Chapter 8 #2
But my feet carried me upstairs instead, toward the soft whir of Stella’s sewing machine. The door to her workroom was open. I paused in the hallway just as she finished a piece and stood up, watching her before she noticed me.
She was arranging clothes on the male mannequin I’d helped her haul up the stairs three days ago—the same one that had nearly taken out a priceless vase in the hallway and prompted a string of inelegant curses from her mother.
Her camera and ring light were already set up, positioned to capture whatever she was creating.
She looked... focused. Intent. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her fingers adjusting the collar of a dress shirt before she stepped back to assess, then moved forward to rearrange again.
This wasn’t the uncertain woman I’d met my first day here. This wasn’t even the vulnerable, conflicted woman from the car. This was someone else entirely, someone sure of herself, competent and completely in her element.
“Busy morning?” I asked, stepping into the doorway.
Stella glanced up, startled, then relaxed when she saw it was me. “Always,” she said, and there was something adorable about how serious she looked, how committed she was to getting every detail exactly right.
She stepped back and stared critically at the mannequin and the charcoal suit jacket paired with a shirt that was decidedly not what I would have chosen. Bold. Eye-catching. The kind of outfit that made a statement.
Then she glanced over at me, and something shifted in her expression. A flush crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. She bit her bottom lip before she quickly looked away.
Curiosity got the better of me. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, busying herself with an invisible adjustment to the lapel.
“Tell me.” The order slipped out before I could stop it, my voice dropping into that low, rough register that brooked no argument.
Stella’s hands stilled. She cleared her throat, still not meeting my eyes. “You would just look really good in this style, that’s all. It’s—it’s stupid.” She laughed, the sound embarrassed and self-conscious. “I thought for a second that maybe I could ask you to be my model.”
“I’m not walking down a runway,” I said, but I softened my voice. She looked genuinely embarrassed, like she regretted even voicing the thought.
“No, I know, I just—” She gestured vaguely at me, then at the mannequin. “It’s just that you have that look to you that would—here.” She turned the mannequin so I could see the full effect.
It was the charcoal suit I’d initially noticed, but the shirt underneath was a light lavender with a subtle paisley print.
Daring. Playful. Not anything I’d ever wear in my regular life—but I could see the appeal.
It was classy and sexy all at once, the kind of outfit that made you look twice because it was so original and different.
“I’m trying to show men how they can elevate their wardrobe,” Stella explained, her voice steadier now that she was talking about her work.
“I understand not wanting to wear stuffy suits all the time. But women have so many more options when it comes to looking nice while still feeling comfortable and expressive, and men just...” She waved her hand dismissively.
“They throw on t-shirts and jeans and think that’s all they have unless they want to grab a standard white dress shirt and tie.
I want to show them how they can have fun with the way they dress too.
How fashion can be accessible and enjoyable, not intimidating. ”
“And it’s better if you use a live person,” I guessed. “Rather than a mannequin.”
She nodded eagerly. “Photos with real people perform so much better on social media. People can actually envision themselves in the clothes when they see them on a real body. Movement helps too, how the fabric drapes, and how the jacket falls when you move your arms.” She caught herself, seeming to realize how much she’d been talking. “Sorry. I get carried away.”
“Don’t apologize.” I found myself walking closer, examining the outfit with genuine interest. “You’re passionate about it. That’s not something to apologize for.”
She looked up at me, a soft and surprised glimmer in her eyes, like she wasn’t used to people taking her work seriously.
I grinned, unable to resist teasing her. “So you think I’m hot enough to pull it off?”
“Forget it.” Stella turned the mannequin away, her cheeks flushing deeper. “It was a stupid idea.”
But there was something so vulnerable in her expression, reminding me of the way her mother had dismissed her career, and I felt my resistance crumble.
“That style you’re working on would probably look better on one of my coworkers,” I said, walking over to stand beside her. “A guy named Austin. He’d love to model for you.” I paused, watching the hope flicker in her eyes. “But if you want to do this today, I guess I could do an outfit or two.”
