Chapter 11
The Unexpected Side Effects of Formalwear
CALEB
Montgomery's Fine Menswear looks the same as it has for my entire life: dark wood panelling, plush carpet, and the slightly musty smell of expensive fabric. The sales associate, Mr. Harrington, greets me by name as soon as we enter.
"Mr. Huntington, it's wonderful to see you again." His eyes slide to James, taking in his height and build with professional assessment. "And this must be your... friend?"
The hesitation is slight but unmistakable.
"My boyfriend, James Hunter." Watching Mr. Harrington closely to see how he'll treat James. Mother's definitely called ahead. Instructions? Or just intel gathering?
"He'll need a suit for the gala as well. We're looking for dark, formal suits with white shirts, black bow ties, and formal shoes."
Rubbing the back of my neck, a nervous tic I never grew out of, I glance at James. "I didn't think getting tuxes made sense. As long as we dress these up properly, they might be acceptable to my mother."
James nods, already looking around at the racks of formal wear.
Mr. Harrington's smile doesn't falter, but something shifts in his eyes, and I can’t find it in me to care what he was thinking. "Of course. Right this way, gentlemen."
He leads us to a private fitting area at the back of the store, where three separate dressing rooms branch off from a central space. The room feels smaller than I remember, especially with James's tall frame filling more space than I'm used to.
"I had pulled several options in your usual style, Mr. Huntington," Mr. Harrington says, gesturing to garment bags already hanging in one dressing room.
“If you’ll just give me a few minutes, I will change these for dark suits instead.
For Mr. Hunter, we'll need to take measurements first. If you'll step this way, sir? "
James follows him to a platform, looking very uncomfortable as Mr. Harrington retrieves his measuring tape.
"Arms out, please," the tailor instructs. "This will only take a moment."
James submits to the measuring process, his expression growing more pained with each number. Mr. Harrington calls them out to an assistant who appears with a notepad. Each measurement is announced clearly: shoulders, chest, waist, and inseam.
"You weren't kidding about the full treatment," James mutters when Mr. Harrington steps away to gather a few sample suits for us to try on.
"Welcome to my world. Where even your body measurements are a matter of family record."
"Seventeen years," Mr. Harrington announces as he returns, answering a question no one asked. "That's how long the Huntingtons have been clients. I fitted your first formal suit when you were twelve, Mr. Huntington. For your cousin Amelia's wedding, if I recall correctly."
"You have an excellent memory," I say politely, though I'm cringing inside at the reminder of how my family has orchestrated my life.
"We have several options for Mr. Hunter based on his measurements," Mr. Harrington continues. "If you'd like to try the first one, sir?"
James accepts a garment bag and disappears into a dressing room, leaving me alone with Mr. Harrington's knowing gaze.
"Your mother called ahead," he informs me quietly. “She mentioned you'd be bringing a guest. First time, isn't it?"
The implication is clear. I've never brought a date to a family function before; I've always attended solo or with whoever my mother arranged.
"Yes." Anything I say might be repeated back to someone in my family, so it's better to be succinct.
"Well, your mother will be pleased to see you with appropriate company," he says, missing or ignoring my discomfort. "She was concerned after the... incident... with that Christopher fellow."
My body and mind freeze. Christopher. The name alone sends a cold wave through me. Even the tailor knows. So much for my parents keeping it quiet. "That was a long time ago." My voice is beyond stiff.
"Of course, of course," Mr. Harrington backpedals, sensing he's overstepped. "I only meant—"
He's interrupted by the dressing room door opening, and I turn to see James coming out in a gorgeous black suit. The transformation is immediate and startling. The formal wear emphasizes his height, the broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist. He's almost unfairly attractive.
"Well?" he asks, looking uncomfortable under our stares.
"It's..." My throat is tight, and I have to clear it, suddenly aware that I've been staring. "It fits well."
"The shoulders need minor adjustment," Mr. Harrington says, stepping forward to tug and pin areas of the jacket. "And the pants require hemming. But the cut suits your frame excellently, Mr. Hunter."
