Chapter 10
Monday morning, I followed Andrew Knox into a shop that didn’t advertise and probably didn’t need to.
In the car, he’d been quiet. Not friendly, but definitely restrained, like he’d decided not to comment on anything he’d seen.
I’d compensated by going full assistant: clipboard, folder, neutral expression, spine locked into place. The professional version of me didn’t forget ceremonies. The professional version of me didn’t blush in a Porsche.
Knox held the door for me without looking back.
The tailor’s shop smelled like expensive fabric and old money.
Not cologne or leather or anything obvious, just the quiet scent of a place where people paid thousands of dollars to look perfect.
The kind of place where the door didn’t have a handle on the outside, just a discreet buzzer and an appointment card.
I’d never been anywhere like it.
“Mr. Knox.” The tailor appeared from behind a velvet curtain. He was an older man with an Italian accent and an immaculate suit. “Right on time.”
“Giuseppe.” Knox shook his hand. “Let’s get this done. I’ve got shit to do today.”
Andrew Knox did not have shit to do today.
The only thing he had on his schedule was getting his final measurements taken for his tux, but I kept that information to myself.
I stood near the wall with my clipboard, phone, and notes. Full assistant mode. Logistics only.
If I kept everything clipped and efficient, maybe Friday stayed where it belonged. Behind us.
The fitting was scheduled for forty-five minutes, payment already arranged, pickup Thursday. The charity dinner was Saturday. I had the timeline memorized because timelines didn’t look at you like they remembered things.
“Quinn,” Knox said.
Not assistant.
It was stupid to feel good about that. It was just a name, and he’d said it before. But after Friday night, after he’d seen my building, my sister, the parts of my life I kept folded away, I’d half expected a new boundary to snap into place.
Instead, he was looking at me like I was standing too far back.
“Earth to Quinn.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I blinked, forcing a smile, already retreating. I nodded at Giuseppe. “I’ll stay out of the way.”
Knox’s shoulders went still.
“Don’t,” he said.
I hesitated. “Don’t… what?”
“Don’t vanish into your clipboard,” Knox replied. “I brought you because I trust your eyes. Use them.”
Giuseppe glanced between us, then politely pretended not to notice.
I stayed where I was.
“Of course. Please, Mr. Knox, let’s begin.” Guiseppe pulled out a tablet, scrolling through notes. “Now, I have you down for the full fitting today, alterations Thursday, and pickup Friday—”
“Thursday,” I interrupted. “Pickup is Thursday.”
Giuseppe looked up, slightly startled. “I have Friday in my notes—”
“The event is Saturday. Mr. Knox needs the tuxedo Thursday to allow time for any final adjustments.” I kept my voice polite but firm. “We confirmed this timeline when we made the appointment.”
“Ah.” Giuseppe frowned at his tablet. “Yes, I see the confusion. My team must have—”
“It’s in the email confirmation,” I said, pulling out my phone and showing him the screen. “Pickup Thursday.”
Giuseppe studied the email, then nodded. “You’re absolutely right. My apologies. Thursday it is.”
“Yeah.” Knox’s voice cut across the room. “What he said.”
Giuseppe’s smile tightened. “Of course, Mr. Knox.”
I glanced at Knox. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
The fitting room was all mirrors and natural light. A platform in the center, three walls of glass reflecting everything back at itself. I positioned myself in the corner, phone in hand, trying to look busy and invisible at the same time.
Knox stepped up. Giuseppe began his work, tape measure in hand, muttering measurements in Italian under his breath.
I should give them privacy. This felt weirdly intimate, watching someone get measured, adjusted, scrutinized from every angle. I edged toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Knox’s voice stopped me.
I turned. “Just stepping out. Give you some space.”
“Stay.” Not a request, but not quite a command either.
Giuseppe glanced between us, then back to his work, professional enough not to comment.
I stayed.
Knox’s blue eyes met mine in the mirror for a second, then looked away. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the chair beside me.
Then his shirt.
No warning. No excuse me or I’m just going to; he just pulled it over his head in one smooth motion and dropped it on top of the jacket.
I looked down at my phone. Typed nothing. Stared at the screen like it contained vital information.
“The tux is hanging here,” Giuseppe said, unaffected. “We’ll start with the shirt, then the trousers, then the jacket.”
“Great. Let’s move.”
I didn’t look up.
I could see Knox in my peripheral vision, and that was bad enough. His broad shoulders, the kind of build that came from a lifetime of professional athletics and genetic luck. I focused on my phone. On the schedule. On literally anything else.
“Arms up, please.”
I glanced up without thinking.
Mistake.
Knox stood on the platform, arms raised while Giuseppe measured his torso.
He was. . . who was I kidding? He was a lot.
Muscle and ink and scars, the kind of body that took up space without trying.
I’d seen his tattoo before, but it was even more visible under the lights.
