As instructed, Hunter arrived at Brit’s apartment building at seven o’clock. She’d added him to the “authorized guest list” long ago, but most of her doormen recognized him on sight.
He talked football with James for a few minutes, and after agreeing to disagree on the likelihood of the Giants standing a chance against the Seahawks on Sunday (Hunter would bet serious money not), he headed up to Brit’s apartment on the twenty-sixth floor.
Hunter rapped the door with his knuckle. Brit opened it, her face expectant, then her enthusiasm dimmed ever so slightly. “Oh. It’s you.”
He lifted his eyebrows.
“Pizza guy should be right behind you,” she explained, pulling him inside and then ducking her head into the hall. Not seeing anyone, she shut the door and waved at her apartment. “Beer’s in the fridge, wine on the counter. Grab the door when the pizza guy knocks, ’kay? I already paid and tipped through the app.”
“Sure,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it on the back of the barstool at her kitchen counter. Technically Brit had a coat closet, but he knew from experience that there wouldn’t be space, or even a spare hanger, for all the clothes spillover she had from her main closet.
Brit lived in a high-rise in Chelsea, complete with a contemporary lobby, state-of-the-art gym, outdoor entertaining areas. But she usually joked that the trade-off for an apartment in a modern building in Manhattan on a modest salary was living in a shoebox.
It wasn’t inaccurate. Her place was new, with granite counters, updated appliances, and all that, but it was a tiny studio, basically one long room. She had the bed shoved against the window, a pullout couch shoved against the bed, all of which faced a TV he’d mounted on the wall for her, with no small amount of swearing.
He pulled a beer out of the fridge and dug through her drawer until he found the bottle opener. “Want anything?” he asked, popping the cap off the beer and looking with a small stab of male alarm at the scene before him.
He was used to Brit’s place being crowded. And, as mentioned, he knew the apartment’s limited closet space was no match for his friend’s penchant for shopping.
But this . . .
There were clothes everywhere. On the bed. On the couch. There was some sort of weird one-piece pants thing draped over the TV.
He took a sip of beer and surveyed the chaos with a mixture of amusement and impending terror.
Normally, he wouldn’t have thought much of it. As organized as Brit was at work, her home life could be an entirely different story. She tended to embrace extremes, with massive spring-cleaning sessions and then weeks where finding her cellphone beneath the clutter was an adventure.
However, knowing that tonight was supposedly part one of her training . . .
He was stumped.
Hell, maybe she was right about not knowing how guys operated, because he didn’t know a single heterosexual guy who would feel anything other than utter panic at the scene before him.
“Is that a yes on a drink?” he asked again as she opened a dresser drawer and scooped out a messy pile of clothes, depositing them on the bed.
“I have a glass of wine somewhere,” she said distractedly as she repeated the process with another drawer of the dresser.
With minimal surfaces in the small apartment, it wasn’t hard to find the glass of red wine sitting on the counter by the fridge.
He was about to bring it to her, but a knock at the door distracted him.
Hunter accepted the pizza delivery, pushing aside the container on top that he knew was the salad she always insisted on ordering but rarely touched, and checked to make sure the pizza was as they liked it.
Pepperoni all around, olives on his half, mushrooms on hers. Perfect.
He shut the pizza box again, though if this weird clothes thing she was doing lasted much longer, he was eating without her.
Hunter brought her the wine, careful not to step on the dozen or so pairs of shoes scattered around the floor.
“You did remember that I was coming over tonight, right?” he asked.
She accepted the glass absently and took a sip, surveying the mess. “Yes, of course.”
“Please tell me all this doesn’t involve me.” He gestured with his hand over the mess.
She patted his shoulder. “It’s a crucial part of the plan, I promise.”
He gave a pile of dresses a doubtful look. “If this is your idea of a great date, we have more work to do than I thought.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m putting you through this so I don’t have do it to my future suitor.”
“Suitor, huh?”
“Come on,” she said, taking another sip of wine and heading back to the tiny kitchen area. “You’ll be more amenable to my plan once you’re fed.”
“I doubt it,” he muttered.
But she was right. Once he’d put away three pieces of pizza and opened his second beer, he was feeling slightly less terrified by whatever she had up her sleeve.
It helped too when she put on a classic-rock playlist. His favorite. Not hers. He revised his opinion. Maybe Brit knew more about the male brain than he realized. Pizza. Beer. Steely Dan . . .
He contemplated another piece of pizza, decided against it. Then he noticed that Brit’s mushroom side of the pizza was barely touched and that for once she actually had eaten the salad she’d ordered.
“What’s the story there?” he said, pointing accusingly at her plateful of lettuce.
