“Like you want to murder me.”
“Is that how I’m glaring at you?” I ask the question honestly.
Thank God she can’t read in my eyes what I actually want to do to her. Because this whole thing is humiliating enough.
“Yes. Like you want to murder me. Or maybe lock me in some kind of stockade in the town square reserved for uppity women. My point is, it doesn’t matter. Glare all you want. You still need a new suit. Maybe a whole closet full of new clothes. I can shop for you, but first I need to know your size. Therefore, Rodrigo is here to take your measurements.”
“Fine,” I bark.
This time she flinches.
This is what breaks her? Me agreeing?
“Jesus,” I growl. “I’m not actually going to hit you. Or murder you.”
Or fuck her. Obviously.
She blinks and then lets out a strangled laugh. “I didn’t think you were. I was just surprised that you agreed so easily.”
“This was easy?” I ask.
“Good point.” Like she’s afraid I’m going to bolt, she takes me by the elbow and gently leads me over to Rodrigo. “Look, all he’s going to do is take some quick measurements.”
“You convinced me. I don’t know jack about fashion, but even I know clip-on ties don’t cut it. So if the only person in the room who thinks I don’t look homeless is wearing a clip-on tie, then that’s pretty fucking pathetic. You don’t need to keep lecturing me.”
She grins.
At me.
And it’s such a shock I almost can’t breathe.
Which is just stupid. Because obviously, I can breathe.
I still have an autonomic nervous system. I can fucking breathe.
It’s just that she’s never given me that grin before. That amused, we-share-a-secret grin.
Then she blinks rapidly. Like even she’s surprised that she’s smiling at me.
Her hand drops away from my elbow and she turns to Rodrigo, suddenly serious.
Obviously she doesn’t want me to get the wrong idea from that shared smile.
She rattles off a series of instructions that I barely listen to, throwing around terms I haven’t heard before. Big surprise.
She and Rodrigo talk. I climb up onto the stool he’d brought. Jesus, I hope that didn’t look as awkward as it felt.
He measures. He asks me to take off my jacket. When I do, he hands it over to Holly and she carefully drapes it over her arm, one hand stroking the fabric absently as she and Rodrigo continue discussing . . . I don’t know, fabric options or something.
I can’t focus on anything other than the sight of her hand stroking my jacket. The way her fingers move over the jacket is mesmerizing to the point of distraction.
Great. Now I’m getting hard. While some old guy is about to measure me for pants. Just. Fucking. Great.
And this must be what a protozoan in one of my soil samples feels like—being examined under a microscope by people who are only vaguely aware I’m even alive.
My mind wanders to the soil samples from Argentina that I’m expecting next week as Rodrigo measures me for pants.
I don’t love being touched by a stranger. Does anyone?
