Chapter 26
MY, YOUR CLOSET IS SO BIG
REMY
I have serious closet envy. It’s not the size of Lake’s closet though.
It’s the organization. Every single thing is neatly arranged.
Dress shirts hang crisply on metal rods, wingtips and sneakers alike rest on clean white shelves.
Cubbies display pristinely folded shirts and workout shorts.
A small wooden watch box sits open on a shelf, showing off a velvet padding cradling several watches.
“I didn’t think you’d be so neat,” I say, looking around.
He scoff-laughs. “You’ve been in my car. It’s not messy.”
“True, but I guess I wasn’t expecting this,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure why.
“You’re the one who once said I was—your words—adorably, superstitiously organized. Why did you think I’d be a slob?”
He’s got me there. I did say that about his pre-game superstitions. “I didn’t think you’d be a slob. Just…chaotic.”
He arches a brow, looking like he doesn’t want to let this go. It almost feels like we’re still playing The Naked Truth. Like this matters deeply to him. “Why?”
I consider him before I answer. His hair is neat. His beard is trimmed. His clothes are never adorably rumpled. His home is clean. “I’m honestly not sure.”
He hums, low in his throat. A doubtful sound.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“You know why you thought I’d be messy.”
“I honestly don’t,” I say.
He pins me with a knowing stare. “Because you think we’re opposites.”
I stop everything for a second, standing still. I feel a little see-through. “Maybe I did think so for that reason. You like surprises. I don’t. You’re decisive. I turn things over twenty thousand times. You go with the flow. I take copious notes.”
“And yet, we both have neat closets,” he says, entirely amused now.
“Hey, were you spying in mine?” I counter.
“Yes. Remy. I was super focused on the shelves and all the folded sweaters that day.”
The memory of that haircut, and looking in the mirror after, sends a dart of lust down my spine, and I lick my lips, then glance around at the glorious organization in here. “I guess you surprised me then,” I say softly. “But maybe it’s a good surprise that you’re so neat.”
My attention returns to the watches. They glint in the light. “These are from your watch sponsor?”
“Yeah. Victoire gave them to me,” Lake tells me, a little apologetic, like he’s embarrassed he has an endorsement. Or more likely that they give him such expensive goodies.
“They’re gorgeous,” I say, hovering my fingers near a shiny silver watch, then a matte one that’s subtly classic.
“That’s titanium,” he says. “Supposed to be lighter, hypoallergenic, good for diving.”
“You dive?”
“No interest. Too slow.”
I shudder at the thought of being underwater for so long. “You’d never catch me diving either.”
“See? Not opposite.”
I shake my head. “Definitely opposite. It’s not the speed. It’s that I don’t like activities with a high chance of death. Skiing, diving, bungee jumping…”
He laughs. “Scuba diving is actually low risk.”
I turn to him, pressing my finger to my lips. “Shh. It seems like it has a high chance of drowning, so let me believe that it does. Also, there might be snakes underwater.”
He cracks up. “That’s pretty rare in places where you’d scuba dive.”
“But it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”
“You have me there,” he says, still chuckling.
“But it is a nice watch,” I say while studying the elegant look and style of the timepiece. “It’s seriously pretty.”
“You can touch it,” he says, urging me on. “They’re supposed to be worn.”
“You don’t wear them,” I point out. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you with one.”
“Checking out my wrists, Remy?”
Well, lately I have been. His forearms. Dear god, his forearms. “Yes, all the time. Wondering why you don’t wear a watch,” I tease, since it’s easier than admitting I catalogue every detail of my fake boyfriend.
“No need. I mean, the time is fucking everywhere,” he says, and that’s so Lake. A thing should be functional for him.
He reaches past me, his strong arm brushing mine, making my skin spark, my heart jump. I swallow as he grabs the titanium watch, tugs it from the velvet box, and flicks the clasp open, dangling it in front of me.
“Give me your hand,” he says.
I stick out my arm.
He takes it. When his fingers graze along my skin, my breath catches.
My chest flips as he slides the watch onto me, inch by delicious inch.
He’s not speedy. He’s slow, purposeful, dusting his fingers along my hand as he puts the titanium on me like it’s foreplay.
By the time he reaches my wrist, I’m not sure how I’m still standing—every touch is so electric, so charged.
Is it this way for him too?
He meets my eyes, and the look in his is raw and hungry. It’s such a good look that I ache everywhere, a slow, thumping pulse that settles in my core. He flicks the timepiece closed, tightening it on my wrist, but it’s still loose on me. “The case diameter was designed for me,” he says.
An explanation, but one that hardly matters as he takes his time adjusting the loose watch, like he wants to make sure it’s worn in just the right way.
He finishes, then meets my gaze.
“It’s like a bracelet,” I say, holding up my wrist, letting it slide up and down.
Lake stares at my arm like he’s mesmerized, then swallows roughly. “Yeah, it does look like one on you.”
“It’s so light,” I say, then study the timepiece for a beat or two. It’s elegant and sophisticated and fun to play with. But it’s just play. That’s all. These watches are well over five figures. “Thank you for letting me touch it.”
“It’s touching you now,” he says, his voice a little husky, and it’s then that I realize Lake’s staring at the watch on me with something like jealousy, or maybe even longing in his eyes.
