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Ten minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom dressed in my Eric gear—minus the mustache, man wig, and makeup—to find Jack has helped himself to tea.
When he sees me he stops mid-sip, setting the mug back on my kitchen table. “Where’s the sock?”
I shift from one foot to the other, trying to remember if I’ve ever felt more self-conscious than I do at this moment, with Jack’s attention laser-focused on my crotch. “I didn’t have a spare sock in the bathroom, so I improvised.”
Jack arches a dubious brow, but thankfully doesn’t question me. He doesnotneed to know I have a shower cap wrapped in toilet paper nestled between my thighs.
Strategically avoiding the bed, he sits at the kitchen table and motions to the only clear stretch of hardwood in my six hundred square foot studio—the pathway from the door to the kitchen table. “All right. Show me what you’ve got.”
“Fine.” Lifting my chin—fake it till you make it!—I cross to the door, turn, and execute my best dude walk. One foot in front of the other, shoulders back, no hip swaying, no bounce in my step.
Jack’s expression remains eloquently unimpressed.
“What?” I reach the table and prop a hand on my waist. “What was wrong with that?”
“Where do I start?” He casts a pointed look at my hip. “And every time you stick one of those out you give yourself away.”
“Well, I’m not trying now. I’m taking a break for feedback.”
“No breaks for feedback.” He snaps his fingers. “Stay in character, keep the curves hidden, remember you have a penis. Go. Again.”
And so, I do it again.
And again.
And again, until I’m so self-conscious my eyelid is twitching, and walking starts to feel as unnatural as riding a bicycle under water.
“Now you look like a robot,” Jack says.
“I feel like a robot,” I huff in frustration. “This isn’t working. You’re making me nervous, and I stink at learning things when I’m nervous.”
“Why am I making you nervous?” He seems so sincerely puzzled I can’t help but laugh.
I wave an arm his way. “Are you kidding me? You’re staring at me like Heidi Klum about to tell me whether I’m in or I’m out. I’m not a supermodel, Jack. I’m not used to people watching me strut up and down the catwalk.”
He frowns harder. “Isn’t that show about fashion design? Not modeling?”
I cross my arms with a sigh.
“Okay, I hear you,” he says, rising from his judgment chair. “Would it help if I walked with you? Maybe in front and you can shadow me until you feel more relaxed?”
“Maybe,” I mumble, though I doubt I’m going to nail the signature Jack glide-prowl any time this century. But at least it will take his focus off of my body for a few minutes, hopefully giving me the chance to pull myself together.
“All right. Let’s give it a go.”
I follow him back to the starting point, wishing I weren’t so aware of the way his broad shoulders make my tiny apartment feel even smaller than usual.
“Chest relaxed, not thrust out or caved in.” Jack turns and starts down our improvised catwalk with me close behind, trying to imitate his utter ease in his body. “Let each step roll out after the next. No bounce, no sway, barely any effort.”
My growl of frustration turns to a laugh as he spins to face me. “Stop. Don’t look.” I flap my hands. “I’m not ready for you to look.”
“Is this helping?”
“Too soon to tell,” I say. “But honestly, I’m not comfortable in myownbody. Let alone Eric’s. So, if you’re looking for Vin Diesel-level of masculine perfection—”
“Wait.” Jack frowns. “Vin Diesel is your idea of masculine perfection? Seriously?”
“Well, he’s…” Actually, I’ve never given it much thought. But now that Jack’s brought it up, I’m pretty sure my idea of masculine perfection is standing right here, towering over me with fiery green eyes and perfectly tousled hair and all the confidence one would expect from a guy who understands he’s God’s gift to womankind.
