Chapter 1 #2
Peyton grins, shaking her head. While her sunny take on Giovanni is almost certainly incorrect, all of my publicly aired grievances about him are annoyances at best, which is why she’s never understood my lack of reverence for Lamont’s beloved tailor.
The real reason I dislike Giovanni is like an oil stain on silk—it will never come out.
My stomach rumbles, and I glance at my phone. “I’m starving. Do you want to grab brunch before I head to Cattaneo’s?”
Peyton folds her arms. “I’m not ready to eat yet. Lamont’s ‘skip intro’ comment is making me nauseous.”
“Please.” Shondra slumps down in a chair next to Peyton.
Lowering her voice just above a whisper, she mimics Lamont.
“Is this your final sketch?” She hunches over, putting her head on top of the table and speaking directly into the particle board.
“I think I’m entitled to worker’s compensation for that emotional slap in the face. ”
Peyton pats her back. “Do you want me to call HR on his ass, Shon?”
“Do we even have that here?” Shondra asks.
“I think we did, once, but the HR lady left due to this being a hostile work environment.”
We laugh, now immune to the harsh culture. Crying is for first-year apprentices. Experienced designers understand that gallows humor and dairy-free lattes keep this place running.
I squeeze Shondra’s hand. “I’m sorry, girl. It was a good cape.”
She nods miserably, much like she did in front of Lamont.
“I loved the yoke style, too, Shon,” Peyton adds.
Peyton and Shondra start chatting about the merits of their designs, hyping each other up, and I begrudgingly collect my things to go to Cattaneo’s.
As I drag my feet out of the space, my shoulders are so tense they nearly reach my ears. Before the door closes, Peyton calls after me.
“Love him or hate him, he’s your ticket to Milan!”
* * *
The bell above the door almost bonks me in the head as I walk into Cattaneo’s.
As a tall person, hitting my head on random objects isn’t unusual.
But Giovanni is taller than me, which makes me think he’s lowered the bell by a centimeter on purpose.
I shouldn’t even have to make the pilgrimage to his little kingdom, but Lamont allows him to work from his private shop down the street while the rest of us breathe recycled air at the studio.
I take a deep breath. Calming down is my first order of business. I’ve only taken one step into his shop, and I’m already acting like a conspiracy theorist.
Okay, Tessa.
Remember what you learned three years ago at the only yoga class you’ve ever attended.
Channel inner peace.
Do not give into problematic homicidal fantasies around this man.
I pull out my rendering, ready to hand it over and leave as soon as possible. I will not let Giovanni Cattaneo ruin my shot at Milan Fashion Week.
The scent of leather, fresh laundry, and cedarwood perfumes the modest space.
A velvet couch is pressed up against the shop window in front of a coffee table with old books scattered atop it.
Built-in wooden shelves displaying menswear line the left wall, and on the righthand side, couture Lamont dresses hang from racks.
The familiar rhythmic ticking and whirring of a sewing machine draws me toward his workspace in the back. My heels click satisfyingly on the walnut floors, reminiscent of models strutting down the runway, bolstering my confidence.
I find Giovanni seated at his vintage machine next to a large cutting table.
Even though he has many, many faults, I can’t help but admire him while he works.
With a measuring tape hanging loosely around his neck, semi-rimless Wayfarer glasses perched on his nose, fingers on the fabric, and a foot on the pedal, he’s in full-on tailoring mode.
It’s almost beautiful, how focused he looks.
A light brown curl hangs over his forehead, and I wonder if it ever tickles his face mid-sew.
His large frame hunches over the delicate machine in a way that would appear uncomfortable, if you didn’t know that he’s customized everything in his shop to fit him perfectly—including the wide leather chair.
I roll my shoulders back. “Hello, Giovanni.”
“Take a seat,” he instructs lazily, like he’s a clerk at my local DMV.
I stay standing. “I’m not sure if you’ve already spoken with Lamont this morning, but he’s selected my design for the new finale gown.”
He briefly lifts his foot from the pedal to yawn and flex his fingers. “Good for you.”
I try not to grip my rendering too tightly. “He’d like me to oversee you while you execute my design.”
“Hm. I don’t remember him using the word ‘oversee’ on our phone call a few minutes ago.
” He doesn’t even bother to look up from his sewing machine.