Like he’s jealous of…a watch?
A watch that’s been kissing my skin.
But that’s a ridiculous thought.
A ridiculous thought that’s making my heart cartwheel dangerously. I really need to focus on the reason I’m here.
I un-hook the watch and set it back in its soft case. “Thank you,” I say, then catch the time. It’s running out. “That’s a reminder I need to get to work picking out your wedding attire.”
I walk toward the back of the closet with the suits. “They’re as pretty as the watches.”
A charcoal three-piece suit. A midnight blue blazer and matching trousers. A maroon suit with a clever plaid pattern that screams cutting-edge-athlete hot.
“You can touch them too,” he says.
There’s a sultry subtext to the invitation. The permission.
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I coast my fingers along the fine fabric of a dark brown suit, the color of chocolate.
I travel along the arm of a forest green jacket with the faintest of checkmarks on it.
I move to the pants next, touching the expensive-looking material.
My head spins with choices. My pulse thunders with possibilities.
I’m picturing Lake in the smoky one, the midnight blue one, the one the color of an evergreen.
I linger on the last one for a few seconds longer, closing my eyes, imagining it on him.
“You like green. You like earthy colors,” he says from behind me.
I turn around. “I do. But that’s for me,” I say, then look him up and down, with his short dark hair, his cool eyes, his strong jaw.
But I’m always returning to his eyes. To the beauty in them, like cool blue gems. “This feels like you,” I say, gesturing to the midnight blue suit.
“Yeah?” He sounds like he’s questioning me.
“Definitely.”
“You sure?”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing or truly doubtful. “Yes,” I say, adamant.
“I should make sure though,” he says, the corner of his lips twitching as he grabs the suit from the rack, then nods to the door. “I’ll be right out.”
He’s going to put it on? But of course he is.
“Right. No problem,” I say, flustered, but trying to cover it up.
Did he think I was going to stay while he changed? He must have thought that. Am I misreading him again?
It’s kind of your thing, Remy. “I’ll be out here,” I say stupidly, then race out, shutting the door behind me.
I stand in his bedroom, but is this even any better? Since I’m now checking out his bed.
Right there in the middle of the room. Alaskan king and inviting with all those pillows, and the cream duvet.
I’m trying to think pure thoughts of sleep, but it’s hard when the rustle of fabric drifts past my ears, the zip of metal. He’s changing in there, and my mouth is dry. My lips, too, come to think of it.
“Be right back,” I say to the closet door, then head to the sunny kitchen, grab my bag from the chair, and root around for lip gloss in the side pocket.
I need something to do. I land on metal first and tug out my lipstick.
That’ll do. As I return to his bedroom, I’m slicking on ruby red lipstick right as the closet door swings open.
He emerges, all glower and growl in his midnight blue suit and icy eyes.
I freeze, momentarily stunned by the sight of Lake in the perfect shade for him. The pants hug his strong thighs. The white dress shirt stretches deliciously across his firm pecs. The jacket kisses his muscular arms.
He smooths a hand down the lapels, then adjusts the jacket, and I somehow regain the power of movement. I finish applying the color right as he meets my gaze.
His lips form a ruler. His hands tighten into fists. His irises are locked on my mouth. A low, barely audible rumble seems to escape his lips, and when the sound stops, neither one of us says a word. We both just stare. He’s a tiger, and I’m waiting for him to pounce.
All the questions that haunted me are answered.
The man wants me. And I want him.
Except, I don’t want to be pounced on. I want to be in control. I cap the lipstick tube, set it in the pocket of my sweatpants, and tilt my head. “All you need is a tie.”
He nods toward me, commanding, authoritative. “Pick one for me.”
I stride into the closet again, tossing him a flirty glance as I make my way to the tie rack, flicking through the options quickly, powered by this fresh rush of confidence, before I settle on a silvery number.
“It’ll provide a nice contrast to the blue of the suit,” I say, but I sound breathy, like my mind is elsewhere.
Because it is.
He moves behind me, the fabric of his slacks swishing with each step before he stops.
“But how will it go with your maid of honor dress? Or should I wear a black tie?” he asks, far too casual, reaching past me for a plain, simple black silk tie.
He grabs it and holds it up, dangling it in front of me.
Like a taunt. Like he’s the one in control of the color choices. It’s a good choice he’s making though—lush and dark and seductive.
“That’s better,” I say, then turn around so I can fully face him. I take the neckwear from him, taking back the moment too. I toss it around his neck, adjusting the ends as my fingertips brush briefly against his shirt.
My whole body is lit up. Every cell, every molecule is shimmying.
I’m contemplating tying the tie but Lake’s staring so hard at my mouth, and he’s so shameless about it I’m not sure if there’s any point in completing the knot.
“Your lips,” he rasps out.
The heat in his eyes tells me everything I’ve ever needed to know about these last few weeks with him.
The flames in them feed me.
The spark leads me on.
There are too many reasons why this is a bad idea. My breakup is too fresh. His hurts run too deep. We work together. I’m friends with his sister. I can’t risk the wedding, or my sister’s brand deal, or anything.
I shouldn’t cross another line. I know—and I ought to know better than anyone that now is a time for overthinking—but no one has ever looked at my mouth like that.
I’m so tired of thinking. I’d rather do. “I guess we should try the real lipstick test.”