Chapter 6 #2
I bit down on a laugh. “Seems she’s in the right line of work.”
“She sure is.” He glanced around, then his shoulders loosened. In dark dress pants and a muted bluish blazer, he looked polished, competent in a way that made something inside me pause. “So. I’m guessing you aren’t here for another suit?”
“No. Casual stuff. You told me to call if I wanted to look my best, remember?”
He gave me a measured look. “And instead you showed up in person.”
“Problem?”
“No.” One dimple shadowed his cheek. “Just unexpected. And a little risky for you.”
“It seemed efficient,” I said when really, I’d just wanted to see him.
Stupid. Risky, just like he’d pointed out, but maybe not for the reason he thought.
The risk wasn’t the shop. It was how quickly he could turn into a pattern, a habit, something I relied on until one wrong person started noticing. I couldn’t afford that.
Yet here I was.
His attention skimmed down my body, less detached than Simone’s earlier scan even though I wasn’t looking my best, travel fatigue still hanging around my shoulders. But four games into the season, we’d won three. Solid. Not something you trusted yet, but solid.
“Okay, then,” Stellan said. “Casual stuff. Anything in particular?”
I shrugged. “You tell me.”
“I’ve seen you more assertive than this.” His eyes held mine, and for a second, my hallway shoved to the front of my mind—how he’d looked up at me with one knee planted on his coat, cheeks flushed and mouth shiny. “You’re holding back like you think I’ll bolt.”
I shifted my weight. “You’re the expert. Give me five things that work.”
His expression sharpened with interest. “Five,” he repeated.
“Five.”
“For what kind of use? Day off, travel, looking rich in an ‘if you know, you know’ kind of way?”
“That last one sounds terribly judgy.”
“It does.” He looked like he was trying not to smile. “But not if you come from snobby family wealth. You know, the sort that shames the nouveau riche and anyone wearing loud logos.”
“My kind of people.” I fluffed my short hair, and his smile broke through.
“So you’re looking to spend a couple thousand on a simple sweater?”
“People do that?” I asked.
“You’d be surprised.”
We paused, warm lights and a few other shoppers around, Simone somewhere around the side. Then I said, “No, nothing too crazy, okay? Just… regular life. Stuff that actually suits me.”
His eyes stayed on mine for another second, then he took me in again—shoulders, height, the way I stood, the colors I wore. It wasn’t sexual, not quite, but it pinged somewhere deep anyway. Being looked at as if he knew exactly what he was seeing.
“Okay,” he said. “High contrast works for you. Clear, simple lines and strong shapes. No frills. You can do bold, but it needs to look deliberate, not loud.”
I quirked a brow. “That so?”
“Yeah.” He stepped closer, voice dropping into something sure and focused, no showroom sparkle. “You need deep, saturated colors. No warm earth tones. Anything too washed out makes you look tired. Like this blazer I’m wearing, for example—slate blue. Works for me, doesn’t for you.”
“It does work for you,” I agreed, and he blinked like I’d pulled him out of a focus tunnel. Then his grin flashed bright like a spotlight.
“I’m a professional.”
“I can see that.” And yeah, I could. He was good at this.
“You need contrast against your face,” he continued, like he actually cared. “Otherwise, the clothes start wearing you.”
“Hey,” I said. “That’s no problem. For two grand, I’d like the sweater to do at least half the job.”
Stellan’s head tilted, one side of his mouth curling up. “Nah. It’d be a shame to take away from that face.”
Huh. Flirting, yeah, but without a dusting of glitter. Matter-of-fact, like he didn’t need me to react at all. Warmth sparked soft in my gut.
“And fit matters,” he went on before I could come up with a response, already moving toward a rack. “You can do relaxed, but not sloppy. Cozy yes, saggy no. Nothing that hides your shape.”
“So no hoodies,” I said, brain still half a step behind.
He looked at me over his shoulder. “The right kind of hoodies.”
Well. I wasn’t into being bossed around, but competence? Hot.
He kept going, pulling out options with quick, decisive hands—an emerald-green knit, a structured overshirt in arctic navy, a burgundy Henley. Dark straight-cut denim, a charcoal zip cardigan that looked soft and expensive without trying too hard.
No dithering. Just confidence that wasn’t smug, but grounded.
He held up a final piece: charcoal, storm-cloud wool with darker ribbing at the collar. “This as well,” he said. “But try the emerald knit first.”
I took it from him. Good weight, beautiful material, the kind of fabric that felt expensive in a way that clashed with my upbringing. “This is how you get me to spend too much, isn’t it?” I asked.
He dipped his chin. “That is, unfortunately, the business model.”
“Predatory,” I said.
“And yet you’re here.” He smiled, and there it was again—a shift, as if his bright work edges had eased into something a little quieter and much more intimate.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I guess I am.”
It stretched between us for a heavy beat. Then he lifted the rest of the hangers. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll set you up in a fitting room.”
Normal. Professional.
Except he hadn’t walked the other guy over himself.
“Lead the way,” I told him.
Plush bench. Full-length mirror. Brass hooks.