But the heat spreading through me doesn't care about propriety. My body's response is immediate, embarrassing, and impossible to ignore.James looks fucking hot, and I'm half-hard in a fucking tailor shop.
"That's the one." My voice comes out strained. He turns to look at me, and I have to fight the urge to adjust myself.
James turns to look at me, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in my appearance. "You clean up okay, Huntington," he says, his voice deeper than usual.
"So do you." Joining him on the platform, standing side by side in the mirror. We make a good-looking couple, his height and width next to my more compact frame.
We look good together. Really good. The kind of couple that would photograph well for my father's campaign materials.
And isn't that exactly the problem? It's fake.
"I believe we've found our selections, Mr. Harrington. This one for Mr. Hunter, and my usual for me."
"Excellent choice, sir. We'll have the alterations completed by Friday. Will you be picking them up, or shall we deliver them to the residence?"
"Delivery, please," I answer without thinking, then catch myself. "Actually, to Delta Psi Omega. The fraternity house."
Mr. Harrington's expression reveals his opinion of delivering fine formalwear to a fraternity house, but he says nothing. "As you wish, Mr. Huntington. Will there be anything else today?"
"That's all. Thank you."
As we change back into our regular clothes, I think about how James looked in that suit. How I felt standing next to him, knowing he'll be by my side at the gala.
Fuck, it's confusing. He’s James, the cranky computer guy, but he's also hot, and I like talking to him, and apparently, I want to jump him in a tailor shop.
"That wasn't so bad," James says as we leave the store. "Though I think that guy measured parts of me that have never been measured before."
"Montgomery's doesn't miss a thing." I try to sound casual, even though I'm still uncomfortable about Mr. Harrington mentioning Christopher. "That's why all the big shots shop there. Politicians, CEOs, they know every little detail counts."
"Your whole life is like that, isn't it?" James asks, surprising me with his insight. "Every detail scrutinized and adjusted until it's perfect."
I don't answer right away. He's hit the nail on the head about what my life is like. "Yes," I admit finally. "That's exactly what it's like."
Tilting my phone, I show him three additional texts from my mother.
Mother
Your father's campaign manager suggested family photos at 5:30, before the event. Please arrive by 5:15, looking refreshed. The photographer can touch up dark circles, but there's only so much they can do.
Mother
Be sure to have your haircut before the event. You are starting to look like a rebellious teenager. Senator Blackwell's wife mentioned it at the last fundraiser. So helpful of her to be concerned.
Mother
The Morgans' son, who became a partner at his father's firm, will be attending. Thought you might want to network. He's straight, of course, but quite supportive of your "lifestyle." His words.
He nods, not giving me fake sympathy or brushing it off like I'm just being spoiled. He's just getting a glimpse of what my life is really like. His usual careful look softens a bit, eyebrows going up while those dark, sharp eyes look at my face like he actually understands. It feels surprisingly good.
"Want to grab coffee before we head back?" he suggests. "I could use some caffeine after that… experience."
"Sure," I'm happy to delay our return to the house and the inevitable questions the guys are gonna ask.Nosy fuckers can't leave anything alone.
As we walk toward the coffee shop, I start wondering what James would say if he knew about Christopher and what had happened, and why my mother is so insistent on controlling who I date. But that's a story I'm not ready to share, not yet, and maybe not ever.
Some wounds are better left untouched, even in a relationship as complicated as ours is becoming.
The nightof the gala arrives too quickly. The suits arrived right on time, neatly hung in perfect garment bags in our rooms. I've been staring at mine for twenty minutes, postponing the inevitable transformation into Caleb Huntington III, dutiful son and political asset.
