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“Prefer is a strong word. I’d prefer you wear baggy shirts and jeans. Anything less inviting. You don’t make it ten feet through my grounds without someone looking at you in a way that enrages me.”
Resting my hip against the dresser, I face him. “So what you’re saying is I should cover up because your men don’t know how to control themselves? Shouldn’t we make a point of teaching them instead of whatever nonsense is going through your head right now?”
Dry as the Sahara desert, Rowan peers into my very soul. “The nonsense going through my head right now is that if people keep staring, I’m going to have to collect a jar of eyes.”
I brighten.
“Which isn’t an option. We’re fabricating a relationship, right?”
“Correct,” I chirp.
“Then work with me on some kind of compromise here.”
“I’m going to be a distraction to your men no matter what I’m wearing.”
He sighs. “Of that I am painfully aware.”
“So what’s the point?”
His jaw locks, and his gaze slices downward.
Silence permeates as realization dawns on me.
Ah.
I see how it is.
It’s not about his men.
The idea of sharing a room with me when I look so inviting scares him. He’d prefer I dress in leather and knives, because at least then getting accidentally too close might cut. He’s being quiet and compliant because he’s fighting to process the changes I’m imposing on him.
Kindly, I reference his closet. “I agreed not to embarrass you. Dress me, baby, if it’ll make you feel better.”
A swear hisses past his lips as he crumples in on himself. Palms to face, he mutters, “Briar, have you never once heard of self-preservation?”
“You can undress me, too. If you want.”
His head lifts, a perfect glower twisting his red face. If looks could kill…
At this point, I am beginning to wonder if smiling is in his genetic code. He is ever so adept at frowning.
Standing, he marches into the closet. It takes five gloriously peeved seconds before he turns on me. “Do you own nothing normal?”
“Define ‘normal’.”
“Jeans.” The word is a grumble—a gruff, disparaged sound.
I snuggle myself into the closet with him and tug on the hem of a jean dress. There’s so much tulle and lace that the skirt’s practically a tutu, but technically… “Jeans.” I beam at him, as though I’m awaiting praise for procuring the requested fabric.
Weariness saturates his poor dark eyes. “Actual jeans, Briar.”
Releasing the dress, I ignore his personal space and glance down the broad expanse of his body, to the dark wash pair of jeans he’s currently wearing. “I could borrow yours.”
“They wouldn’t fit.”
“That is a boring answer. Do you know how to flirt at all?”
He blinks slow, like a cat toying with the idea of knocking something off a table. “No.”
