Chapter 7
seven
AUTUMN
Autumn: Well, I asked him. He says he’ll do it.
Trey: YASSS. The show must go on!
Autumn: He’s coming over now for measurements.
Trey: Hands to yourself, boo. Though he be pretty, he also be bad news.
Autumn: Duh.
It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m at my boutique, sorting through the pieces for the new display I want to put in the window.
I’m being careful not to unveil any items from the fall collection yet, preferring to make the biggest splash I can with the show in less than two weeks—which also means getting creative with the pieces I’m currently offering but haven’t yet sold.
So far, the pieces from my spring collection aren’t exactly leaping off the rack, but I think with a bit more pizzazz in the window I can entice a few more shoppers to stop by and check things out.
The sound of the door opening makes me look up from my work, just in time to see Zeke Holloway swaggering in—right on time for his fitting. He juts his chin toward me in greeting, flashing me a rascally grin. “Sup.”
“Sup,” I say back, cracking a small smile. He steps toward me, gives me a fist bump that should be weird but somehow isn’t. Zeke is just… effortlessly cool. Without even having to try.
With the classic black Converse he’s wearing and slouchy jeans that fit him just right around the thighs, Zeke is every bit the kind of guy that would have made high school Autumn’s knees weak.
Even the faded Arctic Monkeys tee he’s got on—which, I might add, makes his biceps look uncomfortably good—looks cool instead of sloppy.
Zeke may not try to be cool, but he sure is succeeding.
“Cool place you’ve got here,” Zeke says. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and gazes around the room, nodding at the exposed rafters and the brick walls. “Really—this is pretty awesome. It’s, like, professional.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Um… thanks? I mean, it’d better be, with the amount of rent I’m paying for this spot.”
I realize then that he’s probably never been in here before—and why would he?
Although the stuff in my line is largely his style—lots of varied textures and muted, yet striking, lines—he doesn’t strike me as the type to shop.
And, as much as I’m kicking myself for thinking this, I kind of doubt my pieces are within this kid’s price range.
Well, whatever. I’ll let him keep something as a gesture of goodwill.
Zeke runs a hand through his wild, blond hair, letting it fall back into his eyes as he laughs. “Well, if you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly the professional type—and I don’t often see professional people who are also, like… cool.”
“Interesting...” I move the pile of clothes to my desk and reach for the pieces I’ve already selected for Zeke. I turn back to smirk at him, flattered that this hot, young dude in front of me thinks I’m cool. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that might be a compliment.”
Zeke holds my gaze. “Of course it’s a compliment.”
His eyes are the palest blue, almost like ice, and they’re hanging onto mine in a way that’s got my stomach doing somersaults.
I tear my gaze away. I believe I once referred to Will’s little brother as a walking red flag—and that’s exactly what I need to remember right now.
That smooth way he’s looking at me? That rich, velvety voice he has going on?
Red flags are popping up right and left.
This kid’s got charisma, but he is not going to lure me in. I absolutely refuse.
“Thanks,” I say again. Then, clapping my hands in finality, I scoop up the pieces I’ve chosen for him to wear and gesture him toward the fitting rooms. “Here’s the first outfit. You can change in there, and we’ll measure in front of this mirror out here. See if anything needs to be altered.”
“No prob.”
Zeke flashes me that same devastating smile, and it’s honestly a relief when he disappears behind the fitting room curtain.
As I hear him unzip his jeans, I plead with my brain to stay focused.
I don’t need to imagine what’s going on back there—what Zeke looks like under that tight t-shirt. Whether he’s wearing boxers or briefs.
Or nothing.
God, I hope it’s not nothing. Ew.
“Damn,” Zeke calls from behind the curtain. His voice is muffled and I can tell he’s pulling the henley I gave him over his head. “This fit is sharp.”
He whips the curtain aside, and I freeze. He better not be—
“Relaaaax,” Zeke says, throwing his head back and laughing. “God, you think I’m just going to come waltzing into the middle of your store bare-ass naked? I’m not saying I don’t like a little thrill, but gross.”
He clucks his tongue at me, and there’s that grin again. That dazzling, impish, impossibly charming grin. He’s going to do me in with that thing if I’m not careful.
I sniff. “Well, I’m sorry. You’re kind of a loose cannon—and no, I don’t feel bad saying that, because I think that’s exactly what you’re going for.”
He shrugs into the leather jacket I gave him and fixes me with a look. “Huh. Well observed, hot stuff. Well observed.”
