Chapter 3 #2
She smiled, slow and wicked. “You know you want to.”
Fucking hell.
“I really don’t like you,” I told her, and she laughed, slung an arm around my waist to pull me into her side.
“That’s a lie, babe.”
Of course it was.
I hugged her back and tried to ignore the stupid, bright pull in my gut. Staying the hell away from Matt Harkins would be smart. Prudent. Sensible.
Unfortunately, I’d never been very good at sensible.
Okay.
Okay.
Tape measure on the counter. Drinks cart by the mirror. Oxblood suit gleaming deep and saturated under the light. I checked the shoulders, smoothed the lapel, and stepped back. Stepped in again.
“Stellan,” Simone said.
I straightened sharply, dropped my hands, and only just refrained from fussing with my own jacket. “Yes?”
She leaned against the doorway, watching me with a calm gaze. “Anything I should know?”
Uh-oh.
Deny? Fess up? No—couldn’t do that.
I tilted my head. “What makes you ask?”
“You were unusually quiet last time he was here.”
Shit. Okay. That was… criticism? Maybe?
“I’m sorry,” I said, and instantly hated how small it sounded.
Simone had taken a chance on me.
After I’d gotten myself fired, I’d spent two weeks throwing my résumé at anything that didn’t duck fast enough—restaurants and tourism and retail, all while trying to explain my patchwork background of hospitality, events, and freelance client-facing work without admitting that I’d used to get paid for tempting people into mistakes.
Suit Up Wednesdays had been the only spot of pride.
And then Simone had shown up. She’d walked into the coffee shop in a raincoat and no-nonsense heels, watched me match shirts to skin tone and the way I coached a kid through shaking hands. “Come in on Monday,” she’d said. “We’ll have a chat.”
Limited experience, she’d called it. But excellent people skills and a good eye. A chance.
I’d taken it, and half a year in, I’d earned my place. Still, every now and then, it felt like I was one stupid step away from proving I’d never deserved it. Like now.
“Nothing to apologize for,” she said, before I could twist myself into an anxious knot. “But you’d tell me if there was something wrong?”
All good. Was just a little tired, nothing to worry about.
I hesitated, then went for a version of the truth. “Not wrong, no.” I ran my fingers along the sharp crease of the pants. “He’s just… a lot. Think I got a little starstruck.”
She barked a laugh. “Yeah, okay. I can see how that could happen.”
“I mean,” I added quickly, “a boy can dream. Right?”
“A boy sure can.” The corners of her mouth quirked up. “All right, I’ll go let him in. Don’t overthink it.”
Of course. Be myself, don’t overthink. Got it. Piece of cake.
Once she left, I took a few deep, steadying breaths. My reflection looked like I belonged, draped in perfectly tailored pants and a classic shirt, all part of my personal work rotation that I’d sourced thanks to a generous employee discount.
Be myself.
Footsteps. I rolled back my shoulders, raised my head, and turned with a smile.
Matt walked in as if he owned the room. Athletic jacket, dark jeans, well-worn sneakers that were retro in a way that read as unintentional. His eyes met mine, and…
Something had shifted.
The anger had dimmed into a distant spark, replaced with steady wariness and a hint of curiosity, as if he wondered how I’d play this one. How I’d handle the pressure.
My stomach flipped, quick and hard. All right.
“Matt.” I managed to make it come out quiet and even. “Good to see you again.”
He took an instant too long to reply, gaze heavy. “And you.”
No trace of sarcasm, more… assessing. I could work with that.
“Okay, Matt.” Simone entered behind him, wearing her experience like a second skin. She waved a hand at the outfit. “We’ll do a final check, then a lighting test, and you’ll be out of here in no time.”
“Great,” he said, with just a small upward tic of his mouth. Right. Ready. Maybe I could start with not blending into the wall this time.
I stepped toward the cart and shot him a smile that didn’t glitter, didn’t sell. Just… me. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“Just water.” His attention stayed on me, dropping briefly to my hands before it flicked back up to my face. “Thanks.”
“Ah. Discipline of a star athlete.” I kept my voice light, just the faintest hint of teasing, not enough to be unprofessional. “Still, right? Not sparkling.”
“Actually, I’ll go for sparkling tonight.” His eyes were intent, like he’d noticed the shift in me and wasn’t yet sure if he liked it. Well, I wasn’t going to make up his mind.
I poured, then turned and offered him the glass. Our fingers brushed. It barely counted—skin against skin, half a second, if that. My brain lit up like a forest fire.
Chicago. Water sloshing and the way he’d looked at me in that sunlit breakfast lounge. I—fuck. I hadn’t meant to recreate anything. I moved away a little too fast, and he kept watching me, throat moving as he took a sip.