“I do remember something about seeing to my every whim, though.” Giovanni’s accent is restrained, only faintly wrapping around the words in a rhythmic cadence.
After adjusting his sewing glasses on the bridge of his prominent nose, he continues working. “I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m in the middle of something.”
“What’s the point of having an exclusive tailor if I have to wait for you to finish your…” I step to his side, trying to get a peek of what he’s working on, but Giovanni angles his body to block my view.
The peaceful look he wore while sewing has officially left the premises.
In its place is cool indifference—a far cry from Mr. I Help Old Ladies Cross the Street.
I massage my temples in hopes that my Giovanni-shaped headache will disappear.
When he stands and steps closer to me, I’m forced to look up at him—an infrequent occurrence for me with most people.
“Your patience is always wearing so thick, Tessa,” he observes, his deep voice a low rumble.
“It’s wearing thin.” I set my shoulder bag on the floor, suddenly wishing my therapy appointment was tonight instead of next week.
“Do you have other pressing work commitments outside of this?” His tone is calm and unbothered.
Meanwhile, my tone is completely bothered as I slide my rendering back in the bag. “As long as you stay on deadline, I see no reason why I need to be here for extended appointments.”
I try not to stare as he runs his hands through those stupid thick curls on his head.
He takes a step closer. “You know how it goes. You’ve worked for Lamont—and by extension, me—for, how long again?”
“It’s more like I work in spite of you.”
I move to put more space between us, but my heel gets caught in a stray divot on the floor, and I stumble backwards.
Flailing, I brace myself for impact. Instead, I feel Giovanni’s hand on the small of my back, pressing me against his chest. My fingers sink into his body, and the crisp broadcloth fabric of his dress shirt feels smooth to the touch.
His craftsmanship on the hand-sewn buttons is so impeccable that I wonder how he managed to tailor each one so perfectly to his form without a single pucker.
He is exceptionally… sturdy.
His brawn. His height. The sheer magnitude of him.
Giovanni reminds me of a defensive lineman. He’s well beyond six feet tall and hefty. And much to my inconvenience, I find him very attractive.
I shake my head, desperately grasping for a topic that will pull me out of this terrifying thought spiral.
Cloche hats. T-strap shoes. Micro purses.
The visuals of heinous fashion crimes help my mouth stay closed, and my heart rate calms a bit.
“Is it the fabric of my shirt you’re interested in or just my body?”
The speed with which I remove my hand from his chest rivals the time it takes me to down an iced coffee during brand previews.
Wiping my hand on the side of my dress, as if the upcycled suede will magically erase the past five minutes, I clear my throat. “I was simply… steadying myself,” I retort weakly.
A pathetic excuse, and the look of bemusement on his face confirms we both know it. His thick eyebrows raise over the rim of his glasses, a smirk brushing his lips.
“Seemed to take you a while. Steadying yourself.”
I clear my throat, gesturing to my stilettos. “Well, you try finding your center of gravity on a pair of toothpicks.”
The look on his face quickly transforms back into frustration. Fare thee well, amused Giovanni, I think, preparing for the lecture I’m about to receive.
“Those heels are unsuitable for the rainy weather anyway. Why don’t you check the forecast before getting dressed for the day?”
I shrug and flip my hair over my shoulders. Why is he so mad? I’m the one sloshing through the rain in heels.
“I don’t have the time. Not all of us can tell it’s raining by the pain in our joints.”
Giovanni ignores the dig entirely. “Can’t you crack a window before you leave your place?”
“Joke’s on you; I can’t even open my window because there’s stuff blocking it,” I respond haughtily, then quickly realize I’m insulting my own apartment. It may be microscopic, but I pay a lot of money to be able to reach my kitchen sink from my bathroom sink.
Clearly, the leather polish is scrambling my brain.
“Anyway, I’m in fashion. I dress aspirationally,” I explain.
“Aspirationally?” His voice gets louder, a frustrated “ah” sound capping the end of the word.
“Why are you shouting at me?”
“I’m not shouting! Americans have sensitive ear canals.”
“Well, I dress for the day I want, not the day it is.”
In response, I get a string of very fast Italian—both verbally and nonverbally, as his hands are telling a story all their own. An angry story. One with an ending where everyone dies.
I wait for him to wind down. After a few moments, it looks like there’s no end in sight, so I cut in.
“Listen, Giovanni. I know I’m not your favorite person.”
