Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
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?”