“I appreciate that,” I tell him. “Now, let’s focus on the task at hand. Measurement time. Please stand.”
Matt does as I ask, hopping down from the stool and moving over. I circle around him, sizing him up with my eyes before holding the measuring tape at the ready as I stop in front of him. “Full disclosure, there’s no way I can make this until the competition is over, but I’ll ship it to you once it’s ready. For the sake of making something quickly, I’m going to go with a shirt, so there’s just a few specifications I’ll need. Let’s do length first.”
I proceed to measure and write down his current shirt length, followed by sleeve length. Next is shoulders, chest, tummy, hips and cuff. I don’t think I’ll be making anything with cuffs, but better to be safe than sorry. Throughout the process, I ask Matt to turn around or lift his arms depending on whatever measurement I need. He’s a quiet if cooperative client and I have everything I need in a matter of minutes.
“Do you have any requests?” I ask once I’m done, taking his place on the stool as I keep my pen primed to take notes. “What kind of clothes do you typically gravitate toward?”
Matt tucks his hands in his pockets, glancing down at what I’ve already written in my notebook. “I like to keep things simple, and I always go with comfort over appearance.”
I make note of it and look up at him. “You know, it’s a little surprising that you dress so inconspicuously considering who your mother is and the fact that you spend so much time in Italy. The men here are quite stylish.”
“I’m aware,” Matt replies. “My dad was very dapper. Maybe with my parents being so fashion forward, dressing in plain clothes was my form of rebellion.”
“A wayward youth,” I muse, trying not to be affected by just how close we’re now situated with Matt leaning toward the table. “I’m surprised your parents didn’t disown you on the spot.”
“I’m sure they thought about it. Dealing with me isn’t for the fainthearted.”
“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” I tell him, gazing over my shoulder. “If you were so bad, I wouldn’t be making you a shirt, and you wouldn’t have taught mepioggia.”
A charged silence falls between us, and Matt is the first to speak as he straightens up a few seconds later. “Do you think you can teach me to take measurements?”
I’m surprised by his request, but I’m more than glad to grant it. “Really? What makes you want to learn that?”
Matt shrugs. “Why not? It’s a skill I can add to my repertoire. I’m a jack-of-all-trades and a master of none.”
I give him a skeptical look. “I’m sure that’s not true, but yes, I can teach you.” I slip down off the stool and hand him the measuring tape. I then turn myself so I’m standing sideways in front of him.
“If you’re making me a shirt, the first thing you would measure is my desired shirt length in comparison to the shirt I have on. For this one, you’ll start at my shoulder and measure down to the hem of my shirt. For the sake of instruction, we’ll say I want my shirt to be the same length as this one.”
Matt nods and his fingers move with a skilled gentleness as he runs the measuring tape along the length of my shirt. It’s possible that the room begins to feel hotter around me, but I do my best to ignore it.
Shifting around, I then hand him the little notepad and pen I was using in case he wants to do the same. He takes them both but sets them on the chair beside him without writing anything. I clear my throat and continue with my instruction.
“For sleeve length, start at the top of my shoulder and measure to the desired length.” His fingers skate across the skin at the base of my neck as he lines up the tape where he wants it. I try not to move as he follows my instructions, but it feels impossible. “Now, for the shoulders, you’ll have me turn around. You start at one shoulder’s edge, measuring across the arch of my back until you reach the other side.”
He does what I tell him, nudging me to turn by my right shoulder, and I feel the edge of the tape as it moves across my spine. He steps closer into me, his chest almost touching, and I hope he can’t see the goose bumps as they pop up on my arms and legs. His close proximity and teasing touches are unnerving, but in such a good way. Sensing he’s finished with the shoulders, I turn around, fully facing him. I catch a hint of something in his eyes that I know I could become addicted to if I let myself.
I can’t let myself.
“What’s next?” he asks. I have no clue if he’s referring to the measurement or something very different. Too scared to consider the latter, I choose to go with the former.
“Next is the chest,” I tell him. His eyes flash with surprise at the implication of my words. In reality, the process is innocent—but nothing about whatwe’redoing is innocent. Matt looks at me and I look at him and neither of us seems to know how far we’re willing to take this.
“You have to show me where,” he says.
This is fine. This is totally fine. Totally fine and normal and allowed.
I take his hands and raise them in front of me. “First, take the edge of the tape in one hand, and then string the rest of it around my back. Bring your hands forward until they meet in the middle.” I lift my arms for him, and he follows my instruction to the letter, moving so meticulously and slowly that I almost start to shake. He stops moving at one point, but then stays on his path as he brings the measuring tape around to the front. His knuckles run along the outside of my chest over my shirt, brushing against the rim of the bra that I’m wearing underneath. His hands stop in the very center.
I don’t think I’m coherent anymore. That’s why I don’t blame myself when I wrap my arms around Matt’s neck and press my lips to his. The measuring tape hits my feet a second later, all thoughts of work forgotten as he uses his hands and arms to pull me firmly against him. My mind is whipping into overdrive, but it’s fighting a losing battle. I’m going to enjoy every second of this.
Matt’s mouth moves against mine with confidence and skill. It doesn’t feel wrong, even though it should. His lips urge mine open and his tongue steals inside. I grip him closer. As close as I can get. Kissing isn’t supposed be like this. So riotously good. Not with him, and definitely not here. Someone could walk in. Someone could see us. This split-second decision could lead to a world-ending landslide of problems, but those problems seem blurry and so far away when all I can concentrate on is sensation and breathing. More of one and less of the other.
Matt’s hands wander the length of my spine. Up and down until they stop to lock on my waist. He pulls me forward, keeping my hips anchored to his. My head spins and our kisses roll into something more breathless. Why would I ever say no to this? I can’t and I don’t, and when the quietest of moans slips from my throat, Matt still hears it, and he leans into me even more.
My back hits the edge of the cutting table and I can feel myself getting pulled under in the current of everything I’m feeling and wanting. I have to stop.Wehave to stop. Desperately gripping on to my last logical thought that is more than ready to wave bye-bye, I force myself to push Matt away. Not far, but far enough for us to remember who and where we are. We’re both panting. Our cheeks are flushed.
“That was a bad decision, wasn’t it?” I hear myself ask.
