ONCE BRENT cleared the detritus from his failed attempts off the table, Jonathan laid the Santa sweater on its surface, then removed a pair of orange-handled scissors from his suitcase.
“Those, er, must be the dressmaker’s shears you threatened me with.”
“My favorite pair.” Jonathan grinned at him. “But not my only ones. You can never have too many pairs of dressmaker’s shears.”
“I get it. I’ve got more controllers and trackballs than—whoa!”
Jonathan looked up from where he’d just cut a six-inch gash next to the sweater’s neckband. “What?”
“Don’t you have to measure it or something? I mean, if Sixty-Nine Santa bites it—so to speak—the other options are pretty heinous.”
Jonathan winked again. That’s flirting, right? He’s definitely flirting with me. I think. “Trust me. I’m a professional.” He turned back, and without a moment’s hesitation, slashed the other side of the neckband. “Besides, I’ve done this so many times now, I could do it blindfolded.”
“Please don’t.”
Some of Brent’s anxiety must have bled into his tone, because Jonathan set his scissors down. He turned and gripped Brent’s shoulders, his pretty eyes serious.
“Brent, it’ll be okay. Really. You know coding. I know costuming. And after converting literally dozens of sweaters into swants—” He shook his head and mock-shuddered. “—and I really wish we could retire that piece, because enough is enough. Let’s say this isn’t a process that holds many surprises, okay?”
Brent tore his gaze from Jonathan’s face. “You must think I’m a complete loser.”
“Not a bit. You’re just being pushed outside your comfort zone, and in a place where you expected to feel safe.” Jonathan squeezed a little tighter. “Nobody should feel unsafe in their workplace. But as terror goes, wearing embarrassing clothing for a day when everybody else will be doing the same could be worse. Do you like your job?”
Brent nodded. “So much.”
“Do you really think wearing swants is too much to ask—and I’m being serious. I want to know if this will actually make it impossible for you to function.”
Brent sighed, working up the courage to look Jonathan in the face once more. “I don’t. Not really. But I’m not the kind of guy who likes to be the center of attention, you know? I like to keep a low profile, and when you’re six foot eight, a low profile is pretty hard to achieve.”
Jonathan released his shoulders and patted his chest. “I imagine it is.” He turned back to the sweater and made the final crossways cut, lifting the neckband away from the sweater. “I’ve always had the opposite problem. I’m the shortest one in my family. Even my kid stepbrother is taller than I am. And when people have to look down to talk to you…. Well, they tend to look down, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure.”
Jonathan removed a tuft of black fuzz from the sweater, then stroked its sleeve. “When people achieve theoretical adulthood, who’s guaranteed to be shorter than they are?”
“Well, kids, I guess.”
“Exactly. I’m thirty years old, yet anyone six feet tall or over talks to me like I’m a child.” He shook his head. “Condescending is not even the word. It’s so infuriating.”
Shame knotted Brent’s belly. “I imagine. I hope I haven’t—”
“No!” Jonathan spun and put his hands on Brent’s chest again. That feels so great. “You haven’t. Not ever. And that’s why I wanted to help you.” His gaze drifted to his hands, and he snatched them away. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before touching.” He shrugged. “Hazards of working in a touchy-feely industry.”
“I don’t mind.” Brent didn’t, although with Jonathan’s confession that he’d only agreed to help because Brent didn’t treat him like a child, the possibility for more than a single night—and that one full of overly suggestive sweaters—was fading like a dying LED monitor.
Jonathan nodded decisively. “Good.” He picked up the sweater and shook it out. “Next step, I’ll need you to put this on.”
Brent eyed it, his stomach clenching again. “Jonathan. It doesn’t have a crotch.”
“Exactly.” Jonathan brandished a rainbow pincushion shaped like a bagel. “But I know how to create a seat and an inseam that will actually fit, not to mention adjust the excess fabric so you won’t look like you’re wearing a miniskirt shorter than sixties-era Lieutenant Uhura.” He pushed the sweater into Brent’s hands. “Go on. You can change in the other room if it makes you more comfortable.”
Brent gulped. Why did I put on the good underwear if nobody was going to see it? He turned his back on Jonathan to lay the sweater over the arm of the couch. Taking a deep breath, he unzipped his jeans and skinned them down his legs. Shit. Shoes. He toed off his sneakers, then nearly toppled over trying to kick his jeans off. Smooth, Brent. No wonder your love life is nonexistent.
Behind him, Jonathan made some kind of sound low in his throat.
Probably trying not to laugh—and I wouldn’t blame him.
Brent sat down on the couch so he could pull the sweater’s sleeves over his feet. This just seems so wrong. “You know, I won’t be offended if you laugh. I’m used to people’s reactions to my awkwardness.”
“Laughing is the last thing on my mind,” Jonathan muttered.
At least that’s what Brent thought he said. Jonathan was probably regretting his offer about now. The least Brent could do was move things along.
He worked the sleeves up his legs. Of course, once they were all the way up, they didn’t reach his ankles. That’ll be interesting. What kind of shoes does one wear with swants? He stood, holding the sweater up so the hem hit the middle of his chest, and sure enough, Sixty-Nine Santa was lined up right over Brent’s package. “Okay, boss. Now what?”
Jonathan draped a tape measure around his neck, picked up his rainbow donut pincushion, and advanced on Brent, a determined set to his mouth. “Can you remember some measurements for me, or do I need to write them down?”
