Page 2

2

MADDOX

I yawn and stretch my arms over my head.

It’s been a boring day.

Most days are, especially in the winter. I’m lucky to get a baker’s dozen of customers between January and March. I get a pretty big bump in customers right before Christmas—people shopping for their dads or husbands—but other than that, it’s usually just too damned cold in the Midwest for people to venture outside of their homes for anything other than the necessities.

Men’s fashion usually doesn’t make the cut.

But for me, it’s my life.

From the day I first picked up a copy of GQ magazine in the lobby of one of my dad’s many campaign offices, I’ve been hooked.

I was told that an interest in fashion made a man effeminate. I should be interested in football, whiskey, and trucks.

But what could be more masculine than wanting to look good? Wanting to present yourself as a man to be taken seriously, as one who cares how he portrays himself to the rest of the world?

The ladies love it. Every time I go down to my club, they flock to me, oohing and aahing over the perfectly tailored blazer I’m wearing that evening, the cuff links and matching pocket square I’ve paired it with, even the carefully trimmed shape of the stubble on my cheeks.

Compared to Joe Cargo Shorts, I’m definitely the winner.

But this time of year, it’s all I can do to scrape the money together to keep this place running.

I own the building. It already belonged to my family, and I made a deal with the devil—more commonly known as Henry Hathaway, my father—to get my name on the deed. The haberdashery has been in the family for years, but it had fallen into pretty bad disrepair by the time I got my hands on it.

But after years of hard work, I brought it back to life. Kept the same style that my Great-Uncle Stephen—the last person to run the place full-time—had, while adding some modern touches. The shelves and displays are all the original dark cherry wood that Stephen had built, and I polished them all until they were new. I replaced the glass on the displays where I exhibit watches, cuff links, and tie pins, and even managed to refurbish the brass cash register that Stephen used back in the day.

I outfitted the vintage hanging pendant lamps with new eco-friendly lightbulbs. I even found an old phonograph from a nearby antique store, which I use to play jazz vinyl. The music mixes perfectly with the decades-old aroma of leather, wool, and pipe tobacco that permeates every corner of the shop. I did add a few things to bring the place into the twenty-first century. Metallic accents on the walls and some vivid contemporary art that I’ve picked up at shows across the city.

I love the haberdashery.

I just wish it weren’t such a pain in the ass to run this time of year.

I look at my watch. It’s almost seven p.m. I could close a little early. I think it’s safe to say that no one is going to?—

Never mind.

A woman just came in.

And good God damn, if she isn’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

She’s in a light-blue puffy down jacket, but even with that on, I can make out a slender figure. She has perfect blond hair that hangs past her shoulders, and her skin has a light-olive tone to it. Her lips are a gorgeous shade of dark pink, and a light blush graces her cheeks—probably from the cold. Even from the distance between my shop’s entrance and the cashier counter where I’m currently standing, I can see that her eyes match her jacket’s icy shade of blue. The same color as Lake Michigan when it freezes over. A few snowflakes rest on her gorgeous long lashes.

I see hot women all the time. The club has them by the dozen. But not one of them can match the vision that just entered my shop.

I clear my throat. “Hi. Can I help you?”

She looks up at me, and her eyes widen. “Y-Yes. I happened to be wandering by. Took a different path home from work. I saw your shop, and I…”

She pouts her lips, which drives me crazy. Something stirs in me that I haven’t felt since…

Well, let’s just say it’s been a while.

“Are you looking for a gift for someone?”

She scratches the side of her head. “No. It’s silly, to be honest. I was just…” She chuckles nervously. “I saw the sign, and I was wondering what exactly a haberdashery is.”

I laugh. “You’re joking.”

She frowns. “I wish I were. You must take me for a dummy.”

I’m just realizing that she has a British accent, in a light honeyed tone. She could broadcast for the BBC. It’s that clear and articulate. God, as if I weren’t already attracted as hell to her…

I shake my head. “Not at all. It’s not like it’s the most conventional word.” I gesture to the shelves and displays around me. “ Haberdashery is basically just a fancy word for a men’s clothing store. We sell suits and jackets here, mostly, but also lots of accessories. Ties, cuff links, watches, even hats.”

She drops her jaw. “Hats? Like top hats?”

I smirk. “Mostly fedoras and bowlers, but we do have a small selection of top hats, too.”

She pouts her lips again—God, I love it—and looks around the shop. “I don’t think I’ve seen a man wearing a hat—besides a Cubs cap—since I got to Chicago.”

I shrug and lean toward her from behind the counter. “Well, you’ve just met one.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You?”

I reach under the counter and grab a dark-gray fedora. “This is the one I’m wearing today. Never go outside without it.”

She frowns. “You’re not one of those fedora-wearing, terminally online incels, are you?”

I let out a loud laugh at that. “If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I’d have a good seventy-five cents.”

She giggles. It’s bright and airy, almost like birdsong.

