Chapter 2 #2
Simone adjusted the seam with practiced fingers and stepped back. “Turn slightly, please?”
I did and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: jaw set, eyes calm. Well, hey—I had plenty of practice selling an illusion. One thing Stellan and I had in common, it seemed.
My entire body was too fucking aware of him.
Simone tilted her head. “Solid base,” she decided. “Matt?”
“Looks fine,” I said, while Stellan hovered, waiting. Family credit card, my ass.
“Check the sleeve?” Simone asked him.
He stepped closer.
Faint shadows under his cheekbones, green eyes careful, a crease between his brows. His cologne subtle, nothing that spelled seduction. When he tugged down the sleeve to assess the cuff length, his fingers brushed my wrist, quick and minimal.
Warmth sparked at the base of my spine. Years of practice kept my mouth neutral and my face blank, staring at him as he took a clean step back. The way his gaze slid away too quickly made ugly satisfaction burst hot behind my ribs.
“Cuff’s a little too long,” he told Simone. “Quarter inch would sharpen it.”
Simone nodded. “Agreed.”
So—what? He was actually good at this? More than just a pretty face that sold lies with clever words and a playful smile? Multitalented, look at that. How fucking nice for him.
“Let’s try the navy,” Simone said.
Stellan moved with easy efficiency. He took the charcoal jacket from me, exchanged it for a navy jacket that looked safe and boring. I slipped into it, words on the tip of my tongue. What do you think, Stellan—do I have good jacket posture, too?
Simone’s mouth tilted. “This is… fine.”
“Fine,” I echoed, amusement a little too dry and sharp.
“Fine, yes.” She paused. “But with someone like you, we can do a lot better than just ‘fine.’ Stellan, any thoughts?”
He hesitated, so brief it barely registered. “Oxblood,” he said then. “It’s deep and saturated, leaning cool—it’d be perfect on him. Could pair it with an icy white shirt for maximum contrast.”
Huh. It was… specific. Like he’d been paying attention.
“Oxblood,” Simone repeated, sounding pleased, and Stellan nodded.
“Classic cut, restrained styling.” His tone gained certainty. “The deep burgundy would read deliberate on camera, not loud. Confident without trying too hard.”
Exactly the kind of look I wanted. My skin prickled with resentment.
Simone turned to the rack and pulled out another garment bag. “You’re not wrong,” she told Stellan. “I did pull one, but wasn’t sure whether we’d want to go in that direction.”
“Let’s try it,” I said, voice flat like I couldn’t wait to be done with all this. True. Mostly.
Stellan unzipped the bag and removed the jacket. It was darker than red, rich, almost wine black under this light. A statement, yes, but one that didn’t need to shout.
I took it from Stellan without looking at him, careful to avoid the brush of our fingers. The fabric settled heavily on my shoulders, smoother than the charcoal, with a subtle sheen that caught the light. Simone adjusted the shoulders with quick, professional efficiency, then stepped back.
“Yes,” she said simply.
And… yeah. In the mirror, I looked like someone who knew exactly what he was doing and saw no need to apologize for it. Untouchable. Sponsor-safe, the version of me people liked best—all sharp edges and no open questions.
A quick glance at Stellan. He stood behind Simone’s shoulder, eyes on the jacket line, head tilted as if he actually cared about this. Like this was who he was, much more so than the bright, magnetic version I’d met in Chicago.
Chameleon.
While Simone and Stellan discussed tie options, I stepped behind a privacy screen to change into the suit pants.
Stellan was the one who measured for adjustments, fingers on my forearm, then my upper arm, gaze on his hands.
He kneeled to check how the pants fell, and heat flashed through me. Get a grip.
I dragged my attention away just as Simone said, “Jacket’s in good shape.
The pants will need more work—take in the waist, clean up the line through the leg.
Matt, Reid already booked you for another fitting Thursday evening.
That gives us two days before the event if we need any final tweaks. Does that work?”
Thursday. Another round of this, of Stellan, of wanting to shout and holding my tongue because we had a witness. Yeah, no. That didn’t work for me.
“Sure,” I said.
She smiled. “Great.”
And then she left.
Not—well. Not really. Just to get a tie that she and Stellan had muttered about. Something matte, apparently. But, still. The quiet hit like a blow to the chest.
I raised my head and turned to look at Stellan. Okay, fine. Time to drop the masks. “You”—it came out sharp and clipped—“have got some fucking nerve.”