“I can remember them.”
Jonathan whipped the tape measure from around his neck and started barking numbers at Brent as he measured legs, waist, inseam—yikes, that one was a little too… too…. Brent swallowed and concentrated on remembering numbers.
“That’s it.” Jonathan stepped back. “You can take them off now and I’ll get to work. Is it okay if I set up my sewing machine on the dining table?”
“Sewing machine? You brought a sewing machine?”
“Yup.”
“But I thought we only needed yarn and the right kind of needle.”
“Technically, yes. But this’ll help give you a more finished look.” He lifted something smaller than the size of Riki’s average handbag out of his suitcase. “Vintage Elna Lotus. It belonged to my mom. It doesn’t do a lot of fancy stuff, but we don’t need fancy for this.” Jonathan flicked its side, and it pinged like metal. “And it was built to last.” He set it on the table and released a couple of catches around the top so the sides dropped down to reveal a compact little machine.
“Oh, I get it. It unfolds like a lotus flower.”
“Exactly.” Jonathan dug around in his suitcase again and pulled out a notebook. “Those measurements, please, professor.”
Brent rattled them off as he took off the swants-to-be and pulled his jeans back on. Jonathan didn’t watch—Brent checked. Darn it. On the other hand, maybe that was a good thing. There was a reason he and Christopher only had sex in the dark.
Brent set the sweater on the table, where Jonathan was threading the sewing machine with black thread. “I meant to offer you a beer when you arrived. And I made salsa.” Brent pointed to the chips on the breakfast bar.
Jonathan looked up from fiddling with a dial on the machine’s front. “You made salsa? Yourself?”
“Sure. It’s not hard.”
He snorted. “Maybe for you.”
“Wait.” A grin ambushed Brent’s face. “You’re telling me you can turn sweaters into pants, but you can’t make something as simple as salsa fresca?”
“What I’m telling you is that I can’t cook. At all.” Jonathan stood up again, then spread the sweater out on the table. “When my mom was in middle school, all the girls had to take Home Ec—a semester of cooking and a semester of sewing.”
“What were the boys doing at the time?”
“Shop—a semester of wood and a semester of metal.” He wrinkled his nose. “I know. Totally sexist, but what can I say? It was the sixties. The modern women’s movement was barely a gleam in Gloria Steinem’s eye. Let’s just say I’d have aced the sewing module but failed cooking miserably.”
“But if you know how to follow directions—”
“Please. So many people have tried to convince me that I can do it if I try. It’s why my ex and I broke up. He insisted that I make dinner at least half the time.” Jonathan rolled his eyes. “He was a mathematics professor and a big believer in precise division of labor. He claimed that you couldn’t assess the proper equivalencies between, say, vacuuming and baking a chicken, so I couldn’t opt out of cooking by doubling down on dusting.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. There were charts. And a timer.”
“No wonder he’s your ex.”
“Bingo.” Jonathan eyed the salsa. “I’d love nothing more than to try your salsa, with beer, but I need my wits about me during this next bit.”
Brent grinned. “I thought you could do this blindfolded.”
“Blindfolded, yes. Tipsy, no. Seams tend to get a bit wobbly when you’re drunk.” He wiggled his fingers. “And I wouldn’t want to get salt all over the sweater. After, maybe?”
“Sure. I’ve, um, got some flavored seltzer if you’d like. Or regular water. Coffee. Tea.”
“Water would be great, thanks.”
Jonathan picked up those wicked shears again, so before Brent had to witness another attack on his only viable swants option, he scurried into the kitchen. “Would you like ice?”
Jonathan glanced up, meeting Brent’s gaze over the breakfast bar. “Lovely.”
As Brent pulled a glass out of the cabinet and filled it with ice, he wondered how long Jonathan would need to finish the project. It was just past seven. Would he want to go out for dinner? Brent kicked himself for not making it to the grocery store. If he had the stir-fry ingredients he’d planned for his own meal tonight, he could cook for Jonathan, something other than stupid chips and salsa.
Brent set the water glass by Jonathan’s elbow, then wandered over to the couch to straighten up the rejected sweaters. Shuddering, he folded the snowman with his carrot appendage on the inside.
Behind him, Jonathan hummed something that Brent didn’t recognize, accompanied by the whir of the little sewing machine. Brent settled onto the couch, and though he tried not to stare like a creeper, his gaze kept getting drawn to Jonathan’s intent profile.
Then Jonathan glanced up and caught Brent looking. Busted. But Jonathan smiled, apparently not bothered in the least.
Brent cleared his throat. “So. Your ex was a professor.”
“Yes, he was. Something he never let me forget.”
“Is there a non-ex?”
“If you’re asking if I’m single—” Jonathan waggled his eyebrows. “—the answer is yes.”
“Good.” Heat washed up Brent’s throat. “I mean, not good that you’re alone. Unless you want to be alone. Because that’s totally legit. I mean, I’ve been alone for most of my life so—”
“It’s okay, Brent. I get it.” Jonathan snipped a trailing thread off the seam he’d just finished and held out the sweater, which was now most definitely swants. “Here you go. Ready for you to give them a trial run.”
“Wow. That was fast.”
“Experience, remember. Plus there’s not a lot involved once you’ve got the measurements right.”
“Okay.” Although Brent had already taken off his pants in front of Jonathan once, for some reason it felt different now. So he took the swants and scurried down the hall to his bedroom.