I attempt to stay nonchalant. “The difference between those kinds of guys and me is that when I wear a men’s hat outside, I treat it as an extension of me, not some kind of decoration or costume. I wear the hat. The hat doesn’t wear me.”

She narrows her eyes. Can’t blame her. What I just said sounds like some kind of fortune-cookie nonsense.

I chuckle. “I guess that was a weird thing to say.”

She cocks her head and rakes her gaze up and down my body. “Not a weird thing to say at all. What I said was weird.” Her cheeks flush. “Obviously you’re not a guy like that. I mean, look at how?—”

She shuts her mouth. But I think she was about to pay me a compliment on my appearance.

I bow my head slightly. “You’re very kind, Miss…”

“Alissa. Alissa Maravilla.”

I reach my right hand out. “Pleasure, Ms. Maravilla. I’m Maddox Hathaway.”

She takes my hand, which sends a jolt of electricity through my body.

Damn.

When I say jolt, I mean thunderbolt. Fuck.

She shakes my hand before letting it go. “Maddox Hathaway. Why does that sound familiar?”

I hold back a sigh.

The Hathaways are an old family in this city. We’re commonly referred to as the Kennedys of Chicago. My father, Henry Hathaway, served as mayor for several years, and my ancestry beyond him is riddled with state senators and representatives, even a few stints in Congress. We can trace our lineage all the way back to pilgrims on the Mayflower. The Hathaways were among the first settlers in Chicago, and they built their fortune on the railroads before turning their sights to politics. Nearly every man in my family, and several of the women, have served in government on the local, state, or federal level.

Except me.

I have no interest in politics. Never did. Not since that fateful day when I picked up my first copy of GQ . From that moment on, I wanted to work in men’s fashion. The day I found out that my great-uncle owned a haberdashery that was still in the family was the greatest day of my life.

Until I broke the news to my father that I wasn’t following in his footsteps.

Suffice to say he was less than thrilled. I was his extension, his ticket to immortality. The handsome son who would take the reins from his father, take the torch and lead the city into the new generation while maintaining a shadow of the policies he laid out.

And then when his term as mayor ended with record-low approval ratings, I, his only son, was his one shot at restoring his legacy. We never made peace after that. He died shortly thereafter. Heart attack, according to the coroners.

But I shake the thoughts out of my head.

“Hathaway is a pretty common name,” I say.

She furrows her eyebrows. “But Maddox isn’t. I could swear I’ve heard your name before.”

“The shop has been on the news every so often. It’s a historic building. Maybe you saw me featured there.”

She presses her lips together. “Maybe.”

I’d better change the subject before she figures it out. “Are you looking for a gift? Perhaps for a husband or boyfriend?”

She shakes her head, another small patch of blush creeping into her cheeks. “No. I’m single. Like I told you, I literally walked in on a whim.”

Single.

Awesome.

Not only is this beautiful woman available, but she walked into my shop almost randomly. I’ve never been one to believe in fate, or the will of the universe or anything, but it does seem like the gods rolled the dice in my favor this evening.

I’m in my thirties now, and the hookup life isn’t for me anymore. In a big city like Chicago, there are endless options for sex. I could find any number of attractive women to take to bed. I know what I look like, and I know the weight my name carries. It’s almost too easy.

But this woman… She’s a little closed off. A little demure. A little enigmatic.

A challenge.

And I could never resist a challenge.

“Well, Ms. Maravilla?—”

“Alissa, please.”

I smile. “Well, Alissa ”—God, her name rolls off my tongue like a freaking prayer—“if you’re not shopping for a boyfriend or husband, do you have a father or brother who might be looking for something nice?”

“I’m an only child.” She swallows. “And…I don’t have much of a relationship with my father since my mother died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” she says a little quickly. “We weren’t exactly close. My mother and I… It’s a complicated history.” She closes her eyes, rubs at her forehead. “I’m sorry. This isn’t something I should be discussing with someone I hardly know. You’ve got a shop to run.” She turns toward the exit.

I hold out a hand. “Not at all. As you can see, I have no other customers. This is a slow time of the year.” I gesture toward a couple of leather armchairs on the opposite side of the shop with a small table in between them. “Would you like to talk a little more? I have some tea in the back. I can put a pot on. You must be chilled to the bone in this weather.”

She opens her mouth, looking me up and down. “Are you assuming from my accent alone that I enjoy tea?”

I chuckle. “I’m assuming nothing of the sort, Alissa. I was craving a cup myself and figured it would be rude not to offer some to my guest.”

She smirks. “I’m hardly a guest. I’m just a woman who took a different way home and walked into your shop.”

I grin. “And am I glad you did.”

She looks toward the door. “I really should be getting home. I have…a chicken breast thawing in the fridge.”

“Just a cup,” I say. “I’ve got an electric kettle. It only takes a minute to get going. I can bring it out, prepare everything in front of you. I’m not going to try to roofie you or anything.”

She laughs at that. “I didn’t think that was the case, Mr. Hathaway.”

“Maddox, please.”

