BY THREE o’clock Saturday, Brent was starting to panic in earnest. He’d worked his way steadily outward from downtown—department stores, retail clothing stores, upcycle centers, thrift stores. Nothing. Now he was standing inside the Goodwill Outlet in Hillsboro, realizing he was in no way qualified to navigate such unfamiliar waters.
Unlike the other used-clothing stores he’d visited, this place didn’t feature racks of clothes on hangers, or even stacked on shelves. No, here everything was jumbled in giant open bins that the other shoppers were sorting through with deadly intent.
He gulped. He’d never been good at comparative shopping—not that he had much to compare, since most retail clothing stores were aimed at reasonably sized people, as opposed to outliers like Brent. When he couldn’t avoid it, he usually just walked into the nearest not-too-upscale chain, found something that fit reasonably well, and bought several in the available colors. Online shopping was even better—no need to venture into the retail wilds at all.
But his online options had failed him too. Most were out of stock, and those that weren’t couldn’t deliver until sometime mid-January, which would defeat the entire point of humiliating himself in front of his coworkers on the altar of team solidarity.
He took a deep breath and plunged into the fray, passing bins full of jeans, socks, and T-shirts. He paused by one that was full of suspiciously silky and lacy items.
“Underwear?” he muttered. “Seriously?”
A man at the next bin—the only other man in the store other than salesclerks—glanced over at him. “They’re not used, if that’s what you’re worrying about. They’re factory seconds. Sometimes thirds. Imperfect in some way that wouldn’t qualify them for retail stores.”
Brent’s face heated. “Oh. Right. I’m, um, not exactly familiar with this universe.”
The man smiled, pushing his half-full cart past Brent toward another bin. “That much is clear. Good luck.”
Brent hurried past the underwear bin and one full of swimwear, until he found one that contained sweaters and sweatshirts. He started picking over them, sneaking glances at the man who’d spoken to him, trying to copy the efficient way he sorted through a bin full of packaged tights.
Sure, I’m just looking for shopping tips. I’m not looking because he’s got to be the cutest person on the planet. The guy was shorter than Brent, although that was true for 99 percent of the US male population. Maybe five eight? Five nine? He was wearing tight jeans and a subtly patterned button-down under a teal suede bomber jacket. Light brown hair in one of those trendy cuts—smooth and long on the top, short on the sides—that Brent, with his coarse waves, could never pull off. His ears stuck out a little, enough that he’d probably gotten teased as a kid, but Brent found them ridiculously adorable.
And his mouth. Oh my God. Full lips, the top one a little wider than the bottom, so that it curled up a little at the sides in a perpetual quarter-smile, as if he found something amusing even in sorting through heaps of imperfectly categorized clothing.
Stop ogling the cute guy instead of finding a freaking ugly sweater.
Brent tore his gaze away and focused on the job at hand. But as he tossed aside sweater after sweater, he was beginning to think the task was impossible.
“Why are these all so freaking small?”
“Probably because those are all children’s clothes.”
Brent’s head jerked up at the sound of Cute Guy’s voice from right behind his shoulder. “Children’s?”
Cute Guy reached past Brent’s arm, grazing the sleeve of his jacket, and tapped a sign on the side of the bin. Yep, the sign said Kids in letters as big as Brent’s head.
Brent buried his face in his hands. “God, I am so not cut out for this.”
Cute Guy chuckled. “Maybe I can help.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jonathan.”
Brent shook. “Brent.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jonathan gestured to the store. “What’s your objective here today?”
“Objective? You make it sound like a coding problem.”
“Believe it or not, while some people shop for recreation, others—such as yours truly—have specific goals in mind.”
Brent glanced at Jonathan’s cart. The contents could best be described as eclectic. “So what’s your objective?”
Jonathan followed the line of Brent’s gaze. “I’m in stockpiling mode.”
“So you like to hoard tights and T-shirts and—” Brent peered more closely at the basket’s contents. “—chenille bathrobes?”
