Of course, from there, I assumed my life would continue on the straight path I envisioned. I’d audition for a few orchestras, get some callbacks, and eventually land a full-time position. Probably not with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra—they’re one of the best orchestras in the country, even the world—but certainly with some regional orchestra somewhere. There are dozens of them in the US alone.

  But one by one, each audition yielded a big fat nothing. The path I had laid in front of me was broken. And I panicked.

  So I ditched my dream and decided to pursue nursing.

  This time the line wasn’t broken.

  I got my associate’s degree, passed the national exam, and became an RN. Got the job at St. Charles soon after, where I’ve worked for the last five years.

  It’s…fine.

  I don’t hate it.

  I’m making a difference. Probably more of a difference than I’d be making as a flautist, where I’d be playing for the city elites who are only there because they’re expected to frequent places like the symphony and the opera, not because they actually enjoy the music.

  And Chicago has all of the hoity-toity fine arts in spades.

  I still gig on the weekends every so often. I’ll get a call from a local church for a service or even a wedding. I’m pretty good at the flute—I mean, I do have two degrees in it—and it’s nice to pick it up every so often, even if it’s just for a measly fifty bucks.

  But those gigs are getting rarer and rarer. Every year the universities pump more music graduates into the talent pool, and the young ones are always willing to take a gig for less money. The classical music industry idolizes youth. The younger you are, the more likely you’ll be labeled as a prodigy, and people will take more of an interest in you.

  I’m nearly thirty now. An old hag by their standards.

  Of course, I threw away the dream of working full-time as a musician a long time ago. The path wasn’t straight enough for Alissa Maravilla, the woman who needs everything laid out nice and pretty before she’ll even consider dipping a toe in.

  “You okay, Liss?”

  I blink. Dinah, my best friend in the hospital, is poking my shoulder.

  I look at her, paste a smile on my face. “Yeah, just lost in thought, I guess.”

  Dinah furrows her brow. “Concerned about one of your patients?”

  “No more concerned than normal.” I rub at the back of my neck. “Just… I guess I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.”

  That’s a lie. I got eight hours. The same I get every night. In bed by ten, wake up at six. Like clockwork. I don’t even have to set an alarm.

  Dinah raises an eyebrow. “That’s a rarity for you, Liss. Something on your mind?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing at all. I just zoned out.” I bite my lip. “You know how it can be here. It hasn’t been a particularly exciting day.”

  Dinah smirks. “I’ll take that as a good thing. No one has died.”

  “Well of course I’m happy about that, Di.” I roll my eyes. “But it’s just… Do you ever wonder if you chose the right path? If maybe you should have taken a risk, tried something that wasn’t a guarantee?”

  “Nursing is hardly a guarantee,” Dinah says. “You know that just as well as I do. It’s a tough job on the best day. When someone comes here, it might be the worst day of their life. The worst day of their family’s life. And we do what we can to help them. It’s what we do.”

  “The doctors help them,” I say. “We just fill out paperwork and give shots.”

  Dinah cocks her head. “Nurses are the backbone of any hospital. Without us, the doctors wouldn’t be able to do their jobs.”

  I look into Dinah’s eyes, really look into them. “When did you know that this was what you wanted to do? Like, did you receive some kind of sign, have some sort of experience?”

  Dinah smiles. “You know I was born in Vietnam. Moved here with my parents when I was three.”

  “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “My dad picked up some bug on the journey over. It hit right as we got to the States. He ended up going to the doctor. He had to take me with him because Mom was out looking for a job. I remember seeing all the pretty ladies in nurse uniforms. They gave him medicine and made him better.”

  “And you wanted to do that for other people.”

  Dinah nods. “I wanted to heal. Breathe life back into people who are racked with pain. Figure out what was wrong with them and give them a magical pill to make them better, just like they did with my dad.”

  “Why didn’t you become a doctor, then?”

  She chuckles. “Like I said. The nurses do all the real work. When I went to the doctor with Dad, the nurses were the ones who talked to him, administered medication. The doctor just came by for two minutes and looked over all the work they did. Even at just three years old, I could tell who helped my dad the most.”

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath in, and sigh it out. When I open my eyes, Dinah is still smiling. “I’m so glad you found your calling, Dinah.”

  She grabs my hand, squeezes it. “And I’m glad you found yours, Liss.”

  I smile at her, but I don’t mean it.

  Because Dinah… She did find her calling. There’s no doubt about it.

  But I’m not so sure I found mine.

  Winters in Chicago are brutal. Especially when you’re close to the lake, which I am. A good blast of frosty wind will find its way through multiple layers of coats, sweaters, and scarves.

  I walk five blocks east to the L, take the Red Line north to Uptown. Ten stops. I get off and start to head to my apartment.

  And something stops me.

  I’ve lived in this neighborhood for a few years now, and I’ve only ever seen what exists between the train stop and my apartment. A few restaurants, a coffee shop, and my hairdresser are all on the straight line I walk on the final stretch of my evening commute. There’s a CVS and a grocery store, too. Everything I need is in this small half-mile walk, and I’ve never seen fit to diverge from it.

  But tonight of all nights, despite the chill of the wind and the patches of snow on the ground, I do something different.

  A block before I hit the street I live on, I turn left. Then right. Another left. Another left. I zigzag for a mile or so, just seeing what’s in the area.

  I pass an Indian restaurant. I love Indian, but I never have it delivered. How have I not noticed that this place is within walking distance of my apartment? I take a deep breath in and enjoy the enchanting aroma of spices coming from inside. If I didn’t already have a chicken breast thawing in my fridge for tonight’s dinner, I’d go in and order take-out.

  Next I walk by a small theater, apparently about to mount a production of the musical Cabaret. Produced by a company called the Windy City Players. I love Cabaret—it’s one of my favorites. I stop by the box office and look at the show dates. I don’t buy a ticket, but I take a mental note to buy a ticket online once I get home.

  And then I happen upon a shop that makes me squint.

  Hathaway Haberdashery.

  Haberdashery. I’ve heard that word before, but I never quite knew what it meant. I think it’s some kind of clothing store.

  A blast of wind nearly knocks me off my feet. I really should go home.

  But haberdashery is such a fun word. A good combination of syllables.

  And I’m trying something new.

  At the very least, I want to find out what a haberdashery is.

  So on a whim, I walk inside.

  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.

 

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