by Kristi Rose
“I don’t do credit cards. All the compounding interest adds up. Can’t seem to get past it.” He smiles.
“Let’s do a budget and I can just bill you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I happen to know where you live. I think you’re good for it. I’ll cover everything. You’ll pick from the selection and pay from that. I’m aces with staying on budget.” Not so much aces with balancing the books afterward, but he need not know that. I’ve moved into shop mode, my exhaustion long forgotten. The opportunity to shop has me fairly excited. Can I help that my addiction is my job?
I pull the pen from his pocket and refold the napkin then sketch out a plan of what I think he needs with some input from him. I guess his size bang-on for all things except shoes. For those I’m only a tad off. We come to an agreement about the budget and I’m pleased with the challenge that’s before me.
“Well, I think I’ll start tonight. How about I pop round later this evening with what I have? Is nine too late?”
“No, sounds great.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. I swear to heaven his blue eyes twinkle. “I’m real appreciative, Jayne.”
I wave off his gratitude. “Come on, I’ll show you where Mum has whisked Cordie off too.” We both rise and I realize that even with my new red shoes, he’s taller. At this height, our mouths come close to lining up.
Bloody hell. I’ve got to stop inserting this man into my fantasies. The only way I’m going to know what his lips feel like is if something awful happens to me and I need mouth to mouth. Give me those odds. Even then I’ll likely be unconscious so, to put it in Stacy speak, odds are never.
It’s not often that I’m smaller than a man. It leaves me feeling womanly. Something I’ve only been able to achieve through clothes. I don’t have it easy like my friends. Josie is a petite, yet stacked, knockout. Paisley is a leggy, rail-thin country girl who embodies a sincerity that makes any stranger her instant friend. Heather is the quintessential girl next door, and Kenley, though tall, is still three inches shorter than I am. She’s got the perfect height and the exotic skin tone that comes from having racially different parents. Me, I’ve got the pale Welsh genes and lackluster blond hair that, when coupled with my height, make people think albino before Amazon. Even my cousin, Pippa, whose coloring is much the same as mine, has a lack of height to her benefit. She’s a pixie and I her oversized, non-pixie-like relation. So it’s understandable that I would be wooed by the uniqueness of this new experience I’m having with Stacy. It only makes sense that I would fantasize about something I’ve never gone through before. Who doesn’t do that? Perhaps the naughty free channel I’ve been watching isn’t doing me any favors as well.
“Any chance of scoring more fish wherever it is we’re going?” He follows behind me as I lead him toward the kitchen.
“You chat up Mum long enough and she’ll make you anything.” I laugh.
“Hmm, we may never go home.”
We share another laugh and it’s nice. Friendly. Easy. Well, once we got past all the awkwardness, but talking clothes always makes me feel comfortable. I deposit him into the welcoming company of Mum but not before I purposefully ignore her questioning look. Last thing I need is for her to call me after Stacy and Cordie leave and remind me of my goals. Her single-minded, tyrannical fixation on them is exhausting. She’d make an awesome coach on one of those weight loss shows.
Chapter 6
I show up at Stacy’s half past nine with bags in tow. Finagling some blinding deals has left me on a shopping high. Stacy is getting a good number of clothes for his quid. I might have done better had I not been kicked out due to closing time.
I rap lightly on the door, in case Cordie is asleep. He swings it open seconds later and smiles.
“Jeez, are you sure you didn’t go over budget?” he asks, eyes sweeping over the bags.
“Better, I came in under budget. You’re a joy to shop for.” I hand over several heavy bags of my finds.
“Come in, come in.” He gestures with his head, arms already full.
His place is a mountain of boxes in various states of unpacking. He’s managed to set up the den with two sofas and telly. It appears to be the only habitable room.
“Did you say the movers lost some of your boxes?” It’s hard to image there being room for more.
“Yes, about ten all together. Can you believe that?”
“Unbelievable.” I take it all in. “Though seriously, how does that happen? Don’t they load the boxes onto the same lorry? On the same day?”
He rubs his face and shakes his head. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. Best I can figure is the truck left point A at ten a.m., but half the truck veered into a parallel universe, a wormhole if you will, and my matching end tables were unable to stay together.” He nods to a lone end table.
I raise my brows. “Math joke?”
He nods.
“And they lost the other end table too?”
“Yes, or it absconded with my clothes and kitchen stuff to set up its own house. Either way, it’s all gone. The mathematics of it is astounding.”
“Crikey! But you’re adorable. I bet you’ve been thinking about it loads.” I laugh partly because he’s so earnest but mostly because I can’t believe I said he was adorable aloud. It just popped out.
His cheeks turn a faint pink and a new awkward moment hangs there, leaving us staring at each other. Following a glance to his lips, I jerk my attention back to his broader features only to watch his eyes do the same thing. Down toward my lips and back up.
He licks his lips and afterward the small muscle in his cheek pops. Something wonderfully unfamiliar hits me. Anticipation.
I’m attracted to him. Something about being near him has me struggling for a steady breath. Like the moment before a much desired first kiss when hope’s at its highest.
See Jayne get wobbly-kneed.
I sigh with delight. It’s a heady feeling I haven’t felt since my time at University when I was a naive girl learning about the highs and lows of love. Sure, I’ve been attracted to men since but I’ve come at it pragmatically, engaging with men who wanted what I did, a casual affair.
I can’t speak for what Stacy wants long term. I haven’t asked. And I’d wager a year’s worth of cracking good fortune cookies it’s not what I want. But in this moment, if I were to guess by the way he’s licked his lips, he wouldn’t push me away if I made a pass.
I don’t romanticize this powerful physical attraction, simply sink into it and let it wash warmly over me.
We take a step toward each other and the bags in my arms push up against those in his; the loud crinkle sound of them colliding, the way they cling to my damp skin, jolts me out of my reverie.
Clothes. Business. Focus!
“I, er... Let me show you what I’ve managed.” I take a step back, waiting for the moment to dissipate.
After dumping everything out on his couch, I sort out jeans, khakis, some dress trousers, and shorts in various colors. Then a variety of shirts. My attention stays on the clothing, my internal dialogue reminding me I seek to make a better impression and to be professional.
“Right, see you can put this shirt”—I hold up a short-sleeved shirt in a plaid of various shades of blue—“with either these trousers, these shorts, or these jeans.” I group everything into sets.
He looks between the shirt and the trousers, his expression...befuddled. He may even have gone a bit pale.
Gently, I ask, “You’re overwhelmed, aren’t you?”
“Truth? Yeah. I was just doing the math in my head about the number of combinations and well.... Actually, I’m not real good at matching clothes. I’m ah, colorblind or something.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“Right, well then. I suppose I could take pictures of sets and you can use that as a reference.” I shrug. I’ve done it before for other people. Lots of people.
“Could y
ou? That would be fantastic.”
“I’ll do a bit for you now to get started. Here, try on these shoes.” I hand him a box of leather Tod’s I picked up for such an incredible deal it feels like stealing.
He slips them on. “Wow, these are nice.” He tests them by walking around a few boxes. “I could wear these without socks.”
I gasp. “Promise me you will never do that. You will also never wear them with white athletic socks.” I hold up a bundle of trouser socks. “Only these. If I find you breaking the rules, I will take them back.” I shake the sock bundle once more before dropping in on the couch.
He tosses back his head and laughs before he says, “You will pry these shoes from my cold dead feet.”
“That good, right?” I smile. “Perhaps Jayne knows her stuff?” I smirk as I use my smartphone to snap pictures of outfits.
“Perhaps she does.” He smiles back. “Hey, can I get you something to drink?”
I step away from the clothes I’ve arranged and look over at Stacy. He’s wearing the same manky t-shirt from today with those low-slung, threadbare jeans and the new shoes that, when not on sale, cost as much as his now lone end table.
And he’s lovely. I see why Josie and Paisley speak so highly of him. He seems easygoing and I find I’m feeling more like Jayne, at home, than Jayne, the shop girl. “I would love a glass of wine. But”—I gesture to the boxes—“I’ll take some water, please.”
“Red or white?”
I’m pleasantly surprised. “You’ve got wine?” I know when I moved in I had a case of wine but I’m sure that’s the last thing he’s had time to think of.
“And beer. You don’t think I could tackle all this without it, do ya?” He laughs.
“White then, please.” I smile at him as he leaves the room. I’m snapping shots of clothes when he comes back and hands me a cup of white wine. By cup I mean plastic blue Solo cup.
“Sorry about the stemware.”
“It’s no problem. If I were a stemware snob I’d run over to my flat and get a glass, but this will do just fine.”
“Well then, here’s to making good friends, good luck, and a smooth transition.” He holds his cup up for a toast.
“Cheers,” I say before we each take a sip.
“Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to carpool up to the wedding? My folks are coming to town—”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I’ll be flying up from Miami. I leave Wednesday for business there and go straight to the rehearsal.”
“If your plans change, let me know.” He tucks his hands into his front pockets, his smile so boyishly charming it makes me want to change my plans or at the very least cup his face and suck on his top lip. I’m instantly thankful I really do have to be in Miami or else a two-hour ride with him—alone—could lead to trouble.
“Now, I’m going to text you each picture with a caption of which shoes go with the outfit. This outfit here should do nicely for your meeting Friday.” I point to the navy blue dress trousers and light gray pinstriped shirt. “But this is the pièce de résistance.”
I pull out a dark gray necktie and present it to him.
“Are those quadratic equations on that tie?” He stares in disbelief.
I shrug. “Dunno, looks math-ish to me. So I bought it.”
“This is incredible. Jayne, you’re great. Thanks for bailing me out here.” His face lights with pleasure and once again I’m a superhero of the clothing world. I’m capable of eating dinner with the queen, hanging with the Beckhams, and sitting front row during any and all fashion weeks. Paris, Milan, New York—I am dresser of people, hear me roar!
I snap back to reality. “Oh, it really was my pleasure. I had such a good time shopping for you. Truly. I’m glad you gave me the opportunity.”
He steps closer and takes the tie; our hands brush each other’s and the flare of heat that travels up my arm causes me to suck in my breath. It’s as if this man has an energy field around him that reels me in.
Resistance is futile.
Still smiling as I look up at him and he down at me, I’m instantly pulled into a second, better fantasy that involves being thoroughly kissed and possibly thrown onto the couch for insane passionate lovemaking. Oh, or better yet, across a large box. Doesn’t that sound pleasantly dirty? How wonderful would it be to stretch up when being kissed?
I sigh and refocus.
He’s holding the one shirt I questioned of all the purchases. I wondered if it would fit across his broad shoulders.
“You should try that one on,” I murmur. Because he should but also maybe I’ll get to see his bare chest up close.
Dear Lord, I’ve turned into a letch. A desperate, window-peeping slapper whose salivary glands are on full water works.
“Okay.” He reaches over his head to pull his t-shirt off. Right in front of me.
See Jayne expire from delight.
I’m holding my phone and the Solo cup of wine but they fade away as all I can process is the broad, beautifully sculpted, picture-perfect male form before me.
“Gracious,” I murmur and lick my lips.
“Hey, watch it,” he calls, snapping me out of my fantasy of having my needs topped off.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” My Solo cup lies on the floor, my phone balancing precariously from my fingertips. Apparently, I need to calm myself down as he befuddles me more than I thought. So much for being the cool Jayne I know and love.
He tosses his old t-shirt on top of my spilled wine, pressing his toes over the cloth to absorb the liquid, while flinging the new shirt over his shoulder. I can’t draw my eyes away from his broad shoulders and delicious chest. All those bulky muscles begging to be caressed.
