Measuring the Fit

 

How long should a fitting take?

Initially, I was able to stay in my law office and convey my sizes over the phone. But now I have to put on the gear so they can tailor it. So, I’ll follow Cleo’s directions to the shop, and I’ll be fitted for the tux she wants me to wear in the wedding. Hopefully it’ll be a girl putting her hands all over me to take my measurements, and she’ll be a cute girl. And then I’ll meet my brother for a drink and give him grief for it.

The fall day is perfect for me to lower the convertible top on my gunmetal gray F-Type Jag. It’s sunny, and I’m feeling that restlessness you get at the end of a long work week. Sun on my face, wind in my hair, I let the 20-minute drive adjust my attitude.

Arriving at the location, I roll into a parking place and unfold from the car. My practiced eye scans the refurbished neighborhood in the heart of downtown. Nice area for a boutique business. Quaint storefronts with colorful wares, striped awnings fluttering their welcome. Yeah, an inviting locale. Sparkling gems in the midst of urban decay.

I snort at that flowery thought. Too much time spent on real estate investment and romantic poetry. If I’m starting to think in soundbites, it’s time to diversify.

The windows of the shop I’m headed for gleam in the afternoon sun. Flanked by red brick storefronts, the pale gray building stands out. Trim block letters in black metal give Sophisticated Events an edgy air, while two pom-pom topiaries sprouting from heavy urns are quirky sentinels on either side of the double-door entry.

Looks like Cleo’s friend has a thriving business. If she can withstand Cleo’s energy, she must know how to handle people. Always a good skill. If she’s as pretty as Cleo, this could get interesting. After all, we’re going to be in the wedding together—I the best man, Cleo’s friend the maid of honor. A little flirtation during my brother’s wedding festivities will only add to the memories, right?

I stand in the foyer, letting my eyes adjust. A cloud of gentle fragrance swirls through the area. Along the crown molding, soft light frames a shiny ceiling. White dots of light peek from nests in the branches of silver chandeliers reminding me of Christmas on the Champs-Élysées. People scurry around the busy space like frenzied, last-minute shoppers, furthering the Parisian impression. I’m a satyr who’s stumbled upon an intimate, feminine bower. My restlessness smooths, muscles relax.

Oh, I could get used to this.

“Mr. DePaul?”

A voice like silk panties caresses me out of my musings, and I look around for its source. Petite blonde, late twenties, early thirties. Round in the right places. Short skirt, good legs. Made for the fuck-me heels on her feet. A flush like pink porcelain. Confident. And her eyes. Wow. Like looking out my back door to the Atlantic during a storm, all gray and green swirled together. My senses go on high alert.

Damn, this woman is a beauty. As much as I’ve been around Tony and Cleo lately,  why am I just now meeting Cleo’s best friend?

“Call me Leo. You’re Juliette Samson?” She has to be. The shop has her quiet elegance stamped all over it.

Her lips part, then tilt up in acknowledgement. “I’m very happy to meet you, Leo. Welcome to Sophisticated Events. Ready to try on your tuxedo?”

She crosses the marble floor and it’s like watching heaven in an undulating skirt glide my way. Taking my elbow to guide me to a closet in the shop’s classy bowels, the touch sends Morse code through my nervous system, straight to my pleasure center. More than lust—although there’s a sudden bloom of that, too—her touch makes me feel oddly protective. I pull her hand into the crook of my arm and cover it with mine.

The closet turns out to be a fitting room, a tuxedo hanging on one wall, a three-mirror setup in one corner, a glass-topped table and long, padded bench on another wall, with space for several people. She positions me in the center of the room before studying me, one hand on her chin in perusal. Her professional survey reveals none of her thoughts. But her deep inhalation and the flutter of pulse at her throat does. I don’t even try to stifle the slow grin that slides up one side of my mouth.

Like what you see, Ms. Samson? Good. So do I.

 *****

This is Tony’s brother? Why hasn’t Cleo introduced us before?

His sensual danger assaulted me the minute he came through the shop door, before I had a chance to register anything else about him. The initial throb of energy coming off him as I walked us through Sophisticated Events tempered into waves, and now it’s seductively lapping over me like a warm bath.

His switching the power positions, claiming my hand and walking me instead of the other way around, didn’t surprise me much. He obviously knows his way around women and likes to be in control. But his toffee-colored gaze jolted me, like the first sip of scotch that makes you suck in your breath as the liquor warms its way down your throat and all over your body? That definitely gives me pause. It’s much too penetrating, as though he wants to pierce my soul. The soul I keep carefully guarded behind walls upon walls, safe from marauders.

But damn if he doesn’t make my body sit up and take notice. He’s the sort I like to cavort with—big, fit, sexy, borderline cocky. Easy to pick up, easy to put down again later. Would it be awkward for the maid of honor to seduce the best man? Cleo might not like it. But if it’s only for this week, maybe we could keep it just between Leo and me? I’m sure he’d be as interested as I in playing things low-key.

If the shop weren’t so busy getting ready for two weddings and a charity event this weekend, it would probably be best if I weren’t conducting this fitting. But all the other consultants were occupied. Besides, being in the wedding together, it would have been rude not to meet the man and give him some personal attention. The question is, how much personal attention do I want to give him?

I cross my arms, symbolically closing myself off, and rest one hand on my chin to get a better look. Italian ancestry somewhere in his pedigree. Beautiful straight nose and rich, olive skin. An alert gleam in those eyes, hinting at intelligence, passion, vitality, and secret pleasures. His dimple slowly chisels into one bronzed cheek, snagging my full attention. I wet my lips and swallow before circling around him.

Hmm… larger-than-average. A walking advertisement for the well-dressed professional. Dark suit coat falling negligently from square shoulders, skimming a broad, straight back, then narrowing at the waist. Armani should pay him a commission. Chestnut ponytail in a dark clip. Unexpected, perhaps dated? But it suits the man’s charming rogue aura. Does he like it pulled in bed?

Mid-thirties, probably, with full, sculpted lips curved in a slightly cocky smile. Yes, that smile is definitely dangerous. I’m sure it’s been the ruin of many women. Women who don’t know to avoid danger like I do.

"Thank you for interrupting your day, Leo. I know you're busy, so I'll try to get you out of here and back to the law office as quickly as possible."

A small nod of acknowledgement. “My time is yours, Juliette."

Few male qualities are able to penetrate my defenses, but I have a weakness for deep, resonant voices. Leo’s baritone slides down my spine to lodge in my belly, awakening fluttery creatures inside. I permit myself a moment of delicious flutter.

“Well, then, let’s not squander it. Shall we get started?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Over the years, how many times have I asked clients, male and female, to strip off various layers of clothing so I can do my job? All without a qualm. It’s just business.

But with him, right now, the words make me want to relax into him. The whole room is pulsing. “Let’s start with removing your jacket, please.”

“Certainly.” He unbuttons. “How long have you known Cleo, and how did you two meet?”

I pull the jacket off his broad shoulders, allowing my nails to run down his arms. I ignore when his head jerks to the side, nostrils flaring, and I just answer his question. “We met about a dozen years ago at a PR convention. I was like the moth drawn to her flame. She’s so alive.”

"She's a delightful madcap,” Leo purrs, his eyes still on me over his shoulder. “My brother finds her enchanting, and I trust his judgment."

Again with the charming dimple. Since I’m noticing it, I have to admit it’s mesmerizing. "Tony's good for Cleo. I hope they’ll be very happy." I wince at the platitude used for all the other brides who come through the shop. Since when can’t I hold up my end of social conversation? Careful to keep his jacket from dragging the floor, I transfer it to a hanger and onto an empty wall hook.

The slim-cut shirt is perfectly tailored to his well-formed chest and compact waist. I tug on the cuffs and take a look at his hands. My second weakness. Men’s hands, large, well-manicured, and tanned. Yummy. The man has good hands.

"Well, theirs is as close to a fairytale romance as I've seen in a while,” Leo says.

The comment successfully snags my attention from the shadow of his abs etched into the shirt. "I'm hoping for rather more than that for them.”

His brows arch, and he pins me with that direct gaze. "More than the fairy tale? More than happily ever after?"

