I Think I Love You

by Layne, Lauren

  “Like my nightmare.”

  “Come on.” She tugged his arm and pulled him toward the other end of her apartment. “All you have to do is sit on the couch, drink beer, and judge me. Right up your alley.”

  She swiped some clothes onto the floor to make room for him on the couch, then pushed him down.

  “Okay, where to begin,” she said, rubbing her hands together and looking around at the mess.

  “How about with the fact that you have lettuce in your teeth,” he said.

  Without a trace of embarrassment, she cleaned the offending piece of lettuce from between her two front teeth and then picked up a boxy-looking white jacket thing from the sofa beside him.

  “What about this?” she asked.

  “What about it?”

  Brit kicked his shin gently with her toe. “Come on. Play my game. Please?”

  He sighed. “All right. Okay. It’s . . . fine.”

  This time her kick was a tiny bit harder.

  “It’s fine for work,” he added quickly. “And if I knew a woman was coming straight from work when I met up with her, I wouldn’t think a thing of it. But if it was a Saturday, or a late night out . . .”

  “Got it. Too corporate,” she said. “Does that apply to all blazers?”

  “I guess,” he said.

  “Damn,” she muttered. “They’re so easy.”

  She danced around the apartment picking up a handful of blazers, and her chaos must have been more organized than he realized because she seemed to know exactly what pile to look under to pull out a black blazer, a gray one, a blue one that he recognized. . . .

  “That one looks good with your eyes,” he said, pointing his beer bottle at the blue jacket.

  “Really? Thank you!” she said, holding it up against her and turning toward the full-length mirror. “So this is first-date appropriate?”

  “Eh. We can do better,” he said. Hunter picked up a slinky-looking black top from the couch beside him. “What about this?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s . . . tight.”

  He grinned. “Perfect.”

  She hung up the blazers in her closet and shoved them to the right side before turning back to him and giving the top he held out a skeptical look. “Come on. Tight and black. Isn’t that a little . . . obvious?”

  “Lesson number one, and you may want to write it down because it’s a crucial one: When it comes to guys and first impressions, obvious is a good thing.”

  “Ugh,” she grumbled. “That’s so superficial.”

  “Please. Like you women don’t have your own first-impression checklist. Making snap judgments based on appearance is going to happen whether you like it or not. Might as well work with it.”

  “Okay, I get it. Sexy clothes good, frumpy clothes bad. But what if a woman isn’t comfortable in the sexy clothes? Can’t guys sense that? We’re not all Taylor Carr, coming out of the womb looking completely comfortable in formfitting dresses.”

  “This makes you uncomfortable?” he asked, lifting the black shirt in question.

  “Um. I’m not sure.”

  “You’ve never worn it?”

  “No,” she said. “I bought it on a whim a few months ago and never quite got the courage.”

  “Well, here’s your chance,” he said, flinging it her way.

  She caught it in midair. “You’ll be honest? I want to look sexy, but I also want to look like me.”

  “As a guy I can vouch for the first, and as your best friend I can vouch for the second. It’s why you asked for my help,” he said. “Now try it on.”

  “Fine,” she muttered.

  Before Hunter could register what she intended, Brit reached for the hem of her white T-shirt, which, by the way, he would have to tell her was in the keep pile. The tight-white-T-plus-jeans combination was always a win, at least in his book.

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” he said, looking away just as he saw the first glimpse of the skin on her stomach. “What are you doing?”

  “Really?” she observed dryly. “I never had you pegged for a prude.”

  “I’m not. But don’t you want to change in the bathroom?”

  “Not really. You’re welcome to avert your delicate eyes, though.”

  He did just that, trying not to let his brain register the sound of fabric against skin as she took off one shirt and put on another.

  “Okay, Grandma, you can turn around now,” she said.

  He hesitantly looked over his shoulder, then turned toward her more fully when he saw that she was dressed.

  “Well?” she asked, holding out her hands to the sides.

  “How does it feel?” he asked, since that was the most important thing. A woman who didn’t feel good in her own skin—or clothes—was more of a turnoff than even the boxiest blazer.

  She turned toward the mirror, smoothed a hand over the black fabric. “I don’t hate it. I like that it’s formfitting but not clingy. And it’s not low-cut.”

  As a guy, he nearly mentioned that the low-cut aspect might be worth exploring, but he bit his tongue for now and let her take the lead.

  “Picture yourself meeting a guy in the bar wearing that. The jeans you’re wearing. High heels. How do you feel?”

  She tilted her head and then turned around again, bending down to pick up a random pair of black heels, and then, as though transforming herself, she strutted toward him.

  His eyes widened in alarm. Definitely not a Brit he’d seen before. Or even recognized. She looked sort of like a lioness on the prowl, and not in a good way.

  “Nope. Stop. Walk normal, like you usually do,” he told her. “But as you walk, think that you’re the hottest woman in the room.”

  She took a step back and started again, charging this time, and Hunter immediately shook his head. “Nope. Take your time. Pretend you have a secret sex move that only you know. You have no need to rush.”

  “What’s my secret?” she asked, frowning.

  “Christ, I don’t know! Um, just . . . imagine that every guy in the room is looