A Fairytale Christmas

“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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