“Thank you,” I say when he sits back, still loosely holding one of my ankles in his big hand, like he’s reluctant to let me go. Or perhaps it’s a cuff to prevent me from running again.
He nods, his brows low.
“I was going to ask about what to wear. Should I put the wedding dress?—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “And as much as I like you in that towel, you’ll be more comfortable in clothes that won’t fall off with a…” He brushes the back of his free hand against the towel, and I cling to it.
He smiles and tilts his head in an “I was right” indication. “Do you want me to pick you something out from my wardrobe, or choose for yourself?”
“I’ll decide,” I say impulsively, then bite my lip. Apparently not choosing my own wedding dress has left a bigger mark than I thought.
“Work clothes are in there.” He points at the massive wardrobe that’s straight out of a kid’s movie. His fingers still lightly hold my ankle, and it’s as though he’s totally forgotten to let go. “Casual clothes in the chest of drawers.”
I blink. “Are you suggesting I pick through your stuff?”
“You won’t find anything that will hurt you. Or me.” He smiles wryly, and I have to stop myself from throwing myself into his arms. “Go ahead. I have a couple of things I need to sort.”
He sinks into an armchair by the window that looks out over the garden where we walked up from the wood, takes out his phone, and begins to tap and swipe as though he’s checking emails.
You can tell a lot about someone by looking at their possessions, I think. I study the contents of his wardrobe. It’s all simple, of the finest quality. There are lots of suits that are in fabric so tightly woven that I can hardly make out the lines, in red-black or dark grey. The shirts are more varied, with white in different weights of fabric, every shade of a red the colour of wine, or blue-green. Then more in greys that range from a thin stripe on white to almost black.
Zane said he had something he needed to do, but despite that, and the lure of the gorgeous view, whenever I peek at him from the corner of my eye, he’s watching me.
That heats me all over.
I move to his large chest of drawers, and while they look heavy, the drawer slides out easily. The ease of quality that’s made to last. I blush when I find that it’s his underwear. Of course it is. It’s the top drawer, silly. But though I’m redder than a strawberry, I don’t close it quickly like I should. I take in the carefully separated piles of smooth, black boxer briefs, plain dark socks in neat pairs, and the cufflinks and watches that are so understated they can only be expensive.
The next drawer has T-shirts, again tidy, and in the same colour palate as his suits. Then stacks of jeans, and some casual shorts. Everything is in its place.
I’m building up a picture of a man who is almost pathologically controlled, but has an affinity for black and deepblues and greens and the red that’s like the berries I saw in his tattoos. I don’t dare ask him about any of that. He’s calm and confident, but observant as I examine every garment he wears. Touching the cloth that sits next to his skin feels safe by comparison to looking at him, and feeds what is rapidly becoming a compulsion.
I choose a T-shirt that’s almost as large as my bedsheet at home and the grey sweatpant shorts, and take both to the bathroom to put on. I leave my knickers folded up within the dress, and observe myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
I’d look sexier with just the T-shirt, or a crisp white shirt. I know this. But I chose the safer option. I don’t have a bra because the corset on the dress didn’t allow one, and my nipples are sensitive against the T-shirt.
“So, what now?” I ask as I emerge back into the room where Zane is waiting.
He looks me up and down lazily, from my still damp hair to my bare feet. He’s not even pretending that he isn’t mentally stripping off these clothes.
All my firsts.
Is that going to include taking my heart?
8
ZANE
I regard Willow in my gym clothes. I like the way my shorts seem oversized, rucked at the waist where she’s tied the strings, and my T-shirt is so big on her I can only see a few inches of those shorts anyway.
“Suits you.”
She rolls her eyes. “I look like a puppy got into a laundry basket.”
“You do look cute, I’ll give you that. But not like a puppy.”
“I think that’s an insult,” she replies, mock offended. “Puppies are great.”
“Yes, but I don’t get hard-ons for puppies.”
