“Dude, you’re seriously fucking confusing,” he says with a laugh. “Do you honestly think I care if you want me to wear something different? Because I don’t.”
I jerk my head back. “You don’t?”
He plucks at his gray T-shirt. “Clothes are whatever. They’re not my thing. But if they’re your thing, and it makes you happy, then it’s cool. Did you think I was going to be offended that you dislike my clothes so much you want to take me shopping for something new?”
Shit, I did. “At first I just wanted to take you because I thought it would be fun.”
“Because shopping is fun to you,” he supplies, like he’s trying to understand me.
“Yeah, it is,” I say, but that’s not what this is about. But fuck it. I rip off the Band-Aid and tell him where this idea came from. “The day I met your parents? I had this image flash before me of taking you shopping in New York.”
A grin spreads on his face. “You had a fantasy in Florida about what we’re doing today?”
“Now who’s mocking who?”
“I’m just processing this. So, let me see if I got this right. While we were in Miami, you were picturing doing something with me in New York?” he asks, and he’s so restrained as he adds up the evidence, but I can hear the sliver of the smile in his voice, and I can see the delight in his blue eyes.
“I was,” I admit.
“And that made you happy? This image? This fantasy?”
I nibble on the corner of my lips, then admit the truth. “It did at the time.”
“And now?”
“Everything kind of does,” I blurt out.
“Jesus,” he mutters, but he’s laughing.
And I feel like all the tables have been turned on me by this man.
Especially when Mark invades my space completely and roams a hand up my back. He whispers against my lips. “I don’t care about polo shirts or designer shirts. I don’t care if you want to change my style or not change my style. Literally none of that bothers me. The only thing I take away from this is that you wanted to do this with me . . . and you wanted it back then. So right now, you should take me shopping, then take your reward.”
Somehow, my day just got even better.
This isn’t a rom-com shopping montage. We’re not living in Pretty Woman. Mark tries on three shirts, and I wait outside the dressing room with the full-length door, giving him my opinion on each item.
“How’s this one, honey?” he asks in a playful voice, as he swings open the door.
And fuck me.
I whistle my appreciation.
I was right.
My guy is a smoke show in a tight, sky-blue short-sleeve button-down that hugs his biceps and pecs, and makes me think dirty thoughts.
Not that that’s hard with him.
Not that anything is hard with him.
Except for the ocean that separates us, come tomorrow.
This shopping excursion is another stolen moment. Like when Miami ended and we went our separate ways.
That’s what’ll happen tomorrow night when I catch the six-thirty flight to Charles de Gaulle, and return to a punishing schedule of games, events, shoots, and back-breaking but wonderful work. And when he returns to Wall Street, and parenting, and living his life far, far away from me.
Which means I should just make the most of this weekend in New York.
I glance around the shop. The woman is busy with another customer. The music is just the right volume. I step into the dressing room, close the door quietly, and dip my face to his ear. “Don’t make a sound.”
“Actually, I was going to say that to you.”
Then he gets down on his knees and gives me the rest of my shopping fantasy.
After dinner that night, we walk past a bank. A clock flashes the time in red digits in the ATM lobby.
I look away from the reminder of passing days. So many more months till next summer. Are we doing this for that long? And what is this even? I have no idea if he’s going to miss me in the same big way I’ll miss him.
Except, he told me as much last night. He took that risk, and he’s been taking risks left and right with me from the start. “Funny, when I first met you, I thought you weren’t a guy who took risks, but I was wrong about you.”
“You think I take risks?” Mark’s eyes twinkle.
I give him a pointed stare. “You’re here with me. I’d say yes.”
He smiles, like that pleases him. “Maybe I’m learning things about myself with you. But I think you’re wrong about yourself.”
My brow creases. “In what way?”
“You seem to think you’re bad at . . .” He stops, waves a hand from him to me. Maybe he doesn't want to define us either.