10. Spencer
CHAPTER 10
SPENCER
“This place looks kind of douchey,” Grady points out as I lead him into a trendy men’s clothing store. The mannequins in the window are silver chrome and wearing slim-fit trousers and button-downs. Not exactly what I would consider douchey, but they’ve styled them with the first three buttons undone, so I guess I can see where he’s coming from. “Slacks and a button-down aren’t really my style.”
“Are you from the 1970s? No one calls them slacks anymore,” I say, flicking through shirts on the rack by the front of the store. The music in here is loud and the lighting is almost too dark, but I can see Grady bouncing on the balls of his feet in my periphery. “Keep an open mind, okay? And stop doing that, you’re making me feel rushed.”
Grady immediately stops bouncing, but he’s started fidgeting with his hands. He catches himself before I can say anything and shoves them into his pockets.
“Let’s just get this over with sooner rather than later.”
“This is not a process you can rush,” I say, whirling around to face him. “This is phase one of the plan. We want you to look like you give a shit, Grady. That includes giving a shit about yourself. People will take you seriously when you take yourself seriously. No more of this”—I point a finger and wave it up and down at the outfit he’s currently wearing; faded jeans, a black T-shirt that is so threadbare I can just about see right through it, and that god-awful baseball hat—“scruffy bar owner look. And no more backwards ball cap.”
“First the motorcycle, now my ball cap?” Grady protests. “You are a cruel, cruel woman.”
“Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind,” I retort, turning my attention back to the rack of clothing.
“Be careful, Rebel, it’s kind of turning me on.” The nickname he just used causes an interesting warmth to melt down my spine, but I ignore it and flash him a glare over my shoulder. I rummage around in the rack a little longer, choosing not to respond to his comment.
“Here. Hold onto these,” I say, pulling out a few shirts I like and shoving them towards him.
“These are not my style. Can’t we go somewhere else?”
“Stop being a baby about this. You’re just trying them on,” I scold. “And I’m not saying you need to wear a button-down and trousers every day, but you need something nice to wear to the party.”
“The party? What party?” Grady follows me like a puppy as I make my way to the back of the store and start sorting through the folded pants on a table.
“Phase two. The party,” I say, realizing that I’m only just filling Grady in on this part of the plan now. I spent the entire drive planning it out in my mind. A cocktail contest at the bar. Kind of like the Christmas trees in the mall, where businesses can decorate their own and have them on display. The winner of the cocktail contest would be featured on the Whisky Jack menu for a whole year, and proceeds will be funnelled back to the community. It’s genius, really. It gets people involved and shows them how tight knit the community is. But mostly, it proves that Grady is forward-thinking, that he prioritizes the town.
“How many phases are there?” Grady’s tone is aghast.
“You told me you’d trust me, right?” I hand him a stack of pants that complement the shirts, and his arms adjust to the weight of the clothing, his thick forearms tensing. “Also, I haven’t decided how many phases there will be yet. Phase two only came to me about two hours ago on the drive here.”
“Do you care to fill me in?”A muscle in his jaw twitches beneath his groomed beard.
“Later. Right now, you need to go and try those on.” I turn Grady around with a hand on his shoulder and direct him toward the changing rooms. “Come out and show me everything.”
“Okay, Mom,” Grady grumbles.But as much as Grady complains about it, he does as he’s told, and then steps out from behind the thick black velvet curtain in the first outfit. He’s wearing a pair of navy blue trousers, a button-down shirt with a faint blue pattern, and a brown belt that accentuates his trim waist.
“Give me a turn,” I instruct, and he does so with hands on his hips in what I can only assume is the only pose Grady knows. He doesn’t give off model energy, and I hope to God the man is never in a situation where he has to walk a runway for his life. Though the shirt fits like it was made for him, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders. I quickly pick my jaw up off the floor before he turns around, schooling my face into casual indifference. “It looks great. Why do you look like you’re wearing a shirt made of poison ivy?”
“It’s kind of … stuffy.” He shifts around as if he’s allergic to looking good. I uncross my legs and stand up from the bench where I was seated. I approach him to assess the outfit.
“It’s the way you’ve styled it. Or rather, haven’t styled it,” I say. “You’ve got the top button done up. Here, let me help.” I get close enough to him to adjust the buttons on his shirt, and as I do, I feel my movements slow down, like somehow Grady’s gravitational pull fucks with time. He’s looking down at me, and his breath is a soft puff of warmth on my fingers.
