Page 20 of Lying to the Boss

“Different subject.”

“It’s all pretty general.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, it’s not.”

I clear my throat and step back, out of his space, because wow, did it just get really freaking hot outside?

The car beeps, letting me know it’s been unlocked, so I get in and put my seatbelt on, grateful for the larger vehicle giving us enough distance between us.

“Where to?” he asks.

“I thought we’d go back to the hotel?”

“And do what? We have the whole day. We don’t leave until tomorrow.”

“You pick,” I say, not wanting to recall any of the times I’ve been in this area. None of them are fun and remind me of people I’m trying to forget.

“All right,” he says calmly, then puts the car in gear and drives us to a strip mall. Grinning, he looks over at me when we park.

“Of course you want to spend money,” I say with a huff.

“It’s what I’m good at,” he adds. “Come on.”

We get out of the car and walk up and down the sidewalk, passing the stores, browsing from the outside until I spot a clothing shop with ridiculously printed shirts in the front window. I see the price tag from here and it makes me want to throw up. But…

“I have an idea,” I say, grabbing his hand and tugging him into the store. We’re greeted by a man who pulls off the colorful shirt and weird pattern thing great, somehow.

We browse for a bit. I feel Lane’s attention on me every now and then, but I don’t give it back. Not until I find the most ridiculous shirt in the store. The print is rows of birds sitting on branches, all of them bright and colorful in a way that isn’t realistic in the least. It’s priced at $900.00.

“Here, I think this would be perfect for you.” I pull it off the rack and hold it out to him.

Smirking, he says, “Oh, so this is what we’re doing, hm?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I feign innocence. “I just think you’ll look good in the shirt. You’re totally a bird guy.”

“Uh huh,” he says, not an ounce of belief in his tone. But he takes the shirt and goes to the fitting room, where he lets the gentleman know he’d like to try it on.

When he returns, I stifle a laugh because he looks ridiculous.

“What? I think it looks good. I’m going to get it.”

“No, you’re not,” I say.

“Of course, I am.” There’s a challenge in his eyes.

“Fine.” I hold up my hands. It’s your body. Put on it what you will.” Then a sly look crosses his face, and I know what he’s thinking. “Oh, no. We’re not doing that.”

He walks past me, keeping his voice low. “You’re playing with fire.”

I groan but await what I know is coming.

Somehow, he finds a shirt that’s even more ridiculous than the one I chose. Not sure how I missed it. I don’t bother trying it on. What does it matter? He’s made up his mind. So, I’m stuck wearing a shirt that looks like it’s made out of crocheted granny squares, only it’s just the print and not actually crocheted. It’s so ugly, I can’t imagine someone actually wearing this because they like it.

He pays for the shirts, and we walk to the car. Once inside, he starts to unbutton the shirt he has on.

“What are you doing?” I ask carefully.

“We’re putting these on.”