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I’m not sure what Peter does to have this build. Swimming? He’s got such a nice, tapered frame, and these pants make his butt look amazing.
I snap my head up, mentally slapping my cheek.Stop staring at his butt. Be a professional.
I step back to look at the length, the cuffs, the color, and tap my chin. “Hm. This outfit needs something.”
Peter looks down at himself, holding his hands out to the side. He waits.
I glance back at the rack of clothes, and my eye catches on a small box from a local shop here. The eye-catching display in the window had lured me in, and I was delighted to step into the millinery.
“I got it,” I tell him and retrieve the box. When I lift the hat up, Peter eyes it with skepticism.
“It does not look practical. Or warm.”
“Not everything has to be practical. There will be a time and a place for this hat.”
He is unmoved, so I pull out my tablet and swipe through some photos. “Look, here’s Lewis Hamilton wearing one just like it. And,” I swipe through a few more photos to find a photoshoot from Vanity Fair, “here’s Alwin from Verduistering wearing it in plaid.”
“Okay.” Peter nods. That’s about as enthusiastic as he gets, so I’ll roll with it.
He reaches into the box and pulls the hat out. It’s a hunting cap, soft and slouchy with a short bill. It has a silk lining, and the top is made of gray wool, just one shade darker than his suit and softer than it looks.
Peter puts it on and turns to face me. The fit is good. I lift it a bit to sweep his unstyled hair back underneath it and then nod once. “There. Go take a look.”
He returns to the bedroom, where there’s a full-length mirror, and I put the lid back on the box. He looks great in the hat, so I’m pretty confident I can get him to keep it. “What do you think?” I call.
Peter doesn’t answer, so I pause, listening. Not hearing anything, I walk to the open door and peer inside.
Standing at the mirror, Peter stares at himself. My stomach falls. Maybe he hates it. Have I misread him so poorly?
Just when I’m about to suggest he take it off, the most bizarre thing happens. Peter’s lips tip up, his mouth opens, and his lips stretch in an actual, hand-to-god smile.
Now, Peter doesn’t just look good in the hat; he looksdevastating. It’s downright magical. A Christmas miracle.
Our eyes catch in the mirror. Peter’s always given off an air of amusement when he finds something funny, but honestly, it’s not like I’ve been meeting him at comedy clubs or watching romcoms together. I know he likes Nash and Clara, but seeing him in person with them last night hit home how serious Peter is.
His corporate headshot doesn’t even contain a smile.
I’ve been quiet for too long, and things have gotten awkward. The smile’s gone, and I clap my hands together once for lack of anything better to do. “Well, okay. You like it, I guess?”
“Yes.”
“Right. So, ready for the next suit?”
He nods and reaches for the button of the jacket. I force myself to back out of the doorway and grab the next suit—the last one—and bring it to Peter.
He’s unbuttoning the shirt at the wrists when I return, and my mind immediately plays the imagination game and envisions him rolling up the sleeves, revealing muscular forearms and light skin.
I take the jacket and flee, closing the door behind me. I remind myself that he’s a client. I’m a professional. Just because he’s got an amazing body and a sexy glower does not mean that I can afford to be interested in him.
When the door opens again, I’m composed, and we decide to keep this suit too. Peter changes back into something casual while I sort the clothes into what I’m sending with Peter and what needs to be returned.
“What time is your flight?” Peter asks from the doorway. The outfit he chose to wear is his favorite chinos and a new wool sweater, a little bigger in the shoulders now, and dark teal.
“Two p.m. I have to pack up some things here but you can go whenever you’re ready.”
“I will drive you to the airport.”
I blink at him. “Are you sure? It’s going to be an hour or so before I’m done.”
