Page 19 of Jesse's Girl
Perched on a white bench outside the fitting room, I stare at the mirror across from me and scowl at the pile of men’s clothing heaped on my lap. I already regret agreeing to come here.
“You almost done in there?” I call out to Jesse.
“We just got here. Hold your horses,” he grouses back, mocking my impatient tone.
I roll my eyes.
This is all Renee’s fault.
Apparently, Jesse had mentioned needing a few things; having packed to spend the summer traveling Southeast Asia, the wardrobe he’d brought to Lennox consisted of swim trunks, tank tops, and a collection of work-worn T-shirts and jeans. He’d felt a bit underdressed Friday night at the bar and, once it became clear he’d be sticking around to help his mom for a while, he’d figured it was time to bite the bullet and go shopping.
Renee had jumped at the chance to take him—probably eager to provide her womanly guidance to this scruffy country bumpkin. But, when she’d gotten called away to finalize a sale, she’d determined that my womanly guidance would suffice—although no one had been thrilled about the change of plans. I’d made sure to grumble audibly about spending my Tuesday morning doing community service.
I extract my right hand from the tangle of hangers and pull out my phone to text Katie.
Me
I’m in retail hell. Can fluorescent lighting cause brain death?? Asking for a friend.
She texts back right away.
Katie
Medically, no. Spiritually? Sure.
I smile to myself, biting my lip as my thumb hovers over the on-screen keyboard. I know I should tell Katie about what’s actually causing my brain death—this unacceptable attraction to Jesse—but I can barely admit it to myself. Before I can text back, the fitting room door clicks open. I lift my head and pocket my phone, taking a measured breath.
Ah, fuck.
“Thoughts?” Jesse asks, running a hand through his long hair as he steps toward me. He’s wearing a fitted, gray T-shirt over dark jeans. He holds out his arms, turning a bit. The shirt hugs his chest muscles in a way I immediately regret noticing.
“I dunno. Turn around,” I instruct.
He does a slow and patient spin as I try not to stare at his ass longer than strictly necessary. I sigh internally; he’s got a great ass. I hate this.
“Well?” He looks at me, then down at the clothes, placing his hands on his hips.
“I mean, they’re fine, I guess.” I shrug.
“Fine, you guess? Shit, Ada, think you can manage any level of enthusiasm, here?”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat and put on an exaggerated sing-song tone, flicking my hair. “They’re fine, I guess!” I smile and bat my lashes, then let my face drop. “Enthusiastic enough for you?”
“Fuck off.” He shakes his head as he turns back to the changing room, then shuts the door.
“It’s a T-shirt and jeans, Jess,” I call out. “That’s what you usually wear, isn’t it?” I feel my womanly guidance gland shriveling in real time.
“Yeah, I guess,” he replies, shuffling around behind the door.
I bite hard on the inside of my cheek to distract myself from the mental image of him peeling off that shirt.
When he opens the door again, he eyes me with caution. He’s got on a dark green Henley and black jeans. He looks… Damn.
Never mind how he looks, Ada.
I’m careful to project an unimpressed vibe as I inspect him. I should probably win an award for my ability to control my facial expressions. Standing, I dump the pile of clothes on the bench and walk over to him. He turns away from me to assess his reflection and I let my gaze rove over his back, definitely not noticing the flex of his shoulder muscles when he reaches up to adjust the tag at the back of his neck.
“Undo that top button,” I say.