Chapter 7 #2
“Well, they never thought I could turn a sustainable fashion line into anything. Patrick always called it my ‘little hobby’, and since I rent this place from his parents—”
“Oh, shit. You rent from your ex’s parents?”
I wrap the tape measure around Zeke’s hips, trying hard to ignore his tight, muscled ass.
“Yep. I need to scale a bit before I can afford anything else as good—hence this fashion show. I really need it to go well, ideally attracting some high-end clients from Boston and New York. But that’s if I get lucky. ”
“You don’t need to get lucky.” He gives a quick jut of his head toward the rest of the shop. “I’m not a fashion expert, but—like I said—this stuff is cool.”
“Well, thanks—and thanks for this, by the way. Agreeing to walk for me.”
“No prob. It’s a mutual favor.”
I kneel in front of Zeke to measure his inseam, and he guffaws. I ignore it, partly because I don’t want to encourage his frat boy behavior, but mainly because I realize my heart’s sped up a bit and I just want to get this over with.
I’ve done this a million times, for a million different people—measured a million different inseams. There’s really no reason for this to be weird. It’s Will’s little brother, for Christ’s sake. He’s hot, sure, but he’s also twenty-three. And anyway, I’m measuring his jeans, not going down on—
Nope. I will not complete that sentence. I am a professional.
I place the end of the tape measure against the very top of Zeke’s inner thigh, trying to keep my mind on the task at hand and not on the fact that my fingers are about a half inch away from his crotch right now. I can already feel my face starting to burn. Damn redheaded genes.
Not lingering longer than I have to, I follow the tape measure to the bottom of Zeke’s pant leg and—
“Stop moving! You just made me lose the slack.”
“Well, geez—how am I supposed to know? You didn’t say, ‘Yo, Zeke, don’t move’!”
“I wasn’t aware I’d have to. God. Whatever, just hold still.”
Zeke doesn’t answer, so I start my measurement again, trying to get the burning in my face under control.
I make a mental note of the inseam length and drop the taut end of the tape as fast as humanly possible.
Then, folding the hem up just a touch, I take a pin from my mouth and place it horizontally along the fold.
I pull back a second, squinting in my attempt to judge whether the hem now falls at the place I want it to.
“You like that length?”
I glance at Zeke in the mirror, hoping my cheeks aren’t still flushed. He nods, so I pin along the rest of the fold and do the same to the other pant leg. I’ll need to measure it properly later, but it’s good enough for now.
“Alright,” I say, placing the last of the pins and turning to look up at him. “I’ll do the alterations tonight or tomorrow, so I think we can do another fitting on—”
I stop.
I’m still kneeling on the floor, rolling up my tape measure, and as my gaze just traveled up Zeke’s pant leg to face him again, I noticed something. Something tenting the fabric of his jeans.
“What the hell, Zeke?” I demand. “Are you for real right now?”
“No, it’s an illusion,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
I snap to my feet, toss the measuring tape back on the desk. “Dude, that’s unacceptable. You need to get it together.”
“Hey, I tried to shift positions, and you told me to stand still—”
“Because I needed to measure you!”
Zeke’s face goes sly, and one corner of his mouth twitches. “Well, looks like you forgot a measurement, didn’t you?”
“God, you’re a child,” I say, huffing out a breath. “I’m sure you’ve taken that measurement plenty of times yourself—probably have a certificate hanging on the wall somewhere: ‘This is to certify that Zeke Holloway, with his twelve-inch dick, has taken the prize for—”
Zeke grins, unperturbed. “You think I’ve got a twelve-inch dick?”
I flick an exasperated hand at him. In truth, he’s got me flustered.
It’s not that I’m embarrassed, per se. It’s more that he’s making things difficult by blurring the boundary lines I’ve set up in my mind—boundaries that I thought were obvious, given our differences in age and general approach to life. But now…
Now, I’m not so sure.
Because Zeke’s watching me like he’s waiting for me to decide something. And I don’t know what that something is.
“Okay,” I say, striding behind the desk and busying myself with a stack of papers.
“Listen. You’re young. You’re horny. I get it.
We’ll chalk it up to an accident. But let me be clear: If we’re going to be working together in any sort of professional capacity, this cannot happen again. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Zeke says, waving a hand at me. “I’ll be sure to think of roadkill or something next time you’ve got your hands near my junk.”
I snort, but I know he’s not going to argue. From the sounds of it, he needs that pilot competition entry every bit as much as I need him for my fashion show.
“Perfect. Now, I’ve got to put some outfits together for the display window, so if you could change out of those pieces and leave them with me, that’d be great.”
I flash him the most normal, not flirty smile I can muster, and Zeke heads behind the curtain again to get changed back into his street clothes.
When he comes back out, he looks a little sheepish, but he saunters over to the desk where I’m still pretending to flip through papers. “About the filming…”
“Yeah, what about it…?”
“I was kind of thinking we could do it Thursday night.”
“We?”
“Well, yeah. I figured you’d be in it with me. It’s your house. You’ve got all the tea.”
“There’s no tea.”
“Okay, well,” Zeke waves a hand. “You’ve got the anecdotes. You know the history of the place. Viewers’ll like that shit.”
I sigh. Zeke’s just full of surprises today. But honestly, whatever—on camera or not on camera, I don’t really care. I just want Zeke out of my hair, because even though he’s back in his regular clothes, my mind’s still stuck on the hard-on. And that Arctic Monkeys tee is doing things for him.
God, the Arctic Monkeys are probably, like, oldies to him. Fuck.
“Fine. Thursday.”
“Perfect. I’ll text and remind you that morning.”
Zeke’s smile is smaller, more subdued as he pushes the pieces he just tried on—his folding job is surprisingly neat—into my arms. He waves and is out the door without another word.
As I watch him swagger past the window and on down the sidewalk, the midday sunshine kissing his sleek, tanned forearms, I draw in a shaky breath.
For what feels like the fiftieth time today, I remind myself that Zeke Holloway is my best friend’s fiancé’s little brother.
He’s twenty fucking three. And not just that, he’s one hell of a player—I clocked him the first time we met.
The thing is—and it’s dangerous to even let myself admit this—he’s also fun.
He’s fun to banter with, fun to flirt with, fun to think about taking risks with.
He’s fun to look at. He’s everything that high school Autumn would’ve gone nuts over—everything that college Autumn left behind without another glance when the illustrious Patrick Carroway and his prudish, old money family swept her off her feet.
And, the more I sit here thinking about it, the more I realize… going after that prudish, good guy facade didn’t pan out too well for me. What’s stopping me from letting loose? Getting a little crazy? Taking a risk with a gorgeous guy who’s clearly—maybe?—interested in me?
No. Almost as soon as the thought rises, fluttering in my mind, I push it down.
Getting involved with Zeke Holloway is a recipe for disaster.
I’m thirty-three. I’m divorced. I’ve got a business I’m trying to keep afloat.
Zeke is hot, young, single, and unattached.
He goes through women like a stapler punches out staples.
Nah, when I get involved with a man again, it’ll have to be a real one—one who puts me first and shows some damn commitment. And, sorry to say it, that ain’t gonna happen with a kid like Zeke.