Page 24 of Falling into Place
“I need somewhere to lay this stuff out,” she clipped.
He nudged her aside. “I’ll do it. You’re not making my bed for me. Move.”
She gave him the side-eye but backed away. After a few long seconds of silence, he sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” He looked over and her face softened.
“Me too. I barely slept last night because of that damn shirt.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. Got any coffee?”
“I did but it’s all over my driveway.”
A tiny grin cracked her lips. “No wonder you’re in a bad mood. Have some in the kitchen? I can make a pot while you finish that.”
He nodded. “Make it extra strong.”
She didn’t bat an eye. Was she also a freak who could drink coffee and go straight to bed, like him? Sasha insisted he was some sort of robot every time they were out for dinner and he ordered full-caffeine coffee with dessert.
Five minutes later, his bed was made, and she returned with two steaming cups of coffee in University Hospital mugs. He’d resisted the temptation to peek in the bags she’d brought and watched apprehensively as she pulled each item out and laid it carefully on the bed. Yes, she’d sent him pictures, but it wasn’t all that easy to see the clothes on his phone and he wouldn’t put it past her to throw in something unapproved.
This is for Sasha. This is for Macy. This is for Mom.
When she finished arranging and smoothing everything out, she stepped back and held the coffee mug in front of her face, peeking over the top. “Well? What do you think?”
He sucked down the dark liquid and approached with caution. Three outfits stared back at him.
A pair of khaki pants that looked way too narrow for his legs with a brown leather belt and white polo shirt.
Navy shorts (shit, would they even go to his knees?) and a gray shirt that looked like a polo but had no collar—he remembered approving that one.
And light-blue-striped (at least, he thought they were; they looked weird) shorts with a plain white T-shirt and a green sweater.
“A sweater?” was the first thing he said. “It’s supposed to be eighty-five degrees today.”
“It’s just for the picture. The green will go great with your eyes, and women can’t resist a man in a cozy-looking sweater.”
“What the hell are those shorts?”
“Which ones? The seersucker?”
He’d never heard that word before in his life.
She didn’t provide additional information and instead suggested, “Why don’t you try the chinos and polo first?”
It did seem the least offensive of the three.
“Okay.” Maybe the pants wouldn’t be as tight as they looked.
With his coffee in one hand and the clothes in the other, he disappeared into the bathroom. He checked his watch as he shucked off his blue scrubs—they had fifteen minutes before the others would arrive.
“Wait, shouldn’t I have an undershirt?” he called through the door.
He heard what sounded suspiciously like laughter covered by a cough. “No.”
He frowned at himself in the mirror. No undershirt with a polo? With a sigh he did as directed and put it on, and damn, that was soft against his skin. He pulled on the pants, which fit perfect in the waist, at least, and walked back out with the belt in hand.
“I know skinny’s the style, or whatever, but I just don’t feel comfortable—”
