changing room soon after in black dress slacks and a mustard shirt I’d sent in. The colors and cut were sensational, and even he seemed pleased.
“Good choice, Annalise. How’d you know my size?”
I wasn’t about to tell him there weren’t many aspects of his body that had escaped my notice over the years, so truthfully said, “Working in fashion, I can usually guess a person’s size.”
Luckily, he seemed to accept that and headed back to the changing room, but I made a mental note to do a better job of hiding my over-familiarity with All Things Jake.
After flicking through more racks of clothes, I picked out an indigo linen shirt and paused. There was something familiar about this shirt. I turned it over, looking for what element I’d recognized. Nothing special about it… Then I realized—it was almost identical to the shirt my headless man wore in my dream collage.
My stomach pitched and rolled. Was I subconsciously using this makeover to turn Jake into Mr. Headless? I thrust the shirt back on the rack and grabbed a cream one instead.
But thoughts of the man in my dream collage didn’t fade. I remembered the realization I’d had the night before at my parents’—that I’d potentially undermined my chance at a relationship by always reaching for a fairytale, my headless prince, who wasn’t grounded in reality.
Add to that the lack of perceptible pride from my parents during dinnertime conversation and two areas of the collage were looking shaky.
And since I was having an impromptu collage assessment, I needed to consider Mindy being under the weather. My collage was starting to look less like becoming reality by the minute.
“Annalise, what do you think?” Jake stood before me in a powder blue shirt, adjusting the cuffs.
What did I think? That before me stood a vision of masculine beauty. That I’d give most anything to touch just my fingertips to that vision. That he took my breath away simply by breathing. And that Jake was not, nor would he ever be, my headless man.
“It looks great, Jake. Here,” I thrust the cream linen shirt at him, “try this one on as well.”
He took the shirt but cocked his head to the side, lips parted, as if about to ask a question. Before he could say anything, Barbara was there, fussing around him, commenting on the fit of the clothes, adjusting the shirt across his shoulders, asking him about his comfort—things that normally came to me with ease. But watching Jake look at his reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t string a sentence together, let alone one that made sense. What would I do at the next shop when Barbara wasn’t there to cover for me?
I mentally practiced suitably detached responses I could call on quickly when Jake was trying on clothes.
Yes, that one’s flattering.
Hmm, the fall of those pants doesn’t suit your shape as well as the others.
Yes, that shirt makes me want to run my lips along your naked shoulders.
Unfortunately, some of the backup comments were less appropriate than others. I was doomed.
…
Jake
After trying on a pile of clothes, I bought the black pants and both the yellowy and dark red shirts, and we set off again.
Annalise directed me to a local mall, and after I’d parked, I went around to her door and hung an arm around her shoulders. It was something I did to Kelly all the time, and often to female friends, but Annalise flinched then stopped walking.
Confused, I paused beside her and watched her take a shuddering breath. “Annalise, what’s wrong?”
As she met my eyes, she looked like she was steeling herself. “Jake, I need to say something,” she said in a rush. “You may be an incurable flirt, but I don’t appreciate you flirting with me. We both know it’s going nowhere. I’m enjoying helping you, but if you want me to continue, you’re going to have to promise there’ll be no more flirting and no more touching.” When I didn’t respond straight away, she added, “I’m serious,
“Good choice, Annalise. How’d you know my size?”
I wasn’t about to tell him there weren’t many aspects of his body that had escaped my notice over the years, so truthfully said, “Working in fashion, I can usually guess a person’s size.”
Luckily, he seemed to accept that and headed back to the changing room, but I made a mental note to do a better job of hiding my over-familiarity with All Things Jake.
After flicking through more racks of clothes, I picked out an indigo linen shirt and paused. There was something familiar about this shirt. I turned it over, looking for what element I’d recognized. Nothing special about it… Then I realized—it was almost identical to the shirt my headless man wore in my dream collage.
My stomach pitched and rolled. Was I subconsciously using this makeover to turn Jake into Mr. Headless? I thrust the shirt back on the rack and grabbed a cream one instead.
But thoughts of the man in my dream collage didn’t fade. I remembered the realization I’d had the night before at my parents’—that I’d potentially undermined my chance at a relationship by always reaching for a fairytale, my headless prince, who wasn’t grounded in reality.
Add to that the lack of perceptible pride from my parents during dinnertime conversation and two areas of the collage were looking shaky.
And since I was having an impromptu collage assessment, I needed to consider Mindy being under the weather. My collage was starting to look less like becoming reality by the minute.
“Annalise, what do you think?” Jake stood before me in a powder blue shirt, adjusting the cuffs.
What did I think? That before me stood a vision of masculine beauty. That I’d give most anything to touch just my fingertips to that vision. That he took my breath away simply by breathing. And that Jake was not, nor would he ever be, my headless man.
“It looks great, Jake. Here,” I thrust the cream linen shirt at him, “try this one on as well.”
He took the shirt but cocked his head to the side, lips parted, as if about to ask a question. Before he could say anything, Barbara was there, fussing around him, commenting on the fit of the clothes, adjusting the shirt across his shoulders, asking him about his comfort—things that normally came to me with ease. But watching Jake look at his reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t string a sentence together, let alone one that made sense. What would I do at the next shop when Barbara wasn’t there to cover for me?
I mentally practiced suitably detached responses I could call on quickly when Jake was trying on clothes.
Yes, that one’s flattering.
Hmm, the fall of those pants doesn’t suit your shape as well as the others.
Yes, that shirt makes me want to run my lips along your naked shoulders.
Unfortunately, some of the backup comments were less appropriate than others. I was doomed.
…
Jake
After trying on a pile of clothes, I bought the black pants and both the yellowy and dark red shirts, and we set off again.
Annalise directed me to a local mall, and after I’d parked, I went around to her door and hung an arm around her shoulders. It was something I did to Kelly all the time, and often to female friends, but Annalise flinched then stopped walking.
Confused, I paused beside her and watched her take a shuddering breath. “Annalise, what’s wrong?”
As she met my eyes, she looked like she was steeling herself. “Jake, I need to say something,” she said in a rush. “You may be an incurable flirt, but I don’t appreciate you flirting with me. We both know it’s going nowhere. I’m enjoying helping you, but if you want me to continue, you’re going to have to promise there’ll be no more flirting and no more touching.” When I didn’t respond straight away, she added, “I’m serious,
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