The next morning, Easton picks me up and we drive out of town to my favorite swank mall.
“I still think this is a terrible idea,” he says.
“What is?” I ask. Because so far nothing strikes me as particularly terrible. It was a little weird having Easton in my bedroom, but once I got used to it, it wasn’t a big deal.
It was definitely a lot weird having Easton assessing my clothing choices, staring at my boobs and ass, but I didn’t hate it. He was nice about it, which itself is weird, because Easton and I don’t do nice.
“I hate shopping,” Easton says.
“I hate shopping, too,” I point out.
“So why did you suggest it?”
“Because it’s still the most efficient way to acquire new belongings.”
“Right,” he says.
“Okay. We’re over that objection, right?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
“I just think this won’t be good for our friendship.”
I turn to stare at him.
He turns and meets my startled gaze. “What?”
“You said we’re friends.”
“Duh, Hanna, obviously we’re friends.”
I hide a smile. “You’ve just never said it.”
“We’ve been friends for like thirty years,” he says, like this whole conversation is absurd.
But it’s not. I like it. I like that Easton just said that we’re friends. Guys don’t say stuff like that very often, so you have to really soak it up when they do.
“You sticky-noted my entire cube from top to bottom,” he says. “Would you do that for someone who wasn’t your friend?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “If I thought it would annoy them, and I wanted to get their goat? No doubt.”
“Okay, let me check my assumptions here, then,” he says. “I thought the fact that you sticky-noted my cube and brought me donuts meant that we were friends. Even if you ate five-thirteenths of my donuts. I thought that meant you felt comfortable enough with me as a friend to eat five-thirteenths of my birthday donuts.”
“We are friends,” I say. “It’s just that the sticky-notes aren’t foolproof evidence of it.”
“You’re impossible.”
I hide another smile. “Why do you think shopping with me will be bad for our friendship?”
“Because if I tell you something looks awful on you, you’ll get your feelings hurt.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Everyone always says that,” he grumbles. “But no one actually wants honesty.”
“I do.”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “I guess I believe that.”
Despite his protests, Easton steers us faithfully to the mall, and we arrive at my favorite store, the one I basically never allow myself to shop at because leggings cost more than a hundred dollars there.
But I’ve decided that the mission to make Bear Warden fall in love with me is worth some wild spending.
And the universe rewards me for this thinking, because when we step through the door, a saleswoman greets us.
“Hello!” she says. “You may or may not know this, but today is member day! And that means twenty percent off everything and forty percent off if you open a credit card with us today. Plus ten percent off on top of that if the item is marked with a pink dot.”
“Whoa,” I say.
“So, pick out everything you want to see your girlfriend in,” she teases Easton.
We both freeze.
“Not her/my girlfriend/boyfriend,” we say at the same time.
“Oh, gosh! I’m sorry. That was—you know what they say, about ‘assume’ making an aaaa—you get the gist,” she sputters, turning red.
“No worries,” we say at the same time.
I duck away and start sifting through clothes on the nearest rack.
“There are no men’s clothes in here,” Easton says.
“Nope,” I say.
“So I…”
“Just stand there and look pretty.”
“Right,” he says.
For some reason, I take a peek behind me, as if it’s necessary to confirm that he is, in fact, looking pretty.
He is.
I mean, Easton always looks good. He’s a Wilder. He’s six-foot-plus with great hair, longish in his case, and a sculpted nose and jaw, and his mom’s beautiful green eyes. He’s a little leaner than Gabe and Clark, but still built in a way that makes the Wilder Adventures t-shirt he’s wearing cling like a second skin to his pecs and biceps. And don’t get me started on how flattering those jeans are on him.
“You’re doing a good job,” I inform him.
He looks confused, and I don’t clarify.
I fill my arms with clothes, which causes a saleswoman to materialize from nowhere and carry them off to the dressing room.
When I’m done emptying all the clothes racks in the store, I drag Easton to the dressing room with me.
“Can he come in with me?” I ask the saleswoman who’s guarding the entryway to the dressing room area—not the one who greeted us or the one who portaged my clothes.
“Definitely.” She produces a folding stool from a small stack leaning against the wall and sets it up opposite the curtains that hide my dressing room from public view. “We encourage boyfriends and husbands.”
We’ve learned our lesson and don’t bother correcting her.
Shopping with Easton turns out to be far different from what I was expecting.
I had pictured him leaning against the wall with a bored expression on his face, grudgingly passing judgment on me, my body, and fashion choices in an effort to keep me from ratting him out to Gabe.
