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I make the mistake of looking up.

Cal has his back to me as he shrugs into the jacket.

The suit is dark navy, almost black beneath the fitting-room lights, and it settles over his shoulders. The fabric pulls smoothly across his back, narrowing at his waist. White cuffs show beneath the sleeves, drawing my attention to his hands as he fastens the button.

Hands I have absolutely no reason to be thinking about.

The tailor straightens the collar.

Cal lifts his head.

Our eyes meet in the mirror, and one corner of his mouth rises, slow and knowing, but he doesn’t turn around. He just holds my gaze in the glass while the tailor adjusts the jacket over his chest.

“Whatcha think, Doc? Is this the one?”

I should look away.

Instead, my eyes travel from the open collar of his shirt to the clean line of the jacket, then lower before I can stop them.

The pants fit too.

Very well.

By the time I drag my gaze back to his face, his smile has grown.

I clear my throat.

I make a sound that I sincerely hope conveys yes, the suit is fine.

Fine doesn’t even come close to describing it, though. The suit fits like it was crafted by gods to hug Callum’s body. It looks downright sinful. Watching him get measured into it is basically lady porn.

He flashes his teeth. “Good enough. Hopefully it’ll be enough to not piss off my father,” he says, turning away from the mirror to reach for his belt.

I watch his hands. His large, unhurried hands threading the belt through the loops. I look back at my flashcards.

“Why are we even here?” I ask, because I need to keep talking. We’re alone again, and the room is very small.

He sighs. “My father is high up on the Mountain Springs General Hospital board. He’s been a surgeon there for like thirty years.”

My eyes go wide. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yep. He does these fundraiser things in Denver. Donors, investors, people who need to feel good about giving money to medicine.” His jaw ticks. “He’s getting an award at this one and he wants the whole family there.”

“And you don’t want to go.”

“I want to fix things with my family,” he says it carefully. “Which means showing up when he asks. He wants the whole family there as a united front. Which means”—he gestures at himself—”not looking like the black sheep of the family. Being a bit more like Drew.”

“Your younger brother?”

He looks at me briefly, then away. “He’s a math genius and a football player. These people… they’re surgeons and researchers, and they value that kind of shit. Being a musician isn’t...” He trails off. Picks it back up. “They don’t exactly see the arts as impressive.”

“Ah.” Is all I can think of replying.

“I need a plus one,” he continues, like he didn’t hear me, “who my mother approves of. So I don’t look like a, and I’m quoting here, playboy musician.”

“I’ll come,” I say.

He looks at me.