A dark intricate explosion of some kind, shrapnel and smoke rendered in black and gray.
A scar cut across his right shoulder, another along his collarbone.
Small marks, old wounds. Evidence of a life lived hard.
And his abs? His abs were ridiculous. They were defined in a way that didn’t look real, each muscle clearly delineated. His arms were thick, veins visible under the skin. The V-cut of his hips disappeared into his jeans.
He looked like a weapon someone had tried to make beautiful.
Don’t look. Do your job. Don’t look.
I looked. Of course I looked.
Knox’s blue eyes caught mine in the mirror.
“See something you like, Quinn?” His voice was amused, lazy with confidence, like he already knew the answer.
I cleared my throat. “Just… using my eyes. You told me to.”
One blond eyebrow lifted. “Did I?”
“You said you trusted my eye,” I said, adjusting my glasses. “I’m. . . assessing.”
“Assessing,” he repeated, the smirk sharp.
Giuseppe wrapped the measuring tape around Knox’s waist, either oblivious to the charge in the room or simply expensive enough not to care.
Knox didn’t look away. Instead, he shifted his stance—just enough to widen his shoulders, tighten his posture.
An adjustment made entirely for me.
The bastard was absolutely showing off.
The air felt sharp, too warm. I wanted to leave. I wanted to stay. I hated both options equally.
I made myself look back at my phone. Typed a reminder that didn’t need typing. Deleted it. Typed it again.
“The trousers and jacket, please,” Giuseppe said.
Knox stepped into the tux trousers, then the crisp white shirt, fingers working buttons like he’d done this a thousand times. Giuseppe handed him the jacket—black, perfectly cut.
He slipped it on and adjusted the cuffs before turning to check the fit.
He looked. . . devastating.
“Good,” Giuseppe said, tugging at the shoulders, smoothing the lapels. “Very good. The length is perfect now.”
Knox studied himself in the mirror with the same detached assessment he gave everything. Not vain, just aware. He knew he looked good. That wasn’t ego. It was fact.
He caught my eye in the mirror again. Raised a scarred eyebrow as if to ask What do you think?
I gave him some strange combination of a nod and a shrug, helpless.
His low laugh echoed in the space.
“This is for the animal charity, yes?” Giuseppe asked, pins in his mouth as he marked a final adjustment.
“Yeah.” Knox’s voice softened. Barely, but I caught it.
“Wonderful cause. I donate every year.”
“It’s a good org.” Knox met my eyes in the mirror again, something careful in his expression. “They provide medical care for abused animals. Fosters. Rehab. That kind of shit.”
I looked back at them then. “You. . . support them?”
“Fund them.” He said it like it was nothing. “The medical side, mostly. Surgeries. Long-term care. The shit that’s expensive and nobody wants to pay for.”
I stared at him.
This wasn’t public knowledge. I’d never read about Andrew Knox supporting animal charities. Not in any interview, any profile, any deep-dive article I’d ever consumed as a fan. And I’d read all of them.
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“Not supposed to.” He shrugged, the jacket shifting perfectly with the movement. “It’s not for press.”
Giuseppe smiled. “You’re a good man, Mr. Knox.”
Knox didn’t respond to that. Just turned back to the mirror, adjusting his collar.
I made a note on my phone. Not about the charity—that felt private. Just a reminder to review the guest list again, make sure I knew who’d be there, what Knox might need.
The kind of detail that mattered.
“All finished,” Giuseppe announced. “You can change. I’ll have this ready Thursday.”
Knox nodded and stepped off the platform, already unbuttoning the jacket.
I turned toward the door, giving him space. Privacy. The professional thing to do.
“Quinn.”
I stopped.
“You don’t have to leave.”
I didn’t turn around. “Just being respectful.”
“Noted.”
I heard fabric rustling, the sound of him changing back into his street clothes. My face felt warm. I studied the pattern on the wallpaper until it blurred.
When I finally turned back, Knox was dressed, the tux already on a hanger in Giuseppe’s hands. He was pulling his T-shirt back on, and I caught one more glimpse of those abs, that tattoo, before the fabric covered them.
He caught me looking and smirked.
Asshole.
“Thank you,” Knox said. “Thursday works.”
“Of course. Enjoy the event, Mr. Knox.”
We stepped out of the fitting room and into the main showroom—wood floors, leather chairs, suits displayed like art installations. Quiet luxury, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself.
Knox walked toward the counter to finalize payment, and I followed, still holding my clipboard like a shield.
“Knox,” I heard a voice say.
Not Giuseppe. Someone else.
I turned and saw a man standing near the front window, examining a display of cufflinks, perfectly at ease in a tailored suit.
Brandon Archibald. Blond hair, pretty-boy face, the kind of symmetrical features that looked good on camera.
The guy Knox had put in the hospital weeks ago.
The entire reason for Knox’s suspension.
Fuck.