“I know, right?” she said with a sigh as she nipped a cucumber off the tip of her fork. “But a lighter dinner will make this whole process a little less painful.”
“Okay, enough with the cryptic routine,” he said, reaching for the wine bottle and topping her glass off. “Tell me what’s up.”
She washed down another mouthful of salad with a gulp of water and gave him a grin. “You’re going to help me audit my wardrobe, and I can’t be stuffed full of pizza for that.”
He groaned. “I had a feeling that’s what was going on.”
“Think about it, though,” she said, giving a bounce of excitement. “What better way to overhaul my image than starting with my clothes. You know, I always thought I had okay fashion sense, but looking through it now, maybe some of it is a little dowdy?”
“Your clothes are fine,” he assured her.
“I know,” she agreed. “I need better than fine. I need . . . hot.”
“Can’t Taylor or Daisy help?”
“Taylor maybe. She’s got that femme-fatale thing down. But what works for her won’t necessarily work for me. Which is why I need a guy opinion on what makes me sexy. Your opinion.”
He shaped his fingers like a pistol and raised it to his temple.
“Oh, stop,” she said with a laugh. “It won’t be that bad. I was thinking I’ll just hold up some things, try on others, and you can tell me the first thing you think when you look at it. How’s that sound?”
“Like my nightmare.”
“Come on.” She tugged his arm and pulled him toward the other end of her apartment. “All you have to do is sit on the couch, drink beer, and judge me. Right up your alley.”
She swiped some clothes onto the floor to make room for him on the couch, then pushed him down.
“Okay, where to begin,” she said, rubbing her hands together and looking around at the mess.
“How about with the fact that you have lettuce in your teeth,” he said.
Without a trace of embarrassment, she cleaned the offending piece of lettuce from between her two front teeth and then picked up a boxy-looking white jacket thing from the sofa beside him.
“What about this?” she asked.
“What about it?”
Brit kicked his shin gently with her toe. “Come on. Play my game. Please?”
He sighed. “All right. Okay. It’s . . . fine.”
This time her kick was a tiny bit harder.
“It’s fine for work,” he added quickly. “And if I knew a woman was coming straight from work when I met up with her, I wouldn’t think a thing of it. But if it was a Saturday, or a late night out . . .”
“Got it. Too corporate,” she said. “Does that apply to all blazers?”
“Damn,” she muttered. “They’re so easy.”
She danced around the apartment picking up a handful of blazers, and her chaos must have been more organized than he realized because she seemed to know exactly what pile to look under to pull out a black blazer, a gray one, a blue one that he recognized. . . .
“That one looks good with your eyes,” he said, pointing his beer bottle at the blue jacket.
“Really? Thank you!” she said, holding it up against her and turning toward the full-length mirror. “So this is first-date appropriate?”
“Eh. We can do better,” he said. Hunter picked up a slinky-looking black top from the couch beside him. “What about this?”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s . . . tight.”
He grinned. “Perfect.”
She hung up the blazers in her closet and shoved them to the right side before turning back to him and giving the top he held out a skeptical look. “Come on. Tight and black. Isn’t that a little . . . obvious?”
“Lesson number one, and you may want to write it down because it’s a crucial one: When it comes to guys and first impressions, obvious is a good thing.”
“Ugh,” she grumbled. “That’s so superficial.”
“Please. Like you women don’t have your own first-impression checklist. Making snap judgments based on appearance is going to happen whether you like it or not. Might as well work with it.”
“Okay, I get it. Sexy clothes good, frumpy clothes bad. But what if a woman isn’t comfortable in the sexy clothes? Can’t guys sense that? We’re not all Taylor Carr, coming out of the womb looking completely comfortable in formfitting dresses.”
“This makes you uncomfortable?” he asked, lifting the black shirt in question.
“Um. I’m not sure.”
“You’ve never worn it?”
“No,” she said. “I bought it on a whim a few months ago and never quite got the courage.”
“Well, here’s your chance,” he said, flinging it her way.
She caught it in midair. “You’ll be honest? I want to look sexy, but I also want to look like me.”
“As a guy I can vouch for the first, and as your best friend I can vouch for the second. It’s why you asked for my help,” he said. “Now try it on.”
“Fine,” she muttered.
Before Hunter could register what she intended, Brit reached for the hem of her white T-shirt, which, by the way, he would have to tell her was in the keep pile. The tight-white-T-plus-jeans combination was always a win, at least in his book.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” he said, looking away just as he saw the first glimpse of the skin on her stomach. “What are you doing?”
“Really?” she observed dryly. “I never had you pegged for a prude.”
