He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, forcing his thoughts past the spike of pure want.
He wiped the sweat from his neck with the back of his hand, heat spilling off him in waves despite the February chill.
What was the male equivalent of a woman dressing in red lace? A firefighter calendar pose? A Chippendales routine?
He glanced down at himself: faded work jeans, boots caked in dust, tool belt slung low on his hips. He looked like every construction cliché in existence.
Manly.Sure. Sexy, even.
But vulnerable?
Maybe it wasn’t anequivalentto Lauren wearing lingerie for him he needed. Maybe it was a mirror image.
The idea was ridiculous. But…
Ifshewas willing to wear that forhim, maybe he could…
He wanted to make a statement. He wanted to show the woman he loved that she deserved everything he could ever give her.
His thoughts flashed—clear, terrifying—of actually doing it, of standing in front of her wearing lace, letting her see him in lingerie.
Tom blushed. A real, unmistakable burn spreading across his cheekbones.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, but the heat stayed, the embarrassment twined with fierce, aching anticipation.
If doing this could show Lauren Barrett that he saw her, that he wanted her, that he could match her courage—then yeah.
He’d do it. He’d happily do it.
He picked up a length of timber and set his shoulders, steady now.
It would be worth it.
His in-laws hadlong since gone to bed.
Tom sat at the craft table, the lamplight pooling over the spread of beads and wire. The air smelled faintly of metal.
Another necklace. Fine wire and glass beads threaded together in a simple pattern.
He bent over the wire, tongue pressed to his teeth, focused. The motion had become familiar, almost meditative.
His new purchase from that afternoon sat in his bag, folded tight inside the plain paper from the shop.
His ears went hot every time he thought about it.
The woman at the boutique had been kind, mercifully discreet. She’d asked, “Are you looking for a gift?” and he’d said, “Sort of,” and then turned the same color as the red satin she was holding.
He hadn’t even tried it on yet. Now, as he threaded another bead, the thought of it made his pulse jump.
He imagined Lauren’s face. Would she… like it?
He fumbled a bead. It bounced once and rolled across the table. He laughed under his breath, shaking his head.
“Get a grip,” he muttered, retrieving it.
He set it carefully back on the wire, steadying his hands.
He’d spent so long being safe, polished, restrained. A man made of straight lines and clean angles. But Lauren had never been tidy. She was color and texture and emotion stitched together until it made something whole.