His face pulled tight. “Matt—”
“Don’t.” I kept my voice low enough for privacy and hard enough to cut. “When did you know I’d be coming in?”
“Half an hour ago.” He exhaled, heavy, lashes swooping down. “I knew there was a private appointment, just not that it was you. I couldn’t get out of it. Not on such short notice, not without drawing attention. Didn’t seem like something either of us would want.”
No charm, not this time. His eyes held mine, then dropped down again. A stupid, helpless part of me registered the curve of his upper lip, the distinct dip of his Cupid’s bow.
“And you think you know what I want.” It was out before I caught the words, an opening I’d served on a silver platter.
Jesus. Felt like I’d stepped into a bad film when I just—just. I was in the closet.
It wasn’t a crime, for fuck’s sake. I’d grown up in a world where anything soft got mocked before it could breathe.
Hockey liked its men hard, simple, plain to read, and I’d learned to embody that.
Easier not to ask questions. Easier not to want things I couldn’t have.
It had faded to the back of my mind, something I hardly ever poked at until Talia had dragged it out into the light.
Until one hotel breakfast and a dimpled smile.
Until Stellan.
“I don’t,” he said now, almost too soft. “I don’t claim to know what you want, no. But I’m pretty sure attention isn’t it.”
That… okay.
“You played me.” My throat hurt a little, something bitter at the back of it. “You made me look like a fucking idiot. Don’t act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”
You made me want something I can’t have, and then you pulled the carpet out from under me. The words pressed up behind my teeth, hot and ugly. I swallowed them back down—wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“I didn’t,” he said, leaning forward just slightly, like he had a whole explanation stacked up inside his mind. Before he could offer it up—all lies, most likely—Simone returned, several ties draped over her arm.
Her focus flicked from me to Stellan and back, and I realized we’d angled toward each other, not close but intent, tense. I straightened and reached for a smile.
Because, damn it—Stellan was right. Attention wasn’t what I wanted.
“We ready to continue?” she asked. “Matt, can we offer you anything? Coffee, water, bourbon?”
Bourbon. Seriously? My parents would have filed that under “how you know you’re spending too much” because I’d grown up in a world where a new pair of jeans counted as a special treat.
“Thanks,” I said. “Just some water, please. Still.”
Stellan quirked a brow as if to comment on my discipline, then seemed to remember he didn’t have the right and quietly went to pour me a glass. Good.
Good—yes. I wasn’t interested in his opinions.
The fitting continued: pins, adjustments, Simone’s directions and Stellan stepping in only when asked. Always smooth and professional. Still too fucking close, my body on high alert like we were protecting a one-goal lead late in the third.
And yet, underneath that? The uncomfortable truth that he’d been right about the suit. I looked good in it.
He wasn’t faking this.
Eventually, finally, Simone stepped back and said, “All right, that’s enough for today. Final alterations on Thursday, and you’re all set.”
“Thanks,” I managed.
“That’s what we’re here for—to make you shine.” She glanced at Stellan. “Can you help Matt finish up here while I check pocket squares? It’s probably too much, but I want a quick look anyway.”
“Of course,” Stellan said without looking at me.
And then it was just us again.
In the mirror, the suit made me look fierce, damn near unbreakable. A fucking mirage because seven months ago, Stellan had slipped in like a thief and pulled on just the right threads to unravel me.
I knew better now. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
But it didn’t mean that I was ready to just drop it. He’d fucking cost me, in more ways than one, and I deserved some damn answers.
“Stellan,” I said, voice tight.
His eyes flicked to me, throat moving. “Yeah?”
“When do you get off?”
He hesitated, then took a breath, deep enough for his chest to rise with it. “Half an hour.”
“Good.” I kept my hands loose at my sides, my face calm, white-hot electricity running in my veins. “I’m parked around the side. We’ll talk.”
Minutes ticked by.
I’d loosened my collar, hands on the wheel, engine off.
Safely veiled inside the dark interior of my car, even with people passing by on the sidewalk, their heads ducked against fine, needling rain that had started shortly after I’d made it out of the shop.
I’d parked in a shadowed stretch on purpose.
Still, every set of headlights sweeping past made something in me tighten.
Half an hour, Stellan had told me. Well, his time was up.
Another figure approached, shoulders curled up against the weather. Dark coat, no umbrella, and—there he was. He stopped in front of the car as if double-checking it was the right one, and I reached across to shove the passenger door open, interior light snapping on. “Get in.”