James catches my eye in the mirror, raising an eyebrow in silent communication. Is this normal? His expression seems to ask.
Nodding slightly, hoping he understands that yes, this is exactly how it always goes. Every detail analyzed, every imperfection noted and corrected, the Huntington way.
"Try this one next," Mr. Harrington suggests, handing James another garment bag. "A more modern cut that might better complement Mr. Huntington's style."
As James returns to the dressing room, I slip into my own dressing room to try on the suit selected for me. It fits perfectly, of course. They always do.
When I come out, I find James already on the platform in the second suit, a slightly more fitted style with a shawl collar that somehow makes him look even taller and more imposing.
Holy shit.
The suit fits him like it was explicitly designed to destroy my composure. Every line emphasizes his build; the broad shoulders, the way the jacket nips at his waist, how the pants...
Nope. Not going there. Not while standing in Montgomery's with Mr. Harrington hovering nearby.
But the heat spreading through me doesn't care about propriety. My body's response is immediate, embarrassing, and impossible to ignore. James looks fucking hot, and I'm half-hard in a fucking tailor shop.
"That's the one." My voice comes out strained. He turns to look at me, and I have to fight the urge to adjust myself.
James turns to look at me, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in my appearance. "You clean up okay, Huntington," he says, his voice deeper than usual.
"So do you." Joining him on the platform, standing side by side in the mirror. We make a good-looking couple, his height and width next to my more compact frame.
We look good together. Really good. The kind of couple that would photograph well for my father's campaign materials.
And isn't that exactly the problem? It's fake.
"I believe we've found our selections, Mr. Harrington. This one for Mr. Hunter, and my usual for me."
"Excellent choice, sir. We'll have the alterations completed by Friday. Will you be picking them up, or shall we deliver them to the residence?"
"Delivery, please," I answer without thinking, then catch myself. "Actually, to Delta Psi Omega. The fraternity house."
Mr. Harrington's expression reveals his opinion of delivering fine formalwear to a fraternity house, but he says nothing. "As you wish, Mr. Huntington. Will there be anything else today?"
"That's all. Thank you."
As we change back into our regular clothes, I think about how James looked in that suit. How I felt standing next to him, knowing he'll be by my side at the gala.
Fuck, it's confusing. He’s James, the cranky computer guy, but he's also hot, and I like talking to him, and apparently, I want to jump him in a tailor shop.
"That wasn't so bad," James says as we leave the store. "Though I think that guy measured parts of me that have never been measured before."
"Montgomery's doesn't miss a thing." I try to sound casual, even though I'm still uncomfortable about Mr. Harrington mentioning Christopher. "That's why all the big shots shop there. Politicians, CEOs, they know every little detail counts."
"Your whole life is like that, isn't it?" James asks, surprising me with his insight. "Every detail scrutinized and adjusted until it's perfect."
I don't answer right away. He's hit the nail on the head about what my life is like. "Yes," I admit finally. "That's exactly what it's like."
Tilting my phone, I show him three additional texts from my mother.
Mother
Your father's campaign manager suggested family photos at 5:30, before the event. Please arrive by 5:15, looking refreshed. The photographer can touch up dark circles, but there's only so much they can do.
Mother
Be sure to have your haircut before the event. You are starting to look like a rebellious teenager. Senator Blackwell's wife mentioned it at the last fundraiser. So helpful of her to be concerned.
Mother
The Morgans' son, who became a partner at his father's firm, will be attending. Thought you might want to network. He's straight, of course, but quite supportive of your "lifestyle." His words.
He nods, not giving me fake sympathy or brushing it off like I'm just being spoiled.
He's just getting a glimpse of what my life is really like.
His usual careful look softens a bit, eyebrows going up while those dark, sharp eyes look at my face like he actually understands. It feels surprisingly good.
"Want to grab coffee before we head back?" he suggests. "I could use some caffeine after that… experience."