His head snaps up. “What do you mean?”
“I just know you don’t want me following you around all day.”
He stares at me, a sly glint in his eye. “You do, huh?”
Shrugging, I shift on my feet. “I’m pretty sure you’d rather work with nylon than me.”
His icy blue eyes blink in response.
“So, I’m giving you an out.”
Giovanni’s eyebrow raises. “An out?”
“Yeah. An out. I’m happy to just pop in here like I normally do and report back to Lamont that we’re working closely together, if that’s what you’d prefer.”
He folds his arms. “And you think that’s what I would prefer?”
“… obviously?”
After a brief pause, he announces, “Well, I want an in.”
“What?”
“You said you’d give me an out, but I want an in.”
“An ‘in’ with whom?”
“You.”
My hand flies up to cover my jaw drop. I was certain he’d take my offer. Was it Lamont’s selection that’s influencing Giovanni to finally see me as worthy? Maybe enough time has passed, maybe he thinks I’m a better—
“I’m going to need a lot of support.”
My stomach sinks. It was naive of me to even consider that he might actually want to partner with me. Of course he just wants me at his beck and call.
He continues, his voice lower and darker than before. “We only have three weeks.”
My brows furrow. “Why does your tone sound so ominous? It’s a showing, not The Reaping.”
With a sigh, he pushes his glasses back up his nose, then takes out the leather-bound notebook he keeps in his pocket. He flips through the pages as if I’m not even there, jotting something down in his vintage journal.
“I want whatever we present to be the best. I take pride in my work.” He sets down the notebook and scratches the stubble on his chin, which makes a sandpaper sound.
I’ve never seen him without his perpetual five o’clock shadow.
Peyton swears she saw him clean-shaven once, but I maintain he was born with two things: facial hair and a mission to irk me.
Folding my arms, I release a heavy sigh. “At least that’s something we can both agree on. So, if you’ll just give me your phone number, now that we’ll be working together on the gown, that’d be great.”
Giovanni says nothing as his eyes pin me in place. I imagine what he sees. Wavy black hair with a slight frizz from the late-August humidity, frustration in my eyes… hopefully not the flush I feel tinting my light brown skin coral.
Maintaining relentless eye contact with me, he replies, “I prefer body-to-body meetings with you.”
I swallow, and a bead of sweat drips down my brow. “It’s face-to-face.”
“Tèssa...”
His maddeningly hot Italian accent comes out thicker now, starting with my name, as it always does whenever he gets frustrated with me.
I roll my shoulders and deeply inhale through my nose. “You know what? I’m just going to pretend I was never here.”
Grabbing my bag off the floor, I toss it over my shoulder and briskly walk toward the front of the shop.
“Wait!” he calls.
I look over my shoulder and watch him pull a swatch out of his pocket. He places it in my hand. “Here you go.”
“Not this again,” I mumble. Giovanni started “gifting” me personalized embroidered swatches a couple years ago just to push my buttons, each one containing an infuriating design to tease me with.
I don’t even know where he stores the swatches, but my guess is next to wherever he keeps the sweetheart personality he rolls out for anyone that’s not me.
Last week, I complained that I felt like a glorified postal worker, trotting back and forth between his shop and the studio just to deliver packages.
When I left, he had pressed a swatch with an embroidered carrier pigeon into my hand.
It, along with every other swatch he’s embroidered for me, sits in a secret shoebox beneath my bed.
I loathe the messages, admire the craftsmanship, and keep the evidence in case podcast hosts ever need it to solve my murder.
I turn over the fabric in my palm to see what he’s bestowed upon me today.
“A clock?” I study the intricately embroidered details.
“It’s the time you should get here Thursday morning.” He points to the small “TH” stitched in the middle of the clock’s face. On the swatch, a delicate timepiece hand points to 7:00. Oh my God.
“You’re such a—”
I cut myself off, snapping my mouth shut to avoid saying something unprofessional. The corners of his lips tick up, almost like he wants me to explode. I swear, it brings him joy to piss me off.
I adjust my bag on my shoulder, careful not to damage the rendering nestled inside—the design he didn’t even ask to see—and turn around. I don’t need to subject myself to anymore of his criticism body-to-body today. I’ll just email him the rendering instead.
“May the rest of your day be as pleasant as you are!” I call as I storm out of his shop.
I’ll start channeling inner peace tomorrow.