The boutique door chimes, the sound slicing through the quiet, sharp enough to make every conversation in the room falter. Male voices fill the front room: Franklin’s laugh, someone else’s lower rumble, a very familiar grumble.
“That’ll be the groomsmen,” Adele says. “We’ll finish with you ladies first.”
Thank gawd. I need more time.
Except I don’t get it.
“Actually, let’s bring them in now,” Adele calls toward the front. “We can work simultaneously.”
No.No no no.
The groomsmen file in, Franklin first, followed by two others I vaguely recognize. And then Hunter. His boots hit the floor heavier than everyone else’s, a grounded, unmistakable rhythm despite being in this frufru space meant for women.
I will myself not to blush, but the heat crawls up my neck anyway.
He’s taller than I remember. Broader. The cream colored Henley pulls across his shoulders when he moves, and his left arm is free of the sling, moving naturally at his side despite the plastic splint. When his eyes scan the boutique and land on me standing on the platform, everything else fades.
A dark and hungry expression crosses his face before he masks it.
Franklin gives his bride-to-be a kiss, then settles on the cushioned benches next to the second platform.
“Hunter Ashe,” Adele calls. “Platform two. Let’s get you measured.”
He crosses the boutique, and suddenly he’s stepping onto the platform directly beside mine. The heat of him reaches me, my breath catching before I can stop it, like my body’s already reacting and I’m just trying to keep up.
A suspicious giggle floats through the conversations, and my eyes cut to Esme, who is hiding a smirk behind her champagne. Did she arrange for all of us to be here at the same time? Because that wasn’t the original plan.
Adele’s assistant starts with Hunter’s shoulders, running her tape across his back. His hands flex at his sides, rough and scarred, the kind of hands that build things, fix things, break things if they have to.
The measurement is impressive, the kind of muscle built from years of physical labor, not gyms. When she wraps the tape around his chest, I try very hard not to watch.
I fail.
“Left arm,” Adele instructs.
Hunter tosses his splint to Franklin, who catches it mid-air, then extends his arm. My surgeon’s eye automatically tracks the movement. The range of motion is better, close to eighty percent of his other arm, but there’s still a slight hesitation at full extension. He’s compensating with his right side, the weight shifted almost imperceptibly.
“You analyzing my shoulder?” His eyes finding mine in the mirror.
I blink. “No.”
“Doc. You had your surgeon face on.” His mouth curves. “What’s the verdict?”
“You’re compensating. Right side is overworking to protect the left.”
“Kapoor said the same thing.”
“Then you should listen to him.”
“I’m doing my PT.” His voice drops lower. “You offering to supervise?”
My pulse hammers in my throat, pink tinging my cheeks. Why do I blush so much when I’m around Hunter?
The assistant finishes and steps back. “All set. Next!”
Hunter doesn’t move immediately. He’s still watching me in the mirror, and I can’t look away, the air between us thick and heavy.
When he steps down and heads toward the seating area, and I can finally breathe again despite Adele cinching in the waist of my dress.