Jonathan grinned—and if Brent had thought that mouth was lethal in a secret smile, in a full-on grin, it was enough to take out the entire gay population within a tristate area. “I’m a costumer. I work mainly with a local dance company, but I freelance for some other performing arts organizations too, including a couple of children’s theater troupes. There are some things that we always need—” He flicked a package of tights with his fingers. “—like tights and leggings. For the dance company, I’m always on the lookout for replacements for costumes that wear out or that need to be rebuilt because of cast changes.”
“Oh. That sounds really interesting.”
Jonathan chuckled. “Your words say one thing, but the tone of your voice says something else.”
Brent jerked, blinking. He could hardly say he’d gotten distracted by how pretty Jonathan’s eyes were—a smoky gray-blue, with incredibly long lashes that were darker than his hair. And was he wearing eyeliner? So hot. “No, it really does sound interesting, not to mention makes perfect sense. I’m a coder, so I’m always looking for repeatable patterns and opportunities for strategic code reuse.” Brent spread his hands and shrugged one shoulder. “Tell me that doesn’t sound soporific.”
“Not in the least. But let’s put our respective career choices aside for now and focus on your personal objective—which, by the way, you still haven’t stated.”
“Oh. Well.” Brent heaved a sigh. “I need an ugly holiday sweater.”
“Any particular holiday?”
Brent pointed to the tinsel swags festooning the walls. “Anything within the current festive season.”
“Ah. That could be tough, given how popular ugly sweater parties have gotten lately.”
“Tell me about it. But that’s not the worst part. I have to somehow turn it into pants. Er, swants.”
Jonathan’s gaze swept down Brent’s body. Twice. “I can see where that would be difficult. You’re definitely what my grandmother would call a tall drink of water.”
“Nobody has anything in my size. And even if I could find it…. Well, let’s say I’m terrific with a computer and a keyboard, but my skills with needle and thread leave something to be desired.”
“You’d need yarn for swants, not thread. Or not only thread.”
“Wait. You know what swants are?”
Jonathan waved Brent’s comment away. “Oh, honey. I outfitted the dance company in swants for a piece that’s part of our regular repertoire now.”
“Wait a minute. The piece where half of them are doing handstands?”
Jonathan’s smile bloomed again. “Yes. You mean, you’ve seen it?”
“I’ve seen a picture of it. My CEO has seen more. That’s why he decided to turn the company’s annual holiday party into a swants soiree.”
Jonathan bit his lip. “So what you’re saying is that this is my fault?”
Brent held up his hands, palms out. “No. I didn’t mean—That is, I wouldn’t ever say—”
“Maybe you wouldn’t say, but I’ll bet you’d think it.” Jonathan cast a glance at his cart, then shrugged. “Come out to my car with me.”
Brent blinked. “Um, why?”
“You’ll see.” Jonathan piloted his cart over to one of the salesclerks, with Brent stumbling along in his wake. “Hey, Leslie. Could you hold on to this for me for a sec? I’ll be right back.”
The woman smiled at him and took possession of the cart. “Sure thing, Jonathan.”
Brent hurried to keep up as the doors swooshed open in front of Jonathan’s determined march. “She knows your name?”
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh, honey. Everyone knows my name. I’m a regular.”
He led the way over to a navy blue Outback wagon and popped open the hatch. The rear seats were folded down, and the entire back of the car was full of plastic bins containing bags from pretty much every store Brent had been to in the past two days—and even a few that he hadn’t.
“Wow. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“It’s my job.” The glance Jonathan shot at Brent this time was a tad irritated, as was his tone. “Of course I’m serious about it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. But I’m so….” Brent waved a hand at the organized car. “Amazed? Impressed?”
“Appalled?”
Brent mock-glared. “Now you’re being insulting. We met like five minutes ago and already you think I’d lie to you.”
Jonathan laughed. “Fair point.” He reached for a bin a row from the bumper. “Dang.”