Jesus.
Simone glanced between us, amusement tucked into her smile. A boy can dream. “All right,” she said. “Matt, let’s get you changed. We’ll start with the full look, then turn up the light to see how it will read on camera.”
He looked away from me—finally, too soon—and took the clothes, disappeared behind the screen. Something in me loosened, like I’d passed some kind of test, even if that test was just that I’d stood my ground this time.
While he changed, I busied myself with rearranging things that didn’t need it.
Simone adjusted the room’s brightness to something closer to how it would read at the Museum of Flight—players posed in front of the museum’s aircraft for an instant wow effect.
Modern-day heroes ready to march into battle.
Or skate, more like. I was no hockey expert, clearly.
But after Chicago, I’d started actually listening when Ronan went on a ramble.
I’d looked Matt up, too, had watched a few clips of him on the ice, all incredible speed and intensity, the kind of player who took every game to heart and treated loss like a personal failure.
Hot. I’d be happy to help him decompress.
But I’d also handed him something a lot like a loss.
He stepped out and—yes. Controlled confidence. Deliberate, not loud.
“That’s it,” Simone said as if she’d read my mind, deeply satisfied. “That’s the look.”
“Perfect,” I agreed, and Matt’s focus slid to me before he turned to the mirror and watched himself, mouth softening into something almost surprised.
“It’s… good. I like it.” He nodded, like he’d decided only just now. As if he was maybe starting to grasp why people bothered putting effort into their clothes.
At Simone’s nod, I moved to check the sleeves, knuckles brushing his wrist. A subtle hint of cologne or maybe just whatever he used in the shower, clean and unpretentious. When I glanced up, his eyes were on me. Direct, unapologetic.
Keep it cool.
I inhaled through the moment and circled him to check the back.
The fabric fell like water, and his ass was…
well. Holy shit. And sure, yeah, I knew it came with the job, but I wasn’t feeling particularly rational right now.
I moved back to the front and forced my breathing to stay calm, even, my hand lingering a beat too long as I kneeled to smooth the fabric along his shin and check how the pants broke over his shoes.
“Just flirt a little.” An echo of Naomi’s words in my mind. “See if he wants you.”
Solid advice or maybe a disaster. But what did I have to lose?
I looked up.
And—okay. Matt was watching me. Wasn’t even pretending otherwise, eyes holding mine, the room too warm all of a sudden. Heat slithered up my spine.
I rose. He still didn’t look away.
Interested. Just like he’d been in Chicago, his pupils a hint too wide, mouth tilted into something soft but careful. Then. Now.
“Okay,” Simone said from somewhere off to the side, nothing in her tone that told me she’d noticed. “Camera test. Look straight on, Matt.”
The room went bright, and the oxblood deepened—almost black in places, blooming back into wine red when he shifted. He’d steal the fucking show at that dinner. That look alone might end up on every promo shot they’d run this season.
Me? I’d buy whatever the hell he was selling.
Which was a very professional assessment.
“How do you feel?” Simone asked him.
He took a moment to reply, studying himself. “Good,” he said then. “Comfortable.”
“Fantastic. That’s the bigger goal.” She stepped back, nodding. “Any last concerns?”
He slid a glance at me, so brief I almost missed it. “No,” he said then, and this… Right. This might be it. We’d bag the outfit, and he’d walk out of here with no good reason to return.
“Stellan,” Simone said, “can you pack everything up once Matt changes back? I’ll get things taken care of at the register.”
“Of course,” I said, and briefly, stupidly, wondered if she was giving me space to dream. Nah. She was running a business, and this wasn’t wholly unusual. Divide and conquer so we’d both get out of here sooner.
Simone left just as Matt disappeared back behind the screen. Fabric rustled, and I told myself I wasn’t listening, was barely even aware of it. When he returned, it was in a hoodie that looked cozy but wrong—a soft gray-green that dulled him, too muted for the sharp contrast his coloring wanted.
I could offer to fix it, toss out a joke that wasn’t really one. Want my help looking your best? Just say the word.
Instead, I bagged up the outfit, tucking paper into the folds, and hoped I looked competent and efficient. Matt watched, hands at his sides, expression tight.
“So,” I said, glancing up. “I guess this is goodbye?”
His eyes held mine, dark and steady. Something moved behind them that I couldn’t place. Most people were pretty easy to pin down—not him. I’d learned early to read a room so I could keep it safe for Ronan and me. Matt, I guessed, had learned to hide.
God.
“Goodbye would be the smart route,” he said. It came out low, almost… sexy. Or maybe I was projecting. Probably?