After I’d pointed out that problem, Finch had demanded I go shopping with him and that I pay for everything.
Why couldn’t he buy his own damn suits?
Maybe he was getting back at me for earlier.
Did he have to come to the photoshoot to do a spy-esque swap with his documents? No. But it had sure been nice to know he was waiting in line for an hour before he reached me.
“We’re here for suits,” Finch told the tailor flatly.
“Do you have an account with us, Mr.…?”
“Song,” he said, using the last name Soren had procured for him. “And no.”
“Are you here for formal or semi-formal cuts?” she asked.
Finch’s jaw ticked and he looked at me.
“We’ll get fitted for a full suit,” I told her.
“Not a problem. Just step this way, and we’ll get your preferences.”
As she turned to lead us to the fitting area, Finch grabbed my arm. “We don’t need that. Just tell her to get us some suits.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied. Was he trying to be difficult? I took his arm and marched him over to the fitting area. “What do you expect them to do, guess at your shoulder width?”
“I know what size I am,” he hissed at me.
I cocked my head at him, trying to figure out why he was being so obtuse. “Look, it’s not my fault we don’t have time to get you a fully bespoke suit, but you still have to getsomething semi-fitted if you don’t want to be laughed out the door tonight.”
He glared at me, then huffed and stopped arguing, following the tailor to the fitting rooms. He deferred to me as the tailor asked about what we were looking for, looking out the window and barely paying attention.
Fine.
Eyeing his muscular arms and broad chest, I told the tailor he liked a tight fit with a slight stretch. I mean, I was his scent match. Might as well put him in something drool-worthy. The tailor pursed her lips but didn’t quite hide her smirk when I specified a close-fitting chest with a tapered torso.
When it was time to get fitted, Finch stepped in front of the floor-length mirrors and waited.
The tailor cleared her throat politely.
Finch looked at me for help and I raised an eyebrow.
“You gonna take your clothes off?” I asked him, not hiding my smirk.
For a second, his mouth parted slightly, and surprise flashed in his eyes. He quickly smoothed his expression back into a thunderous scowl and started to undress.
My mouth went dry as he tugged off his shirt, because holy shit he was cut like a god. I’d known he was muscular under his ill-fitting shirt, but this was something else.
He tugged off his pants and stood up, folding his arms and scowling. He lifted his chin and stared me down, a challenge in his gaze that had me subtly crossing my legs.
The tailor just stared at him for a few moments before she hurried forward with her measuring tape. She was maintaining professionalism but went a bit pink on the ears as she started on his waist.
God, did she have to touch him that much? I’m sure shedidn’t. I bit back a growl and averted my gaze as her knuckles grazed his pecs.
Fuck that possessive omega bullshit. He wasn’t my alpha by choice, and I didn’t give a shit who touched him.
I could see him in the mirror, his back stiff as a board and a vein on his temple looking like it was going to burst.
“For goodness’ sake, relax,” I told him, venting some of my annoyance at the tailor to him instead.