“Allow me. My orangutan arms are good for something.” Brent leaned in, grabbed the bin, and lifted it clear, then set it on the pavement by their feet. When he looked up, Jonathan’s expression was a bit shell-shocked. “I’m sorry. Did I overstep? I thought you wanted this one.”
Jonathan blinked and shook himself as if he was just emerging from underwater. “No. Sorry. I was, um…. Well, never mind. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He hunkered down and started peering into bags, then lifting them aside to expose a layer of folded sweaters that had to be at least three deep.
“Wait a minute.” Brent peered into the bin. “You’ve got a box full of holiday sweaters in your car?”
Jonathan glanced up at him. “Dancers are incredibly hard on their costumes. I need to be prepared.”
“So my predicament really is your fault. Have I been following in your wake for the last two days as you cleared all the sweaters out of every store from Portland to here?”
“Not entirely. And that piece requires certain types of sweaters, so the exceptionally ugly ones aren’t really an option. Ah. Here we are.” He pulled a bright green sweater covered with giant snowflakes out of a Target bag. “I think this might be the right size. In terms of ugly quotient, it might not be on the upper end of the scale—”
“That’s perfect.” Brent accepted the sweater gratefully. “The less attention I draw to myself, the better.”
Jonathan paused in the act of tucking the empty bag back into the bin. “Really? Why?”
Brent shrugged. “Oh, you know. Awkward introvert. It’s hard enough to hide when you tower over most of the people around you. The last thing I need is to drape this—” He pointed to himself. “—in something even more eye-catching than an extra half foot or so of height.”
Jonathan opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, then pressed his lips together in that one-quarter smile that caught in Brent’s chest like a fishhook, threatening to reel him in.
Picking up the box, Jonathan tilted his head to the side, glancing up at Brent through his lashes again. “Can I borrow your arms one more time? Otherwise I’ll have to play storage box Tetris with the back of my car, and I’d just as soon wait until I get home so I don’t have to do it all twice.”
“Oh. Sure.” Brent slung the green sweater over his shoulder and took the box. With his head and shoulders inside the car, he couldn’t hear clearly, but he thought Jonathan said something. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Brent managed to stand up without bonking his head on the hatch door. “What do I owe you?”
“Not a thing.”
“I can’t—You must have paid something for this.”
“I neither remember nor care. In fact, it might have been a donation from a cast member.”
“Listen. I really want to thank you.” Brent held out his hand. “You saved my ass.”
Jonathan took Brent’s hand. “It’s totally worth saving.” His cheeks pinked, and he released Brent’s hand.
Was that flirting? Is he flirting with me? According to Christopher, Brent was terrible at picking up those kinds of social cues. His heart bumped like an excited preschooler. “Um….”
“If you need help with the swants conversion, I have experience.”
Right. He’s simply a nice, helpful guy. “Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I’m not a totally incompetent doofus. I’ve got instructions, so I ought to be able to figure it out.”
“Well, just in case….” Jonathan pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. “Give me a call if you have any trouble.”
“I don’t want to bother you—”
“You’re no bother. Besides, it’s the least I can do since this is all my fault.”
Brent grimaced. “It’s not—”
“I’m kidding, Brent. But I mean it. Call me if you have any trouble.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
For a moment Brent gazed into Jonathan’s pretty eyes, wishing he had the gumption to ask him out for coffee at least. But taking the initiative was not Brent’s strong suit, since in his book, initiative was only one step removed from humiliating crash and burn. The moment passed, and with a final wave, Jonathan walked back inside the store.
Brent sighed. “Damn.” Oh, well. I don’t have time for coffee or regrets. At least he had his sweater. By dinnertime, he’d have this swants thing nailed and he could get on with the rest of his weekend.
Yeah. All my big plans. Rereading a vintage Asimov novel. Trying to beat his own score on GTA. Cooking for one. How will I survive the thrill?
But as for the swants?
I’ve got this.