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“So I’m a sucker?”
“Without a doubt.” Her voice trailed away.
Why I was smiling at the insult, I’d never know. But there I was, cheerily putting on a plaid shirt with pearl snaps with my ass clad in denim.
What has she done to me?
Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.
It was for the job, I reminded myself as I snapped buttons. I thought the shirt would be hot, but the fabric was surprisingly airy, and as I cuffed the sleeves, I had to admit there was something to the whole look. I couldn’t have told you what it was—maybe the unadulterated masculinity it evoked. Or the look on Jo’s face when she saw me in the jeans. I’d never have admitted it, but I’d have my nuts crushed into these pants if it meant getting Jo out of hers.
When in Rome.
“Here,” she said from the other side of the door before chucking a pair of tan suede boots under the door.
Emboldened by the jeans, I stuffed my feet into the boots, taking a second to arrange the excess denim over top of them. They were tight on my feet—so I could break them in, I figured—but I was glad she hadn’t chosen the kind with a heel on them. These were more work boots than the fancier sort one would wear to church or a wedding.
I snorted a laugh at how casually I imagined wearing boots to a wedding.
“Something funny?” she asked.
“Am I supposed to tuck the shirt in?”
“Not without a belt.”
“You get me a hat?”
“Of course I got you a hat.”
“Guess we should see the whole look then,” I said before opening the door.
A small crowd of women had gathered curiously near Jo, and knowing I had an audience, I tilted my smile and strode toward them.
Stunned, they tried to eye me up and down subtly, but their manners had given way for base objectification. Apparently manners couldn’t hold up against a man in tight jeans.
Enjoying the attention a little too much, I kept on walking up to Jo. Her eyes rose as I approached, her cheeks hot when I leaned in, holding her gaze while I took the hat out of her hands. As if no one was watching, I turned for the mirror, tipping my head to put the hat on. And when I looked up again and checked the gaggle behind me, they’d nearly fallen out of their chairs.
Several of them turned on their heels and hurried off, one of them fanning herself with a brochure for the feed store.
“Is my hat on right?” I asked innocently.
“You know damn well it is,” Jo answered. “You’re going to give poor Martha Ann an aneurism, strutting around like a rooster.”
“I’ve been called a cock enough times that it seems fitting.”
“Think you can sit down in them?”
At that, I frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Well, come on over here and give it a try.”
So I did, taking the seat next to her with care. They were tight and restricting. The only way I could sit was with my legs spread out or else I’d either split a seam or crush my balls.
“Don’t worry,” she started, snickering. “They stretch out.”
“Are you sure I don’t need a bigger size?”
“Absolutely certain,” she said so quick and definitively, I gave her a look. She shrugged. “You just need to wear them in—the boots too. Which means you should probably wear them all day today. Maybe walk around Main Street a couple of times. Get your steps in.”
“To break in the jeans and boots.”
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “Why else?”
“To humiliate me.”
“You don’t need my help with that—you do just fine on your own.”
“You don’t mind helping.”
“No, I do not,” she said on a laugh.
I looked down at her, smiling with my lips together. “You’ve been nice to me.”
“I’ve been laughing at you.”
“Hey, if that’s what it takes to have a conversation.”
“You really don’t care about all this,”—she gestured to me—“do you?”
“Why should I?” I asked as I stood.
“Because you’re proud and rich and I imagine don’t like looking stupid.”
“Sure, but you’re the one who’s a snob.”
I caught a glimpse of her affront as I closed the dressing room door.
“I am not a snob.”
“Sure you are. Snobbery isn’t just by the rich. You hold my status against me. Decided it makes me lesser in your book, out of touch. I don’t understand, right?” I pulled open the shirt with a string of satisfying pops.
“You are out of touch. And you don’t understand.”
“Not any more than you’d understand my world, but I don’t hold it against you.”
“Well, you’re trying to get something from me, so even if you did, you’d pretend you didn’t.”
She wasn’t wrong, though I wouldn’t admit it. “You already said no about the rights. Why do you think I want something from you?”
“Because you don’t strike me as a man who takes no for an answer.”
