Susan Wiggs - A Fairytale Christmas

Jack chuckled, picturing Madeleine Langston accompanied by an empty suit. Then his amusement faded as the empty suit changed into an image of himself. Sheesh. He was losing his mind. He was one sick puppy. He wanted her.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t smitten with her.” Harry pointed his cane at Jack. “I was young once, too.”

“She’s a snow queen,” Jack protested. “Cruella De Vil. I’d have better luck with an ice sculpture.”

“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

“I don’t even know her. Met her once, maybe twice. And believe me, the earth did not move.”

“The Dakota,” Harry murmured. “That’s her late father’s annual party.” He shook his head sadly. “It’ll be her first year without him. Her last year for the party. Just think how that must make her feel.”

Jack nearly gagged on his beer. Harry made him actually think of Madeleine as a person—someone with feelings, someone who could be hurt. He shouldn’t care. But he did.

“She’s probably dancing holes in the rug,” he said.

“She’s probably drinking too much and smiling too hard and wishing someone would rescue her.”

“How would you know?” Jack asked, taking a swallow of beer.

Harry pointed the tip of his cane at Jack’s chest. “I know. Trust me.”

Pushy little squirt, Jack thought. Harry just kept staring at him. His scrutiny was so drawn out and intense that Jack’s ears heated. “I guess I don’t look much like your usual clients, right?”

“I like a challenge. Maybe there’s a prince beneath those rags.” Twirling his cane, Harry walked in a slow circle around Jack, muttering numbers under his breath. “Jack Riley, I’m going to outfit you like you never dreamed. It’ll be like magic. You won’t know yourself.”

“Er, I’m not really into clothes, Harry.”

“Come on, haven’t you ever wanted to walk into a roomful of people and knock ’em dead?”

“Only if they’re Republicans.”

“Bah. You joke when you could go to this ball and meet the woman of your dreams.”

Jack couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud.

Harry pointed the cane again. “Let me do this for you. You saved my life.”

“Actually, I’m more the down-home, beer-and-TV type, Harry.”

“Miracles happen, my boy.”

Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his Yankees jacket. “She’s not my type—”

“I think you’re the type who likes to have fun. Who can’t stand the thought of a lonely lady at a party where everyone wants something from her.” Harry eyed the card meaningfully. He reached up and removed Jack’s glasses. “Drink your beer, cowboy. We’ve got work to do—and fast.”

Hell, Jack decided in amused resignation, had no fury like a tailor—er, gentleman clothier—in the throes of gratitude.

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