“You don’t have to undo too many. Otherwise, you’ll look like the mannequins in the window, and yeah, I admit they’re a little douchey.” I undo the first button and clear my throat, backing away from him. “There, take a look now,” I say.
Grady turns to the mirror. He’s standing a little taller now and the way his body language has transformed in front of me sends a zing of electricity down my spine. This is the side of him that he showed me in bed the other night. The confident, take charge, and take no shit version of Grady that he needs to embody if he’s going to walk into that council meeting and get what he wants. The way he’s turning in the mirror a few times, admiring what he sees in himself tells me he realizes why it’s important, too.
We finish up at the store and wander back out into the mall, bags in hand. Grady bought more than he initially thought he would, and I credit myself and my impeccable sense of style for that.
“Spencer!”
I turn on my heel at the sound of my name to find Eleanor walking toward me, arm extended in a wave. She’s the chair of the Heartwood tourism board, and the last person I expected to see today.
“Hey, Eleanor.” I greet her with a warm smile and a one-armed hug. She’s been nothing but gracious and welcoming since I arrived. The brand deal with WanderLuxe played in Heartwood’s favour too, and she’s gushed about it non-stop.
“What a coincidence seeing you here. Oh, hi Grady,” she says, and Grady gives her a curt nod in greeting. Eleanor turns back to me, eyes wide with excitement. “I was just telling my husband this morning how much I’m looking forward to having you for dinner this week.”
The dinner. Right. I totally forgot that I agreed to have dinner with her and her husband later this week. Eleanor wanted to thank me for what I’ve done to promote Heartwood.
“Yes, absolutely, me too,” I fake, my voice rising to that octave I use when I’m feigning excitement. Eleanor’s eyes flick towards Grady, and then back to me.
“Feel free to bring a date if you’d like,” she says behind a hand that is meant to conceal what she’s saying. I catch Grady looking down at his feet awkwardly, a smile playing on his lips.
“Uh, Grady and I aren’t—” I start, but Eleanor interrupts me.
“Well, he’s more than welcome if you change your mind.” She checks her watch quickly before adding, “I’ve gotta run, but we’ll see you soon. Hopefully both of you.” She saunters off with a wink in my direction.
“She doesn’t have anything to do with the event you’re planning, does she?” Grady asks once she’s out of earshot.
“No, I totally forgot that I agreed to have dinner with her,” I say, contemplating how I need to rearrange my schedule to fit everything in.
“Can I propose another phase?”
“Oh no,” I protest. “I am the decider of the phases of Grady. We can’t just go running amok here throwing in phases willy-nilly.” I’ve earned myself a glare, and the eye contact makes my face heat.
“You said yourself that you’re making it up as you go.”
Fuck.
“Fine,” I huff. “What is your idea?”
“Bring me to dinner with Eleanor.” I’m already shaking my head before he can get the words out.
It’s a good idea, maybe even a great idea, and I can see why Grady would suggest it. But it means going to dinner with him, and that is strictly against the rules.
“No way. No. Absolutely not.”
“She already said I was welcome to come,” he counters.
“Yes, and she meant as a plus one. We are not in a relationship, so I cannot bring you as my date. We’ll find another way to win her over.”
“You can go out with someone and not be dating them, Spencer,” Grady argues. My mouth twists to one side as I consider the potential ramifications and the ripple effect this might have. Sure, would it be helpful to get the chair of the tourism board to back Grady at the council meeting? Absolutely. Would it look great in my portfolio to show that my plan is garnering support for Grady already? Yes, in a way that I don’t think I can reasonably say no to. Am I willing to make exceptions to my rules in order to achieve it?
“Okay,” I say and Grady’s expression lifts. “On one condition.”
“Cool. More rules.” His voice is monotone and unimpressed.
“No boyfriendy stuff. It’s not a real date, so don’t act like it is.”
“Nope. You already agreed to the date,” he says, and he takes a step forward so we’re close enough to be sharing breath. “And if I’m taking you out, even if it is just to Eleanor’s house, I’m not going to half-ass it.”
“We agreed on those rules, Grady. You agreed to them.” I’m getting angry now, my hands forming fists at my sides.
“I’m just about ready to say fuck the rules, Rebel. After all, aren’t rules meant to be broken?” His lip lifts into a smirk and I hate it. Whatever that perfectly fitting button-down awoke within Grady, I hate it. I hate that it makes me want to kiss him, right here, right in the middle of a goddamn shopping mall.