“I’m not. But don’t you want to change in the bathroom?”
“Not really. You’re welcome to avert your delicate eyes, though.”
He did just that, trying not to let his brain register the sound of fabric against skin as she took off one shirt and put on another.
“Okay, Grandma, you can turn around now,” she said.
He hesitantly looked over his shoulder, then turned toward her more fully when he saw that she was dressed.
“Well?” she asked, holding out her hands to the sides.
“How does it feel?” he asked, since that was the most important thing. A woman who didn’t feel good in her own skin—or clothes—was more of a turnoff than even the boxiest blazer.
She turned toward the mirror, smoothed a hand over the black fabric. “I don’t hate it. I like that it’s formfitting but not clingy. And it’s not low-cut.”
As a guy, he nearly mentioned that the low-cut aspect might be worth exploring, but he bit his tongue for now and let her take the lead.
“Picture yourself meeting a guy in the bar wearing that. The jeans you’re wearing. High heels. How do you feel?”
She tilted her head and then turned around again, bending down to pick up a random pair of black heels, and then, as though transforming herself, she strutted toward him.
His eyes widened in alarm. Definitely not a Brit he’d seen before. Or even recognized. She looked sort of like a lioness on the prowl, and not in a good way.
“Nope. Stop. Walk normal, like you usually do,” he told her. “But as you walk, think that you’re the hottest woman in the room.”
She took a step back and started again, charging this time, and Hunter immediately shook his head. “Nope. Take your time. Pretend you have a secret sex move that only you know. You have no need to rush.”
“What’s my secret?” she asked, frowning.
“Christ, I don’t know! Um, just . . . imagine that every guy in the room is looking at you, but you already have a boyfriend and thus barely register them.”
“But I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Brit!” he said in exasperation.
“Okay, okay.” She gave a little shake of her head, and this time when she walked toward him, it was better. Much better.
“Good,” he murmured as she held his gaze. “Good, now pretend that I’m the boyfriend, and you only have eyes for me.”
He said the words as her coach, as an actor playing a part, but when their gazes locked and held, for one strange, weird moment, he forgot that this was Brit and that he’d just seen her pick lettuce out of her teeth.
He forgot that he’d eaten three pieces of pizza in front of her, and that he’d seen her through the flu, and she him.
Instead, he was thinking about that brief glimpse of the smooth skin on her torso, about the way the top hugged her full breasts. . . .
She paused in front of him, reaching down and plucking the beer bottle from his hand, taking a sip. “Well?”
“Good,” he said, clearing his throat. “Really good. Not bad.”
Brit lifted her eyebrows. “Which was it? Really good? Or not bad?”
He groped blindly to his side and in desperation grabbed the first piece of clothing he touched. “Here. Let’s try this one.”
She gave it a skeptical look. “That’s a workout tank.”
“Guys like a fit woman,” he said stupidly, grabbing his beer and shooing her back a step, trying to recover. “What if they want to go on a run for one of your first dates?”
She opened her mouth to argue, then gave the shirt a considering look. “You know, I heard that’s when Julie Greene fell for her husband. On a run.”
“See, there you go,” he said, even though he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Julie Greene was an editor from Stiletto, Oxford’s sister magazine. He knew Julie. Liked her. Her husband too, from their brief meetings at parties with mutual friends.
But right now all he really cared about was getting his mind off the visual image of Brit in that sexy black shirt.
In the end, Brit didn’t end up with nearly as many clothes in the donate pile as she’d expected.
Sure, Hunter had rather vehemently insisted that a pink pantsuit be forever banished, as well as a blouse that he’d claimed was more tent than shirt.
And she’d finally let herself admit that even if she did someday manage to fit into the same jeans she wore when she was twenty-two, the boot cut likely wouldn’t be in style anyway. She also said goodbye to a couple of sweaters that had long ago passed the point of tired.
Hunter had also demanded she banish all shoes that made her feet hurt, because as he pointed out, a woman limping or complaining about her shoes completely canceled out any sexiness factor.
She’d fudged the truth a little on that one. While she’d happily handed over a few pairs of flats that gave her blisters, she’d exaggerated the comfort level of her beloved stilettos.
Strictly speaking, they weren’t sooooooo comfortable as she’d claimed. But there were some things in life where the pain was worth it, and Louboutins and Jimmy Choos were on her list.
Other than that, though, most of the clothes in the go pile had been her choosing, not Hunter’s. She’d been prepared for Hunter to tell her to get rid of anything that wasn’t super short or boobalicious, but he’d surprised her.
Sure, he’d been a bigger fan of tighter tops over flowing tunics, and like most guys he’d given her short cocktail dresses a thumbs-up; her flowing, floor-length maxi dresses had been dubbed enormous.