“You’re staring. It’s the scar, right? I know it’s unsightly but it used to be a whole lot worse.” He looks down at his chest.
“Pardon?” Not one single ounce of him is unsightly.
“The scar. I was in a bad car accident. Impaled.”
At the word “impaled” my girly bits surrender and get tingly with want.
I stare at the quarter-shaped scar over his right pec muscle and swallow. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re being kind.” He rubs the scar and I want to lick him. Like brownie batter off a spoon.
“My arse,” I whisper and blink several times trying to break the stare. “You’re dishy.”
Briefly, he ducks his head. “I like to swim.”
When he meets my gaze the message is clear. It’s the same raw look of desirability I saw a few moments ago, the one that sent me into a daydream and at this moment continues to keep my body ringing.
We step closer and a nervous laugh created from the anticipated excitement of what is about to happen, combined with my eagerness to touch him and see if he feels like I imagine, threatens to erupt. Without further thought or words, we’re pressed together, his warmth permeating my silk blouse, and I praise the fashion gods for the sheer fabric. I thank the Florida heat for making lightweight fabric a necessity because the only thing better would be skin.
He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in closer and I lose the capacity for common sense. One moment we’re talking outfits and the next his tongue’s in my mouth and I’ve expired and gone to heaven.
He backs me up against a wall between two boxes and deepens the kiss. I grip his shoulders, trying to crawl on him, in him, or whatever it is that will feed this insatiable craving for more.
“Jesus, Jayne. I didn’t see that coming,” he says, his temple pressed to mine, our chests rising and falling together in a steady rhythm.
“Er....” Not that I hadn’t thought about it, but who needs to say that?
“I just ended a relationship...” He nuzzles my neck and I’m unsure if he’s telling me this for full disclosure or working it out for himself, only aloud. I slide my leg up the side of him and wrap it around his waist.
“I can’t offer anything more than a night
here and there.” I give him my standard line. Lay out the rules right away.
“And I’ve got Cordie...she really”—he kisses the space under my chin—“doesn’t need”—kisses and moves lower—“any more”—kiss, kiss—“to handle.” He stops at the space where my neck meets my shoulder, gives a long sucking kiss before moving across my collarbone. I confess, I may have heard what he said but I’m not listening.
My eyelids flutter as my body relaxes into his and I moan low and deep.
This tall, broad-shouldered fantasy of mine who, with my luck, is likely a closet knuckle-dragging caveman who wants a little woman has swiftly rendered me a strumpet after a few mere kisses. I’m keen to put on an apron and pretend I can cook. I also want to wear nothing else underneath that apron.
My mind’s eye conjures up domesticated visions I’ve never had before.
That’s a dose of cold, harsh, no fun water.
Alert! screams my heart. Warning! scolds my brain (in Mum’s voice). Mind the gap between reality and fantasy.
I shift slightly to the side, trying to put space between us. It’s difficult, especially when one wants no space whatsoever. “Right, well this can go from innocent to naughty in a flash.”
His head comes up slowly, his blue eyes cloudy with want and I debate telling my conscience to stuff it. Caution be damned.
“You want me to stop?” He whispers roughly, as if it’s going to be an exceedingly difficult task.
My body trembles with delight. It’s unfair how keen I am for him, how flawless he is.
“Dad,” his daughter calls from above us. I suppose from the top of the stairs. We come apart in a flash.
Flaw discovered.
No matter how I might yearn for his form, there is no way I’m going to let our bits co-mingle when there’s a child in the picture.
“Yeah, kiddo? What’s the matter?” He jerks the new t-shirt off his shoulder, flips it open, and pulls it quickly over his head. His movements are smooth and masculine and once again, I say a silent prayer for the naughty free channel as I think I’m going to call upon it tonight.
I turn my back to him and try to do at least one deep calming yoga breath; I know I need to do about ten but one’s a start. I pick up my Solo cup then put it on the end table.