Bursting at the Seams

It’s too good to be true. However, I don’t question it or even ask what time closing is before a breathy, “Yes,” escapes me.

Chapter Two

Emanuel

I’m nearly racing back to my office once the gown is in my hands and the shop door closes behind the Foster sisters. I hang up the dress on a rack separate from my work-in-progress collection so that it’s easy to retrieve when she returns. If it wasn’t for the receipt for the dresses, I wouldn’t know her name. Wren Foster. A beautiful, unique name for a woman just the same. Shaking my head and sinking down into my desk chair, I do my best to collect myself before I need to go assist with the fitting of the next appointment.

I know better than to lust after clients, and yet I had greedily let my hands linger on her too long and trace over her hypnotizing curves. I want to kick myself, knowing good and well that doing such a thing could good and well get me in trouble. Nothing had been out of line, but I usually made sure that I touched clients as little as possible. That time, with Wren, I had let my touch linger. By the look in her eye, I knew she had been onto me.

It isn’t just her looks that drew me in. No, there is more to that woman than gentle auburn waves, olive eyes, and curves that could kill a man. From the way she walked, the way she talked with her sister, and the way she dressed, Wren oozed independence and confidence. She is a wet dream for sure. I could imagine her bossing me around, shoving me down to take charge in ways I had never experienced—

I adjust my member in my pants and clear my throat. Any minute I'm going to be called out to help another client and I can’t be bricked up while doing my job. What’s the matter with me? Am I that in need of sex, that I’m starting to get carried away in fantasies with any client that so much as resembles a strong woman? I’ve been on my own since my marriage disintegrated due to her codependence. I’ve told myself up until now that I only needed my job, to throw myself in my work and everything would work out. Well, it had until now. Granted, it is hard to be passionate about wedding dresses and bride’s maid gowns when you’re freshly divorced, but it has been enough to keep me busy and my mind off sex and romance.

There’s a quick knock at my door and my head whips around to see Hanna poking in. “They are ready for their initial fitting,” she announces.

Damnit, how long have I been sitting in my own thoughts? Nodding, I clear my throat again and call to her, “I’ll be out in just a minute.”

She walks off and I go through a routine I haven’t had to do since my early twenties. I think about sports statistics, calculus, the weather channel, and anything else boring and mundane to calm myself down. Once my arousal dissipates, I grab my usual supplies and paperwork before walking out. It’s a usual scene of a crying bride and her closest friends and family. I barely utter a word as I go through the motions of fitting the dress and taking measurements to double check my work during the alteration process.

While I’ve never been a huge fan of the personable interaction with customers, I do love my job. This shop has been a home to me just as much as our childhood house had been. My grandmother had opened the shop upon her arrival to America, and had been passed to my mother, and then Hanna and I after they both passed. It’s been Hanna that brought us from a word-of-mouth business with just routine customers and their families, to something of the century. We’re popular, busier than ever, and have become chic. And there’s nothing else I’ve ever wanted to do other than keep that shop alive.

As soon as Justine closes the door behind that appointment, she flips the sign to closed, and says she’ll be back after lunch. I settle in at my desk, not yet thinking about food and just needing to decompress from such a strange morning. And yet, that’s always too much to ask for when you work with a sibling. “Knock, knock,” Hanna calls as she makes her way into the room.

Sitting down next to me, she places a glass food container in front of me. Just like every day, my sister gives me a healthy lunch she’s prepared us, as she knows I can’t be trusted to not rely on takeout. I’ve never fussed about it, considering she’s a wonderful cook. I dig into the meal of falafel, hummus, couscous, and salad as I try to pretend that she’s not eyeing me in that smug way of hers. That look always precedes her trying to tell me something about myself that she thinks I don’t already know.