Page 57 of The Lipstick Flip

I immediately knew that I was going to lose that argument—mostly because I didn’t understand a word of it—so I switched to “You made me throw away my cargo shorts when we got married.”

“Uh yeah. Cargo shorts, Howie.” Noah shuddered. “Try them on, please.”

So, I did.

And they actually looked…okay. I mean, I wasn’t going to pretend I was an expert, but he was right that they did look different from the work pants I usually wore. The fabric was nicer, and they were a dark gray that went well with the jacket and shirt. As a matter of fact, everything looked like something that I might have already owned and worn—just one step up.

“What do you think?”

“It’s all right.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Howie, I want you to feel comfortable. This is so important. If you don’t like it, we’ll find you something else.”

“I like it.” But that didn’t seem like enough, so I said, “It’s great. Thank you.”

He gave me a considering look, as though trying to pick out some message behind the words, but finally he said, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. You can get out of those clothes now; I need to try on mine.”

I laughed as I went back into the dressing room. “So that’s how it is.”

“What?”

“Now I see why it was so important that I get some new clothes.”

Noah laughed. “No! I need new clothes too.”

I snorted.

“I do!” But he was laughing again. When I came out of the fitting room, he looked a little flushed, eyes bright, a smile hovering almost out of hiding. He looked happy. He looked beautiful. And then he gave me a shove and said, “Move.”

So, I sat with my clothes while Noah changed. He stepped out to consider himself in one of the mirrors. Wide-legged black trousers. That fucking stripper-thong shirt he’d pointed out when we came in. I’d been one hundred percent right about the nipples.

Noah studied himself in the mirror, changing poses a few times. I had a vision in my mind of standing next to him at the holiday house tour. Of everybody walking through the house. The whole town. God, maybe he’d be wearing those Elton John sunglasses.

“Does this say, ‘Professional’?” Noah asked.

“Uh.” It took me a moment to drag myself back to the present. “What?”

He changed his pose again. “I don’t think it’s professional enough.”

“For what?”

He darted a quick look at me. The pink was back in his cheeks. Then he turned his attention back to the mirror and started fussing with his shirt. I thought maybe he wasn’t going to answer, but he said, “For an interview.”

“What interview?”

“Just an interview.”

“Are you going for charge nurse?”

“No.”