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“Hey.” I try to sound neutral but that goofy look on his face has me cracking a smile, too.
He flips the camera around and I can see him standing in front of a huge mirror, that shiny purple tuxedo clinging to his tall, solid body. “So, what do you think?” he asks me.
“That’s not what you plan on wearing to the gala, is it?” I’m laughing all over again.
“I really hope that’s a Harry-you’re-so-hot-I-can’t-stop-giggling giggle…” he scolds threateningly.
“Um, sure.” I say. “So hot. So, so hot.” I fake-cough into my fist. “Y’know, I’ve been feeling a little under the weather.” More fake coughing. “I don’t think I’ll be going to the gala after all.”
Harry laughs. “Not a chance you’re getting out of this. You could be on life support the night of the gala. I’d roll you into that ballroom on a gurney with all your monitors and tubes and medical devices attached to you. I’m not letting you back out of this, Nadia Chester.” The mischief in his eyes grows brighter as he speaks. “But I could use a second opinion down here, picking out a tux.”
I glance at the piles of work on my desk, waiting for my attention. Then my eyes flip back to the handsome one-sided smile lighting up my telephone screen. “I…I’m really busy at the office today.”
“Okay, fine.” He rakes his fingers through his too long strands and the way his hair casually flops over his brow makes my stomach twirl. “Fair warning, though—jorts and a backwards baseball cap are my go-to fashion choices. So if you don’t mind me showing up to the gala dressed in my usual attire, then—”
“Send me the address!” I hear myself screech out. “I’m coming down there.”
Oh, man. That victorious smirk of his. It can barely fit on the phone screen.
And the worst part is, I’m grinning my ass off, too.
Regardless, twenty minutes later, I’m hustling into some obscure menswear store on one of the side streets in town.
Harry is hard to miss with that damn ball cap turned backward on his head. He’s standing tall and regal among the cluttered clothing racks near the changing room all the way at the back of the establishment.
My steps falter. Just seeing him from the back—with his broad shoulders filling out a black tuxedo jacket now—ignites a flurry of tingles in places that have no business tingling.
Like my belly. And my boobs. And that quiet, shadowy,neglectedplace between my thighs.
Harry throws a tentative look over his back and when he sees me standing in the sea of clothing racks, the ‘most realest’ smile of all time spills out over his face. That smile almost takes my knees out from under me.
“Hey, Dream Girl.” He turns to face me and I catch a glimpse of his toned chest as he finishes buttoning up the front of his shirt. “Get in here and tell me how good I look.”
The tingling in my stomach makes me hesitate. But that warm smile of his lures me forward.
He fiddles with his bowtie for a while then he flings his arms out to the side and waits for my appraisal. “So…?”
From where I’m standing, I observe him. “It looks…good,” I say.
‘Good’ doesn’t nearly do him justice. The man looks like something sculpted during the Renaissance, teleported to this tiny menswear store and custom-fitted into that suit.
Seriously—Michelangelo who?!
“You don’t sound very convincing.” He glances down at the fabric sculpted to his muscular form. “I’m clueless about these things. Does it need some adjusting or something?”
He tilts his body, giving me his back.
I swallow thickly. Shit—he looks good from that angle, too.
When he faces forward again, his eyes meet mine. “You’re not being too helpful right now, Nadia. Is everything okay?”
I snap myself out of it, briskly shaking my head. “I think you might need to get it adjusted right there.” I point to the hem of his tuxedo jacket. It seems a little too long.
“Where?” Harry looks down at himself.
“There,” I say, jabbing my finger at the air again, careful to keep a safe distance.
“Where?” he asks with a short, frustrated laugh.
