I should be offended. I should be protesting that my wardrobe is appropriate for my position. Instead, I find myself strangely pleased by her assessment. I clear my throat in a nervous gesture.
“You know,” she says, pushing off the wall, “it's a little annoying, actually.”
“What is?”
“That you look like that.” She makes a loose gesture in my direction.
I open my mouth, then close it.
She steps forward and reaches up to straighten the collar of the henley. Her fingernails are short, unpainted. I go very still. Her knuckles graze my sternum before she drops her hand and looks at the middle distance somewhere past my shoulder.
“I'm guessing this isn't a new problem for you,” she says.
“You'd be surprised.”
She looks back at my face. Something recalibrates behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she says, quieter. “Their loss.”
My heartbeat makes a poor decision. I clear my throat. “You do this on purpose.”
“Obviously.” Her grin is back, the easy one, the one she uses when she's already won. “You get this look every time. Like someone pulled your power cord.”
“I don't get a look. Are we done here?” I ask, trying to deflect this conversation in any direction, but the one we’re currently on right now.
“Not quite.” She points toward the boot section. “You need footwear that will actually hold up.”
“These are quality leather oxfords,” I protest weakly, following her through the store. She stops at a display where she grabbed the jeans earlier, and grabs another pair, then moves on to the shirts, and grabs several more, thrusting them into my hands.
Lila snorts. A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth before she turns her attention to a display of hiking boots. “These should work. Waterproof, good ankle support, decent tread. What size do you wear?”
“Eleven,” I tell her, suddenly feeling absurdly self-conscious about my feet. I’ve never once thought my shoe size contained any kind of psychological risk before this moment.
Lila’s eyebrows lift immediately, a mischievous grin spreading slowly across her face.
“Eleven, huh?” she says lightly. “Well, you know what they say about men with big feet…”
She pauses just long enough to completely derail my nervous system.
“Big boots to fill.”
I stare at her.
Was that?—
Did she just?—
The smug little sparkle in her eyes answers the question before I can even ask it.
Heat rushes straight into my face.
Lila bites back a smile like she’s trying—and failing—to behave herself.
“You are enjoying this way too much,” I mutter.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She hands me the boots, her fingers brushing briefly against mine. The contact barely lasts a second, but my body reacts to it anyway, pulse jumping hard enough to irritate me.
“Grab some thick socks from that display over there,” she says. “Trust me, you’ll want them.”