“Maddox, yes.” The blush on her cheeks grows. “You know what? A spot of tea sounds lovely. Just one cup, and then I’d better head home.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep you from that chicken breast of yours.” I wink at her.

I go into the back and gather an electric kettle, a Polish teapot with intricate floral designs—another score from the antique shop—a couple of teabags, and two delicate cups. I fill the kettle with water from the tap and place everything on a silver tray, which I bring back out to Alissa. She’s taken off her jacket to reveal a pair of blue scrubs patterned with tiny flowers.

Damn. Never has such a practical outfit looked so sexy.

“Earl Grey all right?” I place the tray on the small table between the armchairs.

“All right?” She smiles. “It’s my favorite.”

“Really? Mine too.” I kneel and plug in the electric kettle.

“It’s the perfect evening tea. English Breakfast in the mornings, of course.” She eyes the teapot. “And what a gorgeous teapot. Where did you find it?”

“There’s an antique shop down the street,” I say. “Wanda’s Wonders. A lot of great treasures in there.” I point to the phonograph in the corner, still playing soft jazz music. “I got that beauty there as well.”

“Goodness, look at that.” She returns her gaze to me. “I must admit, Maddox, you have me leaning in.”

“Do I?” I grin at her, holding my gaze on her silently for just a few seconds too long before I turn my head to the sound of the kettle hissing. “Water is ready.”

She widens her eyes. “That was quick.”

“The kettle must have heard about your chicken breast.” I place three teabags in the pot and pour the water over it. “It’ll need just a minute to steep.” I look back into her gorgeous eyes. “In the meantime, Alissa, tell me where you grew up.”

“As you may have guessed from my accent, London.”

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows in mock shock. “I assumed Norway, or perhaps Bulgaria.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. “Very funny.”

“Maravilla, though… That’s a Spanish name.”

She nods. “My father was born in Spain. He moved to London for work, which is where he met my mother. They had me and raised me there. I came to the United States on a student visa and have been here since.”

“Student visa?” I ask. “Where did you go to school?”

“Northwestern,” she says. “I got my bachelor’s and master’s degrees there.”

“In what?”

She eyes the teapot. “The tea is probably ready by now.”

“Of course.” I pour two cups, handing one to her. “You were about to tell me what you went to school for.”

She looks down, straight into her teacup. “I went there for…flute performance.”

I drop my jaw. “You’re a musician?”

She takes a sip of tea. “I was. I tried to do the audition circuit, got to the final round with a couple of regional orchestras, but I never landed a seat. So I decided to try nursing instead. I went back to school and got my associate’s degree. Now I work at St. Charles General, near the Loop. Been there five years or so.”

I take a sip from my own cup of tea. The liquid is nearly scalding. But it keeps my dick at bay. I’m damned uncomfortable.

“Do you still play? The flute, I mean?”

She sighs. “Not as often as I’d like. I’ll occasionally get a gig playing a wedding or church service. Not much to show for six years of university.”

“It’s got to be a tough industry to break into. Especially in an artsy city like Chicago.”

She nods. “It is. I just… Sometimes I wonder if I should have tried to make it work just a bit longer. I gave it barely a year before giving it up.”

“Do you enjoy nursing?”

She blinks. “Yes. For the most part, I suppose. It’s a steady paycheck, and I’m making a difference in people’s lives.”

I’m not convinced. She sounds the way I would have sounded if I had followed in my family’s footsteps into politics. But I won’t press further. I just met the woman, after all.

“It’s a very noble calling, nursing,” I say. “I hear you guys do all the work while the doctors get all the credit.”

She smiles. “It’s not quite that cut and dried. The doctors do contribute.” She takes another sip of tea. “As much as a solid ten percent on a good day.”

I laugh at that. Alissa is funny, in the dry, British sort of way.

She finishes her cup of tea. “Thank you so much for the cup of tea, Maddox. I should really be getting home.” She looks out the window of the shop. “Goodness. It’s dark outside already.”

“You have to love winter in Chicago,” I say. “Cold, dark, and icy. Makes you wonder why any of us choose to brave it year after year.”

She places her teacup back on the tray and looks at me with warm eyes. “I suppose it’s the people, Maddox.”

And in that moment, it takes everything in my body not to grab her, strip her naked, and fuck her silly right on the floor of the shop. Customers be damned, passersby be damned, my family name—if it’s even worth anything now—certainly be damned…

But I don’t. I can tell that Alissa isn’t that type of girl. At least, not on the first meeting.

I can get her there.

“May I offer you a ride home?” I ask. “It’s past closing time anyway.”

She grabs her jacket from the back of the armchair she was sitting in and puts it on. “I couldn’t ask that of you, Maddox.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. And it’s no problem. Do you live around here?”

“Off of Wilson and Clark, but I really?—”

I hold up my hand. “Please. I couldn’t in good conscience allow a young woman to walk home alone in the dark. Wilson and Clark is a five-minute drive from here tops.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “And you promise you won’t try to abduct me and keep me tied up to a bed in your basement?”

I flash her a smile. “I’ll try my best.”