I roll my eyes, but I laugh anyway and gesture him over to the mirror.
He’s still got his Converse on as he struts across the room, and even though I didn’t ask him to wear them, I have to admit…
they’re a pretty good touch to the outfit.
The ripped, light-wash jeans—found at a bin in a Denver thrift shop last summer—and the textured henley—stitched into life from two of my aunt’s old throw pillows—suit his build like I styled the outfit with a photo of him in front of me.
The jacket, too—which I salvaged from an estate sale a few seasons ago—is a winner.
Damn. Go me.
As I stand behind Zeke, sizing him up to see what alterations need to be made, my eyes skim over his ass. Damn. These jeans are… flattering. I push down the thought, keep my gaze moving. I can feel Zeke’s eyes on me in the mirror, watching my every move.
I clear my throat. I’m still trying to ignore the way those jeans are hugging his ass, and it’s got me the tiniest bit flustered. No way am I letting him pick up on that.
“Okay, nice,” I say, nodding. “Honestly, that’s a really good fit. And you look great—the ensemble really suits your build.”
“Thanks.”
Zeke gazes back at me in the mirror, and—well, shit. I think I see pink in those high, chiseled cheekbones.
“Are you blushing?” I squeal, widening my eyes. “Ezekiel Holloway—his Royal Aloofness—is blushing? Come one, come all—gather ye round, this is a day to behold—”
“Stop it,” Zeke hisses, lunging at me to clap a hand over my mouth. He’s laughing, and the rosy flush has faded as fast as it appeared. “Stop. It was just—a nice compliment. I swear, I am one hundred percent aloof.”
“Wow, what a relief. But a compliment for a compliment, I guess,” I say, casting him a half-smile. “Anyway, as great as it looks, I think we’ll need a couple minor adjustments. Do you mind taking off the jacket?”
I swipe a cloth tape measure and pin cushion off the desk, stick a couple of pins in my mouth, and come to stand behind Zeke.
He shrugs off the leather jacket and drapes it over a stool next to the mirror, then straightens himself up to his full height.
I place one end of the tape to his shoulder seam and try to pull it taut across his upper back, but I can’t—because he’s whipping his head around to grin at me.
“Dang,” he says, his eyes glinting. “If you wanted to put your hands on me, you could’ve just asked, you know.”
“Oh, knock it off.” I give him a swat and push his shoulders back into place, resuming my measurements.
Zeke breathes in and out, his shoulders rising slightly. He’s watching me in the mirror again, relaxing under my touch. Now that he’s standing still, I’m trying hard not to notice how sculpted his back is.
“Got any idea why your house might be haunted? Or, like, who is there?”
“Not really,” I say around a mouthful of pins. “I mean, the property’s been in my ex’s family for more than a century. The house itself was almost entirely renovated—but they kept the structure intact. Patrick’s mom just had to keep her fancy-dancy fireplace.”
“Patrick,” Zeke repeats. “That’s your ex?”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Yeah—he’s a real gem.”
“Huh. I always thought he was a starfish.”
I snicker, reaching around Zeke’s midsection from behind to measure his torso. It feels weirdly intimate, having my arms around him like this even for the split second it takes to loop the tape measure around him, but I can tell he feels it too because his Adam’s apple bobs.
“So I take it things didn’t end well with this Patrick dude.”
“Uh—yep. You could certainly, definitely say that.”
“Why? What happened?”
I glance up at him in the mirror. He’s gazing at me, still completely chill.
The fact that he’s so laid back about it when he asks is…
I don’t know, refreshing. I’m used to family and friends always lowering their tones when the subject of Patrick comes up, drawing out their condolences like it’s some kind of pity party.
And here’s Zeke, asking in the same tone of voice he might use to ask me why I had a sandwich for lunch.
So I answer. “He couldn’t keep it in his pants, and I got tired of it. There’s only so much a girl can take.”
Zeke’s eyebrows raise. “Damn.”
“Well, you asked.”
“Nah, not that. It’s just—” Zeke pauses mid-thought, like he’s groping for a word. Then his features smooth over again. “Never mind.”
“Keep your arms loose.” I loop the tape around his biceps.
It’s impossible not to notice how solid his arms are.
He may be long and lean, but the kid definitely works out.
“Anyway, yeah. Patrick’s a douche, and his family misses exactly zero opportunities to let me know my shop exists solely due to their ‘continued support’. ”
Zeke scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”