It’s irresponsible.
The place is packed. Boxes are stacked to the ceiling. Someone is arguing about a return policy, and a child is screaming because his mother won’t let him lick the mirror.
Beckett stands just inside the entrance,taking it all in.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods once. “I’ve seen worse.”
I beam. “I’m so proud of you.”
We’re greeted by a sales assistant who looks about nineteen and is entirely too energetic.
“Hi guys! Looking for anything specific today?”
“Yes,” I say confidently. “Shoes.”
She blinks. “Right. What kind?”
I glance at Beckett, who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Whatever she wants.”
The girl smiles. “Love that.”
I shoot him a look. “See? Healthy masculinity is attractive.”
“Come on,” he says, guiding me forward. “Let’s see if I can survive this.”
Two minutes later, I’m pulling at boxes. He follows, hands occasionally steadying a stack before I cause them all to collapse.
“Okay,” I say, holding up a pair of black heels. “Thoughts?”
He studies them seriously. “They look painful.”
I stare at him.
He clears his throat. “They’re nice.”
“You have to do better than that.”
“They’re elegant.”
“You just said that because they’re black.”
“Yes.”
I grin. “Good start.”
I sit down and slip one on. He crouches, instinctively reaching to steady my ankle when I wobble.
The contact makes my stomach flip, which is strange considering it’s a simple touch and I’ve been spread-eagle in front of this man.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say, suddenly very aware that he’s eye-level with my legs.
He stands slowly. “They suit you.”
I walk a few steps, turn, then kick them off and reach for another box.