What else did I have to do? The security was set up. The background checks were done. And spending the afternoon watching Stella work sounded a hell of a lot better than staring at my laptop in that stuffy room downstairs.
Stella’s head whipped toward me so fast it looked like it hurt. Her eyes were wide, bright with surprise and excitement. “You’re sure? I don’t want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
I shrugged, aiming for casual. “It’s fine. We’re in your parents’ home and I’m with you, so it’s not going to interfere with the job. Consider it... expanding my skill set.”
She laughed at that—a real laugh, unfettered and genuine—and the sound did something to my chest that I chose not to examine too closely.
Then her expression shifted. The uncertainty fell away, replaced by something sharp and appraising as she looked me over. Like she was mentally cataloging every line of my body, every angle, every possibility.
“Turn around,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I need to see how clothes fall on your frame,” she explained, already moving toward one of the clothing racks. “Shoulder width, posture, how you carry yourself. It affects which cuts will work best.”
I turned, feeling oddly exposed despite being fully clothed. I heard her moving behind me, the soft rustle of fabric, the click of hangers.
“You have good shoulders,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Broad but not bulky. And you stand like you’re ready for something to happen at any moment.
There’s a tension in your frame that actually works well for structured pieces.
” She appeared in my peripheral vision, arms full of clothes.
“These should fit. The pants might be slightly long, but we can work with that.”
She thrust the pile into my arms. I looked down at an array of shirts in colors I’d never willingly chosen—coral, pale pink, a geometric print in shades of blue that hurt my eyes.
“Just how many of these am I going to put on?” I asked.
“Too late to back out now.” There was a glint in her eye that I recognized—the same playful defiance I’d seen at the club.
“Give an inch, take a mile, huh?” I asked as more clothes were sorted and added to the pile.
She merely grinned and pointed toward the door, indicating my guest suite across the hall. “Go change.”
I went. The first outfit was the charcoal suit with the lavender paisley shirt.
I felt ridiculous putting it on, but when I glanced in the mirror I had to admit I didn’t look half bad.
The cut was better than anything I owned, the fabric softer, the fit more precise.
I looked like someone who gave a damn about how he presented himself.
Which, historically, I did not.
When I walked back into the workroom, Stella’s reaction was worth every moment of discomfort. She tried to smother it, but she couldn’t hide the way her eyes lit up, the slight parting of her lips, the almost imperceptible catch in her breath.
“Good,” she said, and her voice was slightly rougher than before. “That’s—yes. That works.”
She was very matter-of-fact as she positioned me for the photos. She didn’t ask me to do anything strange. No weird poses or exaggerated expressions. Just natural movements. Stand here. Turn slightly. Open the jacket. Close it. Look toward the window. Now at the camera.
“Can you lean back on your left foot a little?” she asked, adjusting the angle of the ring light. “And relax your shoulders. You look like you’re about to tackle someone.”
“Occupational hazard,” I muttered, but I tried to follow her instructions.
She laughed softly and snapped another photo.
It took a couple of hours to get through everything.
Outfit after outfit—suits in charcoal and navy and tan, shirts in colors I couldn’t name, combinations that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.
Stella moved around me with focused efficiency, adjusting collars and cuffs, smoothing lapels, occasionally stepping back to scrutinize with that determined gaze that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope.
But there were moments—brief, electric moments—when her fingers would brush against my neck while fixing a collar, or her hand would press against my chest to adjust the drape of a shirt, and I’d see something flicker in her eyes.
Something that had nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with the memory that hung between us.
She felt it too. I knew she did. But neither of us openly acknowledged it.
When we were finally finished, Stella connected her camera to her laptop and began clicking through the photos, her face scrunched up in concentration. Occasionally she’d make a displeased noise and delete an image. Other times she’d nod, satisfied with whatever she saw.
She looked adorable. Completely absorbed in her work, her earlier self-consciousness forgotten. This was who she really was, I realized. Not the frustrated daughter, not the conflicted woman when dealing with her parents, but this. Someone passionate and capable and utterly committed to her craft.