But mostly he’d made her realize it wasn’t about the clothes themselves; it was about the way she wore them, the way they made her feel. She’d figured out she felt weird displaying cleavage but felt sexy as heck showing a bit of back. She realized that patterns looked fun on the hanger, but once she put them on, they didn’t feel like her as much as solid colors did.
Hunter had pointed out that when she tried on the hot-pink sweater she’d claimed to love, she tugged constantly at the sleeves, which were just a touch too short.
“Guys notice that?” she’d asked.
Hunter had shrugged. “Not explicitly, necessarily. Don’t know that it would even bother us. But we pick up when you’re preoccupied with something else, even if subconsciously. It means you’re not completely into us.”
She got rid of the sweater.
Now with her closet back to rights and a bagful of clothes by the front door, ready for donation tomorrow, Brit plopped down on her couch beside Hunter, a slice of pizza in hand.
He glanced over at her, a knowing look. “Oh, so now you eat the pizza?”
She grinned and plucked at the baggy, comfortable T-shirt she was wearing. “Damn straight. This is my eating shirt.”
“Funny, I didn’t see that one when we were going through the wardrobe purge.”
“I knew you’d make me get rid of it.”
“More like you knew I’d make you give it back,” he said.
She glanced down at it again. “Is this yours?” Her voice was faux innocent.
Hunter rolled his eyes and took a sip of the bottle of sparkling water he’d gotten out of her fridge. “Right. I’d forgotten you went to the University of Missouri.”
“I must have misread it,” she said, plucking a mushroom off her pizza and popping it into her mouth. “I thought it was my alma mater, University of Michigan.”
“Uh-huh.” He turned his attention back to the TV, where he’d turned on some sports recap.
“So what’s next on your lesson plan?” he asked, his attention still mostly on the television.
“Ah, Obi-Wan is eager to teach.”
“For the record, I’m Yoda. And I’d just like to be prepared.”
“Oh, come on, tonight wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Could have been worse,” he admitted. “At least now I know where my favorite T-shirt went. But I also have a feeling this was the easy part.”
He was right. Truth be told, tonight’s endeavor had been as much about easing Brit herself into this whole plan as it had been Hunter. Deep down she knew that her romantic issues had very little to do with her clothes and shoe choices. It wasn’t like she was slogging around Manhattan in Crocs and overalls and scaring off all the hot Wall Street guys.
But stall tactic or not, it had been surprisingly useful to get some insight into how men saw women in clothes. Even more interesting had been the insight into Hunter.
Through all their years of friendship, she’d never given much thought to him as a man. He was simply Hunter. She knew he was a guy in the sense that he was the one to call if she needed a dresser put together or her sofa moved. And though she knew on a logical level that he dated and hooked up with women, it had never actually occurred to her that he was a hot-blooded male.
Tonight she’d seen glimpses of it. Not directed at her, obviously. But when he’d looked at some of the clothes she tried on and declared them sexy or nope, she’d been acutely aware that he was looking at her. As a woman. And for a few split seconds throughout the evening, she’d felt . . . something.
A tingle?
Nah.
She couldn’t even begin to go that way, even as a harmless thought experiment, or the lessons that followed would get weird fast.
“Next up is date protocol,” she said, taking another bite of pizza. “You know, like the ins and outs of the first date.”
“How’s that going to work?” Hunter glanced over.
She chewed and swallowed. “I was thinking we could go out to dinner. Pretend it’s a first date, and you can, like . . . coach me.”
“I’m sure your dating game is just fine,” he said, still watching the TV.
She nudged him with her knee. “You agreed to help me.”
He finally looked her way. “And you think a fake date with me will help?”
Brit shrugged. “I don’t know. But it can’t hurt. All signs point to you being excellent at dating. Me not so much.”
She gave him a wide grin and rested her chin on his shoulder as she looked up at him. “Please? I’ll wear the black shirt you liked so much.”
He rolled his eyes and looked back at the TV, and she saw he was smiling.
“All right,” Hunter said finally. “Fine. Tomorrow, seven o’clock?”
“Yay! I was thinking we could try—”
“No. I’ll pick the place.”
Hunter’s voice was kind but firm, and held a commanding note she hadn’t heard from him before.
It was . . . sexy.
For a split second her mouth went a little bit dry with . . . what?
Surprise? Anticipation?
Nervousness?
Wordlessly, Hunter reached out and took the piece of neglected pizza out of her hand and took an enormous bite, then handed it back. The distracted, unsexy gesture went a long way toward settling that strange fissure of unease.
Mostly.