Page 44 of My Faire Lady

Glen wasn’t at the gate this morning. But last night, when he walked me to my car, he didn’t mention anything about missing work.

Closing the sketchbook, I turn from the table and thumb through the bolts of fabric lining the back wall. Before I worked my final shift at the craft store, I took advantage of my employee discount for the last time and ordered the perfect fabric.

One that tells a story.

I hook my finger through the center of the silver silk and lift it to the table, measuring the length as I unroll it. It catches the light like a sheet of ice, perfect for the bottom layer of the skirt.

A knock comes from the open doorway, and Scarlet steps into the room as I drag my shears up the silk. Something in the heaviness of her gait gives me pause.

“Is everything okay?” I say, setting down the scissors.

She sets her helmet on the table—the hair at her hairline and temples damp. She nods. “I hate the joust in the middle of the day. But ever since you rewrote the script, the crowd seems to love it.”

I lift a brow. “Was that…a compliment?”

“No.” Her lips quirk, not enough to call it a real smile, but close enough. “Maybe tomorrow you can close the shoppe early and come watch one of the jousts.”

Warmth licks across my arms. “Are you sure?”

“I’m always sure.”

I rearrange the silk, folding it in a neat square on the edge of the table. “I think I can make that happen.”

“Great.”

She holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer than usual, stretching time between us. My heart falters, the air too thin—too void of oxygen for the reaches of my lungs.

She averts her eyes and twists an arm around her back, reaching for the clasp that connects her shoulder armor to the backplate.

“Here, let me help.” I round the table, my voice a notch weaker than before she walked in.

She hesitates, but drops her arm to her side and nods. I reach toward her shoulder—the metal hot against the heel of my hand as I wrestle the hook free of the first set of plates. It unlatches, and I ease off the armor, unstringing it from her arms and setting it on the table. It catches the light hanging from the rafters and scatters rays across the room.

A sigh passes her lips, and the muscles in her neck relax. Sweat glistens at her nape, and a knot curls low in my stomach as I round to her other side.

I study her profile as I undo the second latch—the backs of my knuckles brushing her skin as I pull it off. A muscle feathers in her jaw, and her chest fills with a deep inhale. She raises her hands toward the chest plate.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Let me.”

Her throat bobs, and I loosen the belts, pulling the armor from her torso and over her head.

I grunt under its weight and set it on the ground, propping it against the table leg. “I never realized how heavy it is.”

She smirks and bends at the waist, unbuckling the armor from her shins. Beneath the chainmail over her shoulders, her muscles shift with the movement. My gaze trails down, following the length of her biceps, over the lean muscle flexing along her forearms, and lands on her hands—the way they work the metal buckle, pulling the leather from under the clasp.

The armor drops from her legs.

My chest rises on an inhale. The air thickens, charged.

She looks up at me through her lashes. “I’m assuming you need the chainmail off, too?”

My breath catches. “What?”

“For the measurements?” The corner of her lip tilts. “Remember?”

Blinking, I clear my throat and sweep away the thoughts of Scarlet’s hands. “Oh, right. Yes. Please.”

I snatch the measuring tape from the surface of the table. Scarlet wraps her hands around the collar of the chainmail and eases it over her head. The bottom clears her chest, exposing the bare skin around her collarbones, but her hair tangles in the metal rings.