“No.”
“You haven’t even seen them.”
“I don’t need to. Diamond cufflinks on a man under forty say two things: footballer or oligarch. You are neither. We’ll get you some proper ones.” He turned back to Harding. “Plain silver knots. We’ll keep the accessories quiet.”
Lex watched Barnaby move through the shop. This was the version of him that Lex had only caught in glimpses in Tokyo. This was the Barnaby who existed in a world where the rules were his, and he didn’t need to assert authority. Everyone around him just rose up to meet the expectation that they respond to his needs.
It was incredibly fucking sexy. Lex would die before saying it aloud, but it was the truth. Barnaby’s authoritativeness was doing things to the fit of his jeans, and Harding was going to get entirely the wrong idea when he started on the inseam.
Barnaby lifted a sample jacket from a mannequin near the wall, held it by the shoulders, and brought it over. “Arms up.”
Lex raised his arms. Barnaby slid the jacket over his shoulders and settled it across his back, then smoothed the fabric from shoulder to bicep, pressing flat against the muscles beneath. His thumb ran along the shoulder seam, down the sleeve to Lex’s wrist, where he folded the cuff back once and pinched the excess fabric between his fingers.
“Half an inch off the sleeve length,” Barnaby said to Harding. “And the lapel on this sample is too wide for his frame. Can we go narrower?”
“Certainly. Shall I pull the notch lapel option?”
“Please.”
Harding disappeared into the back and the younger assistant followed. The shop floor emptied and then it was just Barnaby and Lex in the room.
Barnaby was still holding Lex’s cuff. His thumb rested against the inside of Lex’s wrist, right over his pulse point, and Lex could feel his own heartbeat knocking against his chest.
“Navy,” Barnaby said. He was looking at the fabric, not at Lex. “You’d look good in a deep navy. With a fine pinstripe.”
“Pinstripe? Like a banker would wear?”
“Your colouring will carry it. Your dark hair, and warm skin.” Barnaby’s fingers tightened on his wrist, then released. “Navy will sit better than charcoal on you.” He stepped back.
Lex shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away before his face could betray him, although at this point, Barnaby’s thumb had been on his pulse. Barnaby had felt his racing heartbeat and said nothing about it.
He walked the length of the shop floor because he needed to move. Needed his legs doing something so his brain could catch up to what was going on here. The place was immaculate. Everything was folded or hung or displayed at precise intervals,and the carpet was the kind of deep pile that absorbed footsteps. He trailed his fingers along a row of ties on a mahogany display rack.
A mannequin stood at the far end of the room, positioned beside an arched window in a shaft of afternoon light. It was dressed in a morning suit: grey tailcoat, dove waistcoat, striped trousers, the full works. The mannequin’s face was featureless and smooth. Its posture was immaculate. Its hands were positioned at its sides with the fingers slightly curved.
Lex stopped in front of it. “Barns,” he said. “Introduce me to your mate.”
Barnaby glanced up from the fabric bolts he’d been examining. His expression was neutral, waiting for the punchline to land.
Lex slung an arm around the mannequin’s shoulders. It was shorter than him, which meant he had to hunch over to make the contact work, and the tailcoat fabric was cool and smooth under his forearm. He gave its shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“Introduce me to your mate, Barns. You lot always know each other. You all go to the same schools, same tailor.” He tilted his head and appraised the featureless face. “He’s a bit stiff.” He glanced back at Barnaby. “But I’ve worked with worse.”
Barnaby’s jaw set. His eyes narrowed. Then the corner of his mouth pulled, just a fraction, before he killed it.
“Get your hands off the morning suit, Lex.”
“He doesn’t mind. Look at him. He’s loving it. First bit of physical affection he’s had in years. Reminds me of someone, actually.”
Barnaby rolled his eyes and went back to his fabric, which was exactly the response Lex had been aiming for. He took the mannequin’s hand. It didn’t resist. He placed his other hand on its waist, just above the dove-grey waistcoat, and assumed the position.
“Come on, then,” he murmured to it. “Let’s have a dance, mate. You look like you haven’t had a night out since 1847.”
He stepped left. The mannequin didn’t follow, on account of being bolted to a metal stand, so Lex dragged it with him. The stand scraped against the carpet with a sound that was deafening in the cathedral hush of a Savile Row fitting room. He pulled it into a slow turn, guiding it through a box step that he’d learned from a YouTube video before his cousin’s wedding and had never deployed in public because there had never been a moment stupid enough to justify it.
Until now.
“Lex.” Barnaby’s voice had gone dangerously flat. “Put it down.”
