Walking into the mall with a mental list of reasons this shouldn’t be happening, like how it’s too public, too risky, and far too normal for either of us to accept, I tell myself I’ll just grab what I need quickly and get out before the illusion of choice clouds my judgment.
Yet, half an hour later, I’m standing in front of a tall mirror in a boutique dressing room, holding up a jacket I definitely don’t need while Wyatt lounges in one of the armchairs meant for exactly this kind of situation.
I scan the material, going over in my head if it goes with the few other items I’ve already picked up. Then, I lift my gaze and meet his through the mirror.
After a beat, I murmur, “You’re staring.”
He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t even startle. “I’m assessing.”
“Assessing what?”
“If it makes you easier to spot in a crowd.”
He says it casually, with an undertone of more care than he lets on.
I scoff. “Liar.”
His lips twitch into a brief smile, and he shrugs. “Maybe.”
Ignoring the way that expression of his makes him look even hotter than usual, I roll my eyes and return to the change room to try more on.
Looking at my reflection with a new ensemble on, the neutral colors and more plain patterns are still a disguise, but the clothes feel more like they could be mine instead of borrowed camouflage. And of course, I’ve been sneaking in a few bolder pieces I would normally wear, just as long as they don’t catch his attention too much. That alone sends a small thrill through me.
I step out of the dressing room again, presenting myself to him in a way that feels oddly vulnerable. Normally, something like this wouldn’t faze me. But it’shim.
…I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.
“Well?”
Wyatt looks me over slowly and deliberately, allowing his eyes to drag a little longer before returning them to mine. That should irritate me, but instead, it makes me squirm inwardly.
“It works,” he says calmly, expression neutral to an almost annoying degree. “Get it.”
“You’re not going to ask how much it costs?” I ask, lifting a brow. “Or even pretend to be frugal?”
“No,” he murmurs, as if it’s obvious. “I don’t need to be frugal about this, especially not when you hate the other ones you’ve been wearing.”
I pause at that, feeling a strange stitch of guilt for some reason. “I didn’t—”
“You complained about the seams,” Wyatt interjects with a knowing tone. “And the sleeves. And the fabric.”
Both of my brows go up then. “You noticed?”
“I notice a lot of things. Especially when they’re complaints from you.”
That shouldn’t do anything to me, and I know it, but I turn back to the mirror, feeling unsettled by the sudden warmth moving through my chest.
This is too much…too far.
But the next store is worse.
Wyatt hovers while I browse the racks, offering opinions I don’t ask for, and yet, he’s somehow right every time.
He hands me a scarf that complements my skin tone and isn’t completely atrocious, and even suggests shoes that are both practical and surprisingly stylish. It’s a bit irritating how natural he is at this.
“Sneakers,” I murmur as Wyatt carries them while he follows. “Let me guess…in case of emergency?”
“That’s right.”
