You do know the expectation is that you wear pants with this tux, right?
Lachlan
What I know is that you sneak peeks of me in my boxers at home.
Olivia
Your Fortnight boxers glow in the dark. It’s not like I meant to look.
Lachlan
You keep telling yourself that, Mrs. Hayes. My undergarments and I will see you at Paolo’s at eight.
Paolo’s dressingrooms were chic and small.
Lachlan was not.
He had four tuxedos to try on, and the last five minutes had been nothing but the moans and groans of a man bumping elbows and knees into the walls.
Meanwhile I sat perched at the edge of a chair outside the dressing rooms, trying not to think about the fact that I madly adored my husband. Customers milled about, making their final selections before Paolo’s closed for the evening.
“I can’t get this shirt unbuttoned,” I heard him mutter. “Who made this thing? The buttons are the size of Tic Tacs. Man-hands can’t maneuver these.”
Next came more sounds of body parts thudding against the cramped space, punctuated by a curse. “Do not rip that shirt, Lachlan,” I warned him. “It costs more than my last paycheck.”
All six-foot-something of Lachlan stood in that dressing room. Naked.
I needed to clear this visual from my head, so I thought of some distractions. Lachlan’s article inFast Company. Morgan landing a B list movie star influencer for Elite Matches. Celeste’s son’s robotics competition Saturday. Lachlan’s bare chest and my hands running up his ribcage.
Not working!
Not. Working.
“Ouch.” The dressing room door shook with the impact of a hit. “Just lost a button. I’ll pay for it. The rest have to go, Olivia. I’m trapped in this straitjacket of a shirt. Seriously”—a grunt sounded from the dressing room—“can’t get out. Remember me fondly.”
“Don’t pull on those buttons.” I leapt from my chair and charged toward the dressing room.
“Is this how I die?” Lachlan groused. “Forever stuck in a shirt and wasting away? I’m tearing this thing off. Going full-on Hulk in here, Olivia.”
“No!” I flung open the door and it closed behind me with a thundering slam. “Hands off that shirt.”
Lachlan looked down at the garment with disgust. “It’s silk.”
“I see that.” He wore a shirt that was, indeed, quite ridiculous—and boxers. “It’s very elegant.” In the small dressing room, I stood toe to toe with Lachlan, wondering if I was pathetically deprived to be feeling light-headed at the sight of his bare legs.
They were legs. Everyone had them.
Still. Lachlan’s were quite shapely. Long, with reddish hair dusted over his skin.
“Do you know who wears silk?” Lachlan growled. “People who are not me.”
His fingers attacked the top row of buttons, and I smacked his hands. “Back away from the buttons and let me do this. What are you, a Neanderthal? We do not rip clothes. Especially Paolo’s.” I set to the task, and my palms made contact with Lachlan’s chest. Spikes of heat and electricity jolted through my fingers and up my arms, as if I’d touched a live wire. Daring a look, I glanced up at Lachlan to see if he’d felt that, but his face gave nothing away.
“The tiny devil buttons, Olivia,” he directed.
“Right.”Focus. Ignore the moderately firm muscle beneath your hands.“Just forming my strategy.”
“Mine would involve a sharp pair of scissors.”