Grady and I hit a few more stores after our encounter with Eleanor, and I struggle to keep my thoughts under control as he tries on outfit after outfit that makes me want to rip them right off his chiseled body. My mind has been like a runaway train, careening into territory that I actively want to avoid.
We’re going on a date. A fake date, mind you. At least to me. Grady seems to think otherwise, despite my best efforts. I’m mentally contemplating the ugliest possible outfit I could wear to deter him when he interrupts my thoughts as if he could read them.
“I think I’m sufficiently outfitted. You Queer Eye’d the shit out of me today. I need to repay you,” he says. He can repay me by staying the hell away before I completely cave, I think, but I refrain from saying. “Let’s find you something nice to wear.”
“Oh, I don’t need anything. This trip was for you.” I wave him off.
“You’ll need something to wear on our date.” Before I can protest, Grady has me by the hand and is leading me towards a far too fancy, and far too expensive, store. “Pick something out for yourself.” I glance around nervously.
“You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to spend money on me, really. This place is way too expensive,” I point out, noting the way the saleswoman is looking me up and down, assessing my financial status by the distressed jeans and Birkenstock sandals I’m wearing over bunched-up wool socks.
“I can spend whatever I want on you. Besides, this is the only way I really enjoy shopping. I hate looking for things for myself. But for other people …”
I scrunch up my face as I weigh Grady’s suggestion. He’s gone along with my prodding today, despite his initial pushback. If all he wants is to buy me a dress, the least I can do is try one on. Besides, it might be fun to play dress up. Even if I’m not going to let him buy anything.
I peruse the racks, looking for something that might catch my eye. My gaze stops on this stunning boatneck ruched midi dress. The pattern is a faint tie-dye of pastel pinks, purples, and rusty orange. It’s gorgeous.
“Try it on,” Grady says, following my line of sight to the dress. He picks it up and hands it to me, and I reluctantly accept.
“Just this one, but you’re not getting it for me.” Grady shrugs like it’s not my decision anyways, and I glare at him as I make my way to ask Judgy McGee for a fitting room.
I pull the dress on and zip up the back with ease, the fabric conforming to the shape of my body. I turn around, twisting to look at how the back accentuates my curves, and I decide not to leave the fitting room and show Grady. Sure, the dress lifts my ass in a way that defies gravity, but I actively stay away from anything figure-hugging. To other people, I have a great body; I’m tall and relatively lean. But when I look in the mirror, all I can see are the flaws.
“Come out and show me,” Grady says through the curtain.
“No,” I say.
“Look, I had to show you all the clothes I tried on.” I can tell by his voice that he’s standing directly on the other side of the thick curtain, waiting for me to open it. Which I won’t.
“I’m going to take it off now,” I say, reaching my hand over to grab the zipper when Grady swings the curtain to one side. “Hey!” I squeal. “What if I had been naked in here?”
“Well, you’re not. And it’s nothing I haven’t seen anyway,” Grady says teasingly, but his face falls when he stops to take me in, standing in the dress he practically forced me to try on.
“It’s a little too snug, don’t you think?” I start. “I would need some military-grade Spanx if I’m going to pull this dress off.”
“Spencer, you look …” Grady’s voice trails off, and I know it’s because he can’t find words that won’t hurt my feelings.
“It doesn’t matter how I look, you’re not buying it for me anyway.” I check the price tag once again and see a couple too many digits before the decimal point. “There’s no way.”
Grady stands up and comes over to meet me by the mirror where I’m twisted around staring at the price tag on the side of the dress. His impossibly large hand pushes mine away from the tag and covers it as he rests his hand on my hip.
“Spencer, there is nothing too expensive when it comes to you. Look at all you’re doing for me.” Grady is standing close behind me now, looking at me in the mirror over my shoulder. His eyes roam over my reflection as he takes in the curves of my body. “I know I’ve been resistant to change, but the feeling I had today when I was trying on the clothes you picked out for me… I see it now, how much of a difference it can make to your confidence when you put in a little effort. I have more hope today than I did yesterday that we might be able to make a difference for Heartwood. That’s all thanks to you.”
I don’t speak the words that I have on the tip of my tongue because Grady has dipped his mouth down to my ear, and I can no longer think about anything else but his breath on my neck as he whispers, “So you’ll let me buy this dress for you. Not just as a thank you. But because you look so fucking stunning in it that I’m fairly certain it was made for you and only you.”