When we arrived at the ranch, Xavier hopped out of the car and beckoned me inside. We said a quick hello to Mabel before he ushered me into one of the small bedrooms and closed the door. There was a suit laid out on the bed already, a sewing machine on the small table in the corner, and a full-length mirror standing against the wall.
“Uh…” I said, looking around the room. “Where’s the tailor?”
Xavier flashed me a mischievous smile. “Oh? Didn’t I tell you? I’m the tailor.”
I stared at him, my brain trying to process what he’d just said. “You’re the tailor?”
“Surprised?” Xavier moved toward the bed, running his fingers over the fabric of the suit. “I didn’t spend all those years in New York just planning weddings. I had to learn every aspect of the business, including alterations and basic tailoring. Can’t always rely on outside vendors when you’re working with celebrities who change their minds at the last second.”
“But you said there was a tailor at the ranch?—”
“I said the tailor was expecting us. I never said it wasn’t me.” He picked up a measuring tape from the bed and turned to face me, that infuriating grin still plastered on his face. “Now take off your shirt.”
My hand instinctively went to the top button of my uniform shirt, then froze. “What?”
“I need to take your measurements, Sheriff. Can’t do that through layers of polyester blend.” He gestured impatiently. “Come on, I don’t have all day.”
“You can measure over my undershirt,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
Xavier rolled his eyes. “Fine. But the pants need to come off too. I need accurate inseam measurements.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh for god’s sake.” He crossed his arms, the measuring tape dangling from one hand. “I’ve measured hundreds of men, Marcus. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
That wasn’t the point, and we both knew it. The point was that I was already struggling to keep my body under control around him, and the last thing I needed was to be standing in my underwear while his hands were all over me with that measuring tape.
“Boxer briefs or boxers?” he asked casually, like he was asking about the weather.
“That’s none of your business.”
“I need to know for the fit. Boxer briefs, right? You seem like a boxer briefs kind of guy.” His eyes traveled down my body in a way that made my skin feel too hot. “Probably gray or black. Nothing too adventurous.”
He was right, of course. I owned exactly three colors of underwear: black, gray, and navy blue. But I wasn’t about to admit that to him.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, but my hands were already moving to unbutton my shirt. “And if you tell anyone about this?—”
“Who would I tell? Lucas? He already knows I’m fitting you.” Xavier moved closer, watching as I shrugged out of my uniform shirt. “Besides, I’m a professional. This is just work.”
Just work. Right. Except the way his eyes widened slightly when I revealed my thick, dark chest hair suggested it might not be entirely just work for him either. I pulled the undershirt over my head, acutely aware of how his gaze tracked the movement, lingering on my chest and abs.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You really are in good shape.”
I tried not to react to his comment, keeping my expression neutral even though my pulse kicked up a notch. “I work out,” I said simply, which was the understatement of the century. Working out was the only thing that kept me sane most days.
“Clearly.” Xavier stepped closer, bringing that citrus scent with him, and lifted the measuring tape. “Arms up.”
I raised my arms, feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t felt in years. His fingers brushed against my skin as he wrapped the tape around my chest, and I had to concentrate on keeping my breathing steady. He was so close I could see the individual lashes framing those light brown eyes, could count the faint freckles scattered across his nose that his tan almost hid.
“Breathe normally,” he murmured, his breath warm against my collarbone. “You’re holding it in.”
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and his hands moved with practiced efficiency, calling out numbers that I assumed he was memorizing. He measured my shoulders, my arms, my waist, each touch professional but somehow intimate in the quiet of the room.
“Now the pants,” he said, stepping back.
I hesitated, my hands going to my belt buckle. This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. But I was already here, already half-naked, and backing out now would just make it more obvious that he was getting to me.
I unbuckled my belt and shucked off my uniform pants, folding them carefully and setting them on the chair. Standing there in my gray boxer briefs I felt more naked than if I’d actually been naked.