Instead, I’ve discovered that what Easton means by “I hate shopping” is very different from what I mean.
“Too big,” he says, shaking his head when I show him the first outfit. “You need at least one size smaller.”
“This is my size.”
He shakes his head. “Stay right there.”
He’s back a minute or two later with smaller sizes. “And I found this, too,” he says. “The shirt looks like something you’d like, and these leggings were with it, so I grabbed them.” He surveys the clothes already hanging in the dressing room. “That tank top will work,” he says, pointing.
He yanks the curtain closed between us, dismissing me before I can object.
“Hidden talents,” I call to him. “Do your brothers know?”
“They know I can dress myself, unlike certain other Wilder brothers, who never wear anything except base layers, wool sweaters, and hiking pants.”
It’s true that Easton is the snappiest dresser—well, the only dresser who could reasonably be categorized as snappy—in the Wilder crew. Unlike his brothers, when he’s off duty, he usually wears jeans and a button-down. While theoretically I don’t give a shit what Easton wears, I have once or twice noticed that his clothes flatter his frame.
And he definitely has a knack for choosing jeans that draw attention to his ass…ets.
Needless to say, I would never tell him this, because it would give him a big(ger) head.
I try on the outfit that Easton picked out. It’s a pair of dusty-rose yoga pants and a black tank top. They’re much more form-fitting than anything else I’ve chosen. Part of me wants to pull them off instead of showing Easton, but the whole point of this enterprise is to get things that aren’t baggy, right?
And I don’t give a crap what Easton thinks, anyway.
I sweep the curtains open.
“Do you think he wants to see this much of me? Does anyone want to see this much of me?”
Although in truth, I’m fascinated by how I look. Round, curvy, and real.
I kind of can’t take my eyes off myself. Look at me, people!
Look at me, Bear Warden! I dare you to look away.
If I’d known how awesome ridiculously expensive clothes could be, I would have spent more money on them sooner.
I twirl in front of the mirror, assessing, then look up to find Easton’s eyes on my reflection.
“The whole world definitely wants to see that much of you.”
His voice sounds just-woken-up rough, and he clears his throat.
I tip my head, trying to gauge if he’s teasing or not, but my Easton mockery radar doesn’t blip. I think he’s just being charming, because Easton is extremely good at that. He basically can’t help himself, which is why he almost got beaten up by Gabe when Lucy first came on the scene and by Kane when Mari did.
“Try that purple thing with it,” he says, pointing to a drapey purple thing.
I do. It’s basically like a baggy sweatshirt, except somehow… hotter. It’s tight in the arms and exposes my collarbones and everything from the belly button down.
I look good.
Easton’s eyes snag mine in the mirror, then fall away before I can think about that too much.
“Okay,” I say, turning to face him. “I’m going to wear this on Monday, and then I’m going to—what? What am I going to do? Trip and fall in his lap? Ask him if he wants to get naked with me on the next hike?”
The corner of Easton’s mouth turns up. “There might be a subtler first step,” he allows.
“Right, this is why you’re helping me! I need strategy. I look superhot, he stares at me longingly, and then… I…?” I open my palms.
“Ask him out.”
“To…?”
Easton mulls this. “Drinks? Dinner? A hike? Could be anything.”
“This is all assuming that the outfit does its job,” I say.
“That outfit…”
His eyes rake over me, and I brace for at best neutral appraisal, at worst judgment, but I get neither. Instead, his gaze warms with approval, clinging to my curves, setting off a blaze of liquid heat in my body. My body stretches and purrs like a kitten under his regard.
Whoa.
Wait.
That…
But before I can think too much about the meaning of his gaze or my reaction, Easton coughs and starts again. “That outfit is just fine. Assuming Bear Warden isn’t an idiot.”
“He’s not an idiot,” I say.
He frowns. “You’ve known him, how long, a couple weeks? He’s still showing you his best self. Wait and see.”
“You sound like you want him to turn out to be a dick.”
“No, of course I don’t. It’s just…”
But he doesn’t finish.
I return to admiring my outfit.
“If I ever wear this in the woods, it’ll get ruined,” I say, idly running my hands over the sleek fabric clutching my thighs. The leggings are made from something soft and delicate, and I keep touching.
His eyes follow my hands.
“You need different underwear under that,” he says, his voice steady and cool.
I shrug. “See? I knew you were the best man for this job. I’ll get different underwear.” I point a finger at him. “Which I can do without your help. But I’m definitely buying this outfit. Right? I mean, it works, right?”
Our eyes meet in the mirror. His drop away.
“Yeah,” he says. “It works.”