way would she risk losing them now.

      “Your pants and new shirt will be ready a week from today,” she told Yeager.

      He thrust his arms through the sleeves of a gray linen shirt Hannah had made for him and began to button it. “Great. That’ll be just in time for my trip to Gansbaai. South Africa,” he clarified before she could ask. “I’m taking a group to go cage diving with great white sharks.”

      “Of course you are. Because after nearly being gored to death by a gigantic bull, why wouldn’t you risk being bitten in two by a gigantic shark? It makes perfect sense.”

      He grinned again. “After that, it’s off to Nunavut with a couple of buddies to climb Mount Thor.”

      “I would love to see your passport, Mr. Novak. It must be as thick as a novel.”

      “Yeah, it is. Like Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix size.”

      And the stories it could tell were probably every bit as fantastic.

      “Well, have a good time,” she told him. “I’ll be at home, inventorying my swatches and organizing my bobbins.”

      He threw her one last smile as he reached for his charcoal trousers—also fashioned by Hannah. “And you say I live dangerously.”

      The bell above the shop entrance jingled, making her turn in that direction. “Excuse me,” she said as she backed toward the fitting room entrance. “Your claim check will be at the register when you’re ready.”

      * * *

      The minute Hannah disappeared through the fitting room door, Yeager Novak’s mind turned to other, more pressing, topics. When your life’s work was creating extreme adventures for wealthy clients, you had to make plans, sometimes years in advance. In putting together vacation packages, he had a million things to consider—a country’s culture and politics, its potential safety, its seasonal climate, how many people needed to be bribed for all the requisite permissions... The list was endless. And he always tried out the travel packages he designed for his clients first, to be sure they were doable without risk to life or limb.

      Well, without too much risk to life or limb. No risk kind of defeated the purpose.

      He knotted his tie, grabbed his suit jacket and headed for the register. Hannah’s blond head was bent over her receipt pad as she wrote in her slow, precise hand, a few errant curls springing free of the prim little bun she always wore. Nice to know there was at least some part of her that wanted to break free of her buttoned-up, battened-down self. He’d never met anyone more straitlaced than Hannah...whatever her last name was.

      As if she’d heard him say that out loud, she suddenly glanced up, her silver-gray eyes peering over the tops of her black half-glasses. She did have some beautiful eyes, though, he’d give her that. He’d never seen the color on another human being. But the rest of her... The shapeless jacket-thing she wore completely hid her gender, and if she was wearing any makeup, he sure couldn’t see it. He guessed she was kind of cute in a wholesome, girl-next-door type of way, if you went for the wholesome, girl-next-door type—which he didn’t. He liked talking to her, though. She was smart and funny. And, man, did her clothes make him look good. He knew nothing about sewing or fashion, but he knew excellent work when he saw it. And Hannah Whatshername definitely did excellent work.

      “A week from today,” she reiterated as she tore the receipt from the pad and extended it toward him.

      “Thanks,” he replied as he took it from her. “Any chance you could make a second shirt like it by then? Just in case?” Before she could object—because he could tell she was going to—he added, “There could be an extra hundred bucks in it for you.”

      She bit her lip thoughtfully, a gesture that was slightly—surprisingly—erotic. “I’m not allowed to take tips.”

      “Oh, c’mon. I don’t see Leo or Monty around.”

      “Mr. Cathcart is on a buying trip to London,” she said. “And Mr. Quinn is at lunch.”

      “Then they’ll never know.”

      She expelled the kind of sigh someone makes when they know they’re breaking the rules but they badly need cash for something. Yeager was intrigued. What could Ms. Goody Two-shoes Hannah need money for that would make her break the rules?

      With clear reluctance she said, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just don’t have time to do it here—we’re so backlogged.” Before he could protest, she hurried on. “However, I happen to know a seamstress who does freelance work at home. She’s very good.”

      Yeager shook his head. “No way. I don’t trust anyone with my clothes but you.”

      “No, you don’t understand, Mr. Novak. I guarantee you’ll like this woman’s work. I know her intimately.”

      “But—”

      “You could even say that she and I are one of a kind. If you know what I mean.”

      She eyed him pointedly. And after a moment, Yeager understood. Hannah was the one who did freelance work at home. “Gotcha.”

      “If you happened to do a search on Craigslist for, say, ‘Sunnyside seamstress,’ she’d be the first listing that pops up. Ask if she can make you a shirt by next week for the same price you’d pay here, and I guarantee she’ll be able to do it.”

      Yeager grabbed his phone from his pocket and pulled up Craigslist. He should have known Hannah would live in Sunnyside. It was the closest thing New York had to Small Town America.

      “Found you,” he said.

      She frowned at him.

      “I mean...found her.”

      “Send her an email from that listing. I’m sure she’ll reply when she gets home from work tonight.”

      He was already typing when he said, “Great. Thanks.”

      “But you’ll have to pick it up at my—I mean, her place,” she told him. “She can’t bring it here, and she doesn’t deliver.”

      “No problem.”

      He sent the email then returned his phone to one pocket as he tugged his wallet from another. He withdrew five twenties from the ten he always had on him and placed them on the counter. Hannah’s eyes widened at the gesture, but she discreetly palmed the bills and tucked them into her pocket.

      Even so, she asked, “Don’t you want to wait until you have the extra shirt?”

      He shook his head. “I trust you.”

      “Thanks.”

      “No, СКАЧАТЬ