The final pin was placed. The last hem was inspected. The tailor stepped back with a satisfied nod, murmuring something about lining options and delivery times. Lucas didn't wait for the closing remarks. The moment the pincushion was out of reach, he sprang to life—awkwardly, stiffly, like a deer trying to remember how legs worked—but it was movement nonetheless.
"I'm going to the car," he announced, already halfway toward the door, ignoring the look of horror on the assistant's face as he brushed past a neatly arranged stack of swatches.
"Windstone is waiting."
He made it three steps into the boutique's main hall before he heard her voice. Calm. Inevitable.
"Lucas D'Argente Fitzgeralt, if you take another step, I will have the store locked down and inform your husband that you ran barefoot into traffic to escape a fabric consultation."
Lucas froze, hand on the door, spine stiffening as though struck by lightning. "You wouldn't."
