Page 20 of Love Lessons
This was probably a bad idea. Nonetheless, I hand over the shopping bag. I hold my breath while he reaches in and pulls the shirt from the tissue paper where I’ve nestled it.
“Nice color,” he says gruffly. “Thanks.”
“Try it on,” I hear myself demand. I know he doesn’t care much about clothes. But I’m dying to know if I’ve found something that works.
I don’t know why I need that shirt to please him. I just do. I’m stubborn like that.
“Later,” he says.
“Please?” I hear myself beg. “Guessing people’s sizes is my only party trick.”
He gives me a dubious look. “That is not a party trick. Tying a cherry stem in a knot in your mouth is a party trick. Balancing a spoon on your nose. Shotgunning a beer…”
“Stop!” I protest. “We’ve already established that I am not as much fun as most people. Just try the damn shirt on. Just once. That’s all I ask. It would make my shallow, ass-kisser heart happy.”
He grins. “All right. Stripping for you sounds like fun, anyway.” He tugs off his T-shirt in a single, smooth motion.
Suddenly, I’m confronted with acres of muscular glory. And I finally get a full look at that tattoo on his upper chest. It depicts a set of wings, and it stretches the full distance to his shoulders and his upper arms. “Holy Mary, mother of Jesus,” I stammer.
“This was your idea, babe.” He unbuttons the new shirt with thick fingers. “Already told you my preferences for how we’d spend time together.”
Oh god. He probably thinks I have some kind of sexual agenda—making him rip off his shirt in front of me.
What did you think would happen, dummy?my inner voice chides.
I can barely focus until he puts on the shirt and then buttons himself into it. It fits perfectly, which means I haven’t lost my touch. “See? Iknewthat would be a good color on you.”
He looks nonplussed. He shrugs his shoulders awkwardly. “It fits, right? Does it work with mycoloring?”
“Um, yup. It’ll do,” I say, even though he’s raised that shirt to an art form with the way it hugs his body in all the right ways.
He gives another awkward shrug and begins hastily unbuttoning it again. But halfway through, he has to stop and sneeze forcefully into his hand.
When he lifts his face again, his eyes are red.
“Whoa! Allergy attack?”
“Something like that,” he grumbles, unbuttoning the shirt quickly. “But I’m fine.”
He isn’t, though. As the shirt comes off, he sneezes again. And even worse, his skin is getting pink where the shirt’s shoulder seams had been a second ago.
“Whoa! What the…”
He sighs. Then he bends to snatch his T-shirt off the floor.
But I’m faster and grab it before he can retrieve it.
“Hey! Hand that over.” He holds out one broad hand for his tee.
“No way.” I hold it behind my back. “Not until you tell me the truth. Did I bring you a shirt that caused an allergic reaction?”
“No big deal,” he rumbles. “Happens all the time.” He reaches for the tee.
I dodge.
“Vera, jeez. It’s just a weird thing with me.” He brushes one palm over the reddened skin on his bare shoulder. “It’ll go away in an hour or so.”
“But… That’sterrible!Are you sensitive to the sizing they use on new fabrics? Or is it a certain kind of thread?” I’ve heard men say they’re allergic to shopping before. But I never knew it was actually possible.
