He looked up from his phone, behind the counter, where he slouched on a stool, and grinned in that polite way salesclerks do. The I-don't-know-you-but-I-want-you-to-trust-me grin. Then he saw Kaspian. His grin dissolved into a gape.
“Yeah, we need to get him some new clothes,” I said to the guy's look. “We had a situation, and he lost his. These are mine.”
“Ah, I uh, yeah I get it.” The man cleared his throat and sort of melted off the stool. He came around the counter, looking Kas up and down. “I think we have some things that should fit you. Wow. You lift or what? I bet you can press three hundred. Or is it more? I'll bet it's more. I probably just insulted you with the three.”
Kaspian frowned deeper and deeper as the man spoke. “Lift three hundred of what?”
“No, he doesn't lift weights.” I laid a hand on Kas to reassure him that I'd take over. “He's just very active.”
“Wow. Dude, you won the genetic lottery. I couldn't get biceps like those even if I went to the gym every day. And I totally protein pack. One gram for every pound. You know?”
“Protein pack,” Kas repeated.
“Yup, he eats a lot of protein,” I interpreted. “It helps with building muscle.”
“Ah. Yes, I eat a lot of meat,” Kaspian said.
As I coughed to cover my laugh, the salesclerk snorted. “I'll bet. Okay, come on back. We keep your size in the back of the store. We don't get a lot of big guys like you, but we get large ones.” He looked back at us and lifted his brows. “If you know what I mean.”
“I do not.” Kas looked at me and scowled as if the guy's speech was my fault.
“He means a lot of guys with, uh, well . . .”
“I mean Oregon's a foodie state, brother.” The guy stopped at a rack for big and tall men. “We got some hardworking folk like you who are fit—you know, farmers and loggers, that sort. Then we got the gym rats like me, and we got those guys who just don't care. God bless 'em.” He chuckled. “I'll tell you what, after years of drinking protein shakes every morning, I may give up too.”
“They don't care about what?” Kas asked.
“About how they look. You know.” He motioned his hand out from his body. “They eat what they want and sit at a desk all day. The fat and happy guys. Good for them, I say!”
“Ah. Yes.” Kaspian went to the rack and inspected the garments. “You mean they have more body fat than muscle.”
“Whoa, buddy. You have a nice way of saying things. You from England or somethin'?”
“Somethin',” I said.
The guy chuckled. “Well, have a look around. There are pants over there, hoodies over here, and we even sell underwear, if you need some.”
“He does.” I looked at Kaspian's ass—couldn't be helped. Automatic reaction. “Um. I'm not sure what size.”
“XL at least,” the salesperson said. “Damn, buddy. You must have a hard time finding jeans. Your waist is tight, but you got big thighs and an ass that would make Channing Tatum feel inadequate.”
I burst out laughing and fist-bumped the guy. “Good one.”
Kaspian narrowed his stare at me.
“It's a compliment. He's saying you have a nice body.”
“Oh. Thank you very much.” Kas inclined his head.
“Well, we got some drawstring pants over there. We keep them for the bohemians—AKA potheads.” The man winked at me. “But I think your buddy can make them work with a nice shirt.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Those will be great, I'm sure. Can you grab him some basic underwear in XL?”
“Yeah, he'd better go for the stretchy stuff.” The guy strode off.
“What is a pot head?” Kaspian whispered to me.
I snorted a laugh. “Uh, you don't need to know about them.”
