Quinn pressed a hand to his chest. “That’s called celebrating greatness.”
“Whatever you need to sleep at night,” I said dryly. “Jacket’s there, joggers there. Grab your usual sizes, and we’ll see how close I got.”
They peeled off toward the table. I busied myself with my notebook, pretending to write while I mentally screamed at my body to stop being aware of how good Noah’s back looked when he tugged the jacket on.
“Damn.” Quinn twisted in front of one of the full-length mirrors, tugging at the hem. “Okay, this issick.”
“Be more specific,” I said, stepping closer with my pen ready. “Sick good, sick bad, sick like the flu…”
“Good,” he said. “Like…my ass looks great.”
I snorted. “I didn’t redesign the jacket to frame your ass.”
“Maybe you should have,” he shot back. “Lost opportunity.”
Noah chuckled, and the sound skittered across my skin. I didn’t look at him, despite the fact I could feel his curious gaze roaming me.
I circled Quinn, tugging the sleeve here, smoothing the back seam there. “Any tightness when you lift?” I asked, guiding his arm up like we were mid-dance lesson. Heat radiated off him, and he smelled great. Not as good as Noah, but still good.
He mimicked a catch. “Nope. Smooth. Doesn’t pull. I feel fast.”
“You’re in a room with mannequins and laundry,” I said. “Calm down.”
He grinned down at me, a little too charming for his own good. “Can I keep this one?”
“Not yet. These are still samples. Once we get final production in, we’ll talk.”
“That’s a yes if I read between the lines,” he said, winking.
Behind him, Noah moved into my peripheral vision. “What about me?” he asked. “Am I sample-approved?”
I forced myself to glance at him, only for a second. The jacket fit exactly how I’d hoped—broad across his shoulders, tapered at the waist, sleeves the perfect length to show a hint of wrist. He looked…like the person I’d designed it for, even before I admitted that to myself.
My cheeks went hot. I dropped my gaze to his chest, where my own stitching lines stared back at me.
“Looks good,” I said, crisp and clinical. “How does itfeel?”
His eyes searched my face, too intent. “It feels great,” he said, but there was something else under the words. “You nailed it. Good job, Em.”
“Perfect.” I jotted a note that didn’t actually say anything. “Any pulling when you reach overhead? Try the motion. Like you’re going for a pass.”
He lifted his arms. The jacket moved with him, no bunching. I let myself be proud for half a second before gluing my attention back to my notebook.
Professional. Friendly.Fine.
“Okay,” I said, stepping back. “I think we’re really close. I’ll send updated notes to the vendor.”
“You fucking nailed this, Em,” Quinn said. “Seriously. This is way better than the usual ‘let’s slap a logo on a boxy hoodie and call it merch’ thing.”
“High praise from you, Quinn,” I said, fighting a smile. “I might quote you on that.”
“You should.” He shrugged out of the jacket and set it carefully back on the table, then leaned against it, watching me. “So, big-shot designer. Are you coming out with us tonight to celebrate your genius?”
My brain stuttered. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. Off day tomorrow, no curfew. Couple of us are grabbing dinner, maybe hitting a bar. You could come judge our civilian outfits. Make sure we’re on brand.”
My knee-jerk reaction was to say no. To go home, crawl into Noah’s guest bed, and stare at the ceiling while replaying every dumb thing I’d ever said to him. Then after a good pout, I’d work on more content for socials to get sales.
