3:45 in the afternoon. The sun has passed its apex and is currently bearing down on you through the shop window without mercy. You'd kill to be able to pop on your sunglasses as you work but it wouldn't be worth it. Your supervisor would scream at you for hours about being 'unprofessional'. Not that it mattered, no one was around. The old man simply liked to nitpick. *God Almighty, it's been a long day!* you think to yourself. Ah, well, another forty-five minutes and you can go home. Not that it matters, there's nothing really to do. Maybe you'll put on some Sinatra and take a bubble bath. Today was really awful though. A twenty-four year old blonde with a rack the size of Texas and a brain the size of a Brazil nut had come in for her wedding dress fitting who got so excited that she ripped both sleeves twice and stepped on her hem at least five times. God, why do the stupid ones always nab husbands?! Who the hell knows. You shake your head and chuckle about the pitiable lot of a tailor as you hem a smockish brown skirt(from the sixties, at the very least) for an eighty-five year old woman. Just then, you hear the soft tinkle of bells as someone enters the shop. Feeling slightly annoyed, you're about to dismiss this person with a quick "Sorry, we're closed" when a startling Scottish brogue whacks you full in the face.

"Ah, excuse me."

You look up and freeze. Oh. dear. sweet. GOD! Standing smack dab in front of you wearing a sheepish grin on his face is Billy Boyd. AH, that face! What do you do? Absolutely nothing. You can't do anything else. Meanwhile, he starts to get uncomfortable just standing there with you gawking at him and shifts his weight to his other foot. You suddenly come to life with an "AHHHH!!! DAMN!!!" as you'd just stabbed yourself in the finger while trying to add a stitch to the hem of the skirt. Feeling suddenly very embarrassed, you shake you finger and finally manage to speak.

"Can I, um... *clears throat* Can I help you?"

"Actually, yes," he says with that roguishly handsome smile, "You see, I'm incredibly late for a party with my mates and in my haste to get out of the car... I ripped my kilt."

His cheeks flush as he turns around to show you. Indeed he has ripped the kilt. It was a good foot-long tear, but nothing you couldn't fix. It was a straight tear and you could make it look like just another pleat. He turns back to you, blushing and running his fingers through his hair. The embarrassment is so clearly written on his face. It's very endearing and undeniably sexy.

"Sure thing." you respond, leading him to a small platform and indicating that he stand there.

You grab your blue group colored threads and match up the color of his kilt with the right spool. Very nervously, you begin to sew, starting at the top. You lift the torn edges and are suddenly greeted with a glimpse of his boxers. Ahhh, god!! The Boxers of Doom! Seeing that he noticed, you quickly make up for the gawk with a pithy comment.

"Hey, I thought Scotsmen didn't wear anything under their kilts."

God, that smile again!! "Well, you're right. I usually don't but it's a windy day and ye canno' be too cautious."

If only he hadn't said it while you were starting the first stitch. Your hand slips and you accidentally jab that needle you're working with into his left cheek. Much confusion ensues.

"WHOA!"

"Oh, God I'm sorry!"

"Wow,that's a wee bit sharp ain't it?"

"Ah geez, are you all right? Any blood?"

"No, I'm fine. It was just a bit of a jolt. Quite a sensation, actually."

"AHHHH!!! DAMN!!?!"

Yes, you managed to stab your finger again. Hearing "jolt" and "sensation" in brogue is simply too much. Your face profusely red, you shake your finger, this time noting that you've drawn blood. He picks up your hand and grins. Then, sweet as puddin', he kisses your smarting finger.

"My fault. Sorry, won't happen again."

His hands are soft and warm and he holds yours for a bit, smiling the Billy Smile that never fails to turn you into a giggling pile of goo. Somehow, your sense of professionalism returns. You slide your hand out of his with a 'thank you' directed toward the kiss. A big breath and you start sewing again. The two of you talk enthusiastically as you fix the tear, each laughing in turn: first about your day, then about explaining all this to his friends. After a good twenty minutes of sewing and laughing you're done. The kilt looks great, can't even see the line from the thread. Billy checks out your handiwork in a mirror.

"It's beautiful! Better than before I ripped it." You smile and blush from the compliment. Figuring your visit is over, you shake his hand and say something about how nice the last twenty minutes have been. He smiles and turns to go, but stops just as the bells on the door start to jingle.

"Ye know," he says, "You're right. This has been fun and I'm reluctant to leave ye. Would you like to come with me to the pub? Orlando, Elijah, Dom and I could always use someone with extra humor. Don't worry about being the only lass there either, Ian will show up sooner or later."

He smiles that smile again and you completely go for it this time. Supervisor be damned, you are leaving. He takes your arm and leads you away. Presumably to Heaven.