"Sure," I'm happy to delay our return to the house and the inevitable questions the guys are gonna ask. Nosy fuckers can't leave anything alone.
As we walk toward the coffee shop, I start wondering what James would say if he knew about Christopher and what had happened, and why my mother is so insistent on controlling who I date. But that's a story I'm not ready to share, not yet, and maybe not ever.
Some wounds are better left untouched, even in a relationship as complicated as ours is becoming.
The night of the gala arrives too quickly. The suits arrived right on time, neatly hung in perfect garment bags in our rooms. I've been staring at mine for twenty minutes, postponing the inevitable transformation into Caleb Huntington III, dutiful son and political asset.
A knock on my door snaps me out of it. "You decent?" James calls through the door.
"Unfortunately," I reply, opening it to find him already dressed except for his bow tie, which hangs undone around his neck. The sight of him in formal wear still hits me with unexpected force. "Having trouble?"
He waves at the tie with a grimace. "YouTube tutorials only get you so far. I've never needed to wear one of these before."
"Here," stepping in close, my hands raise to his collar. "Let me."
My fingers work like I've done it with him a hundred times before. The smell of his shampoo and the warmth of his body as he stands so near make it hard to focus.
"Where'd you learn to do this?" he asks, his voice slightly lower than usual.
"Boarding school," I focus on the tie to avoid looking him in the eye. "Formal dinners once a week. You either learned to tie a proper bow tie or faced detention."
"Sounds intense for a kid."
"It was character building, according to the brochures." Finishing the tie, I step back to assess my work. "There. Perfectly presentable."
"Thanks." He reaches up to touch the tie, his fingers brushing where mine were. "So, what's our game plan for tonight? Rules of engagement?"
The question reminds me that this is all strategic, a performance with agreed-upon parameters.
"It's a smaller event than the main campaign functions," I explain.
"Maybe a hundred people, mostly local donors and supporters.
My father won't attend in person; he's in Washington this week, but my mother will host."
"And how should I behave? Full boyfriend mode or toned down?"
"Somewhere in between. Affectionate but appropriate. These people are conservative, but they'll be watching how we interact."
"Holding hands is okay?"
"Yes, that's fine." The thought of his hand in mine all evening sends an unexpected thrill through me. "And maybe an arm around my waist in group settings. Nothing too possessive, but enough to establish the relationship."
He nods, taking this all very seriously. "And if anyone asks how we met?"
"The truth is simple enough. Same fraternity, got to know each other over late nights and shared interests."
"Leaving out the part where we couldn't stand each other at first?"
I smile even though I’m nervous. "Let's call it a slow burn rather than mutual hate."
Another knock at my door, and I open it to find Gavin beaming at us in his typical golden retriever fashion.
"Dudes!" he exclaims. "You look amazing! Like prom kings or something!"
"We're going to a charity event, Gavin," but his enthusiasm is hard to resist.
"Well, you both look hot," he declares. "James, I didn't even know you owned anything but hoodies and jeans. Who knew you were hiding all that under the hoodies?"
James rolls his eyes, but I catch the slight flush on his cheeks. "It's just a suit."
"Dude, it's a suit that makes you look like James Bond's taller, hotter brother," Gavin insists. "Caleb, your boy cleans up good!"
"He does," I agree before I can stop myself, earning a surprised look from James.
"Anyway," Gavin continues, oblivious to the moment, "Drew wanted me to tell you guys the car service is outside. Fancy!"
"It's my mother's doing," I explain. "She insists on proper transportation."
"Well, have fun at your fancy party!" Gavin says, backing out of the doorway. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
"That leaves our options dangerously open," James comments dryly once he's gone.
Grabbing my wallet and phone, I do a final check in the mirror. "Ready to face the lion's den?"
"As ready as I'll ever be." He offers his arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly maneuver. "Shall we?"
The simple action, playful as it is, steadies me. This is James, grumpy, sarcastic James, who somehow makes me more at ease than anyone else. If I have to endure this evening, at least I'm doing it with James at my side. I won't be alone this time.