Carried away by sensual imaginings, my answer is unguarded. “They deserve to be happy and fulfilled, not deluded and duped by puffy dresses, horse-drawn carriages, shining armor, and happily ever after.”

The arched brow flattens and a vee forms. “You're not in favor of fairy tales?"

“Not as a substitute for real life.” Damn. Now I’m practically arguing with him. Exactly what I never let myself do. This man could pose more of a danger than I initially thought. Something to consider.

"Yet doesn't your business rely heavily upon others believing in them?" he persists.

“I suppose so. Do you invest in fairy tales, Leo?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

I scoff. “Isn't your profession based on reason and logic? Why would you believe in romantic fantasies?"

 

*****

 

She's delectable. Soft curls cascade down her back, almost to her waist. I might have to chew my arm up to the elbow to keep from running my hands through the white-blonde mass. If ever a fairytale princess came to life, it’s Ms. Juliette Samson.

Box number one, check.

And I’m pretty sure she’s not immune to me physically, from the vibes I’m getting. Box number two, check.

But what does she have against romance? The subject sure gets her back up. What a perplexing woman. Is she unattached? And if so, how? Cleo said she dates. There’s no way men don’t pant after her regularly. The way she deflects me as if on autopilot tells me that she’s practiced handling romantic advances.

Not that my lustier thoughts are particularly romantic. It’s like I’m back in college, swimming through a testosterone haze. Get a grip, man.

She retrieves a measuring tape from a drawer behind a concealed wall panel and straightens out the long, yellow tape between tapered fingers with pale pink nails as she approaches.

“You know, Juliette, special events stemming from fantasies can be even more beautiful.”

“Perhaps.”

“But you don’t agree.”

Her hands reach around to measure my waist, and I get a head full of pleasant, clean scent, quiet and undoubtedly expensive.

“Experience doesn’t really support that assertion. Special events require detailed planning, not dreaming about them or just believing they will happen.”

Damn, she’s a tough nut to crack. Gonna make me work for box three. The lawyer in me rouses to the joust. "On the other hand, suspension of belief doesn't necessarily produce positive conclusions, either, Princess."

Faint color steals over her cheeks. Because of my argument? Or because of the quasi-endearment? I’m fascinated to find out which.

She flicks her gaze at me with the first sign of hesitation I’ve discerned. "Arms out to your sides, please, for your chest measurement."

I do as requested, and she reaches around me with the tape.

Oh, this is good. Hell, she’s basically embracing me, and the feel of her body pressed to mine is exquisite. In her heels, she’s just the right height to mesh her curves with my flat planes.

I keep my breathing slow and steady, and take the opportunity to study her more closely as she fumbles with the measuring tape. A handful of apricot-colored freckles scatter across her nose. They’re begging me to press my lips against each and every one, if only to provoke more delicious flush over her fair skin.

If we have this much chemistry now, what will it be like after a week of meetings? A frisson of excitement courses through me.

She’s enough shorter that she can look directly at the tape running across my chest. That’s a disappointment. I want to see her stormy eyes while her arms are around me. The yearning triggers a memory.

“Ever heard of Tyler Knott Gregson?” At this proximity, I can feel the murmur of my voice rumble inside her.

“No.”

“He wrote a poem appropriate for this situation. See if you agree.”

 

Pull the tape, measure it,

the exact distance

between this arm, and that,

the twins that hang

at the sides of me.

I know, without

checking the sixteenths,

the thirty-seconds,

that it’s big enough

to wrap entirely

around

you.

 

 

*****

He’s trying to bait me.

First, he calls me 'princess'? I’m no man’s princess, DePaul. You’ll have to learn that straightaway.

And then this poem. Reminiscent of intimacies in private places, pillow talk. It fills me with images of strong arms, comfort, and safety. Images and feelings I’ve learned long ago to compartmentalize or avoid.

Of course the fabric strip chooses this moment not to cooperate. I have to lean in and reach around behind to adjust it, pressing my ear against his chest. The beat of his heart is sure and steady, and the scent of spicy musk fills my head, making my mouth water.

I’m too close, standing before him, arms wrapped tightly around him as I work to straighten out the tape. Where his gaze roams, my skin burns. Locating the right position in front and back of the man's lean body for an accurate measurement is tricky. I’m concentrating too much on where my hands are and what our bodies are touching.

That in itself is no problem. He feels good under my hands. But until he understands that anything between us will be just sex, and only on my terms, I’m going to have to be careful.

Like a drowning woman scrabbling for a life preserver, I latch onto the remnants of our conversation as I determine the circumference of his upper thigh. “That’s a very nice poem, thank you for sharing it. But I’m still surprised at your adherence to a belief in romantic fantasies."

His gaze travels between my lips and my eyes. "Perhaps romantic fantasies are a yearning so deeply ingrained in the human psyche, they can’t be suppressed by logic."

Only one more bit of data to double-check.

The man's inseam.

I drop to one knee and look up at him from my position on the floor. "Perhaps romantic fantasy is nothing more than a mythic glorification of hormonal functioning,"

His jaw is clean-shaven and strong, chin squared-off, forehead high and tanned. His gaze down at me is pointed and intent, as though really seeing me for the first time. The connection pulses a beat, and another…

…then morphs into something softer, almost tender. Unsettled, I note the number on the calibrated ribbon, jot it down, and avert my gaze.

“It’s possible to be so fully aware of one version of reality, Juliette, that it completely obscures the fairy tale from your vision.” He pauses, the timber of his voice dropping to a masculine whisper. “And that would be a pity.”

It’s almost a purr. My entire body shudders from a dangerous heat.

Not good. This man is a walking contradiction who activates all sorts of things inside me. Powerful and keen, yet gentle and reflective, living logic, yet espousing fantasy. He doesn’t make sense, and yet everything he says is beautiful. I almost want it to be true. He tempts me beyond sex. And that’s what makes him dangerous. “This is what you want for Tony and Cleo? A fairy tale marriage?”

“Their version of it, among other things. Absolutely.”

He proffers a hand to help me up, but I need space, so I ignore his gesture and get to my feet myself. “And for yourself?”

His hand drops back to his side. “Also among other things. Why not?”

“Because it’s not real.”

“It can be as real as you make it, Juliette. What’s your version of reality?”

Memories, disjointed and painful flit through my mind’s eye. “Nothing like yours.”

He scrutinizes me, but not unkindly, and his countenance changes once again, as though he’s reached some conclusion.

My chin rises slowly in response.

Princess, Mr. DePaul? Indeed.

Inhaling deeply, I square my shoulders to face him and pull myself to full height. Combined with an unyielding, dispassionate stare, it’s a practiced maneuver calculated to rock encroachers back on their heels and give me back control.

The man's sculpted lips hint at a smile. The look he’s giving me is open and uncomplicated, but penetrating, assessing.

I’m uneasy about the feeling it evokes, distrustful of the thing unwinding inside me.

Are you looking for a relationship, Leo? Careful. I’m not in the market for any romantic rubbish.

 

***** 

 

Interesting. She’s fine with sexual situations, but poetry sends her running.

Yeah, that attitude about romance is a problem. Could take Juliette right off my list. And yet, there was a moment during the poem where the professional façade slipped.

That peek at her vulnerability has me wondering. Like most of my species, I have this unshakable belief that closed-off women just haven’t met the right man. The challenge of opening up such a woman is like a dare. Sends men into a caveman frenzy. Shifts passing interest straight into overdrive.

The sight of her crouched in front of me as I looked down on her bowed head earlier with its smooth, curling tendrils of pale hair made me fight an unexpectedly tender—she would probably say hormonal—urge to catch her up and hold her close against my chest again. She’d read something of it in my eyes and drawn herself up into the regal stance which I’m beginning to recognize characterizes her. Her armor.

Juliette Samson. Interesting mix of sultry sex and frosty barriers.

I’m determined to know you better. Thoroughly, if possible. You, the best friend of my brother’s fiancée.

Ice princess, deep in denial, insulated high in your turret.

I’ve been searching for the pieces that will complete the life I envision. A calling that feeds my soul by building lives instead of tearing them apart. A helpmate to cherish and protect, to stand with me through all the battles of life.

If the best man rescues the maid of honor from her crenelated defenses, will it herald his own rescue?

Juliette, could this be the beginning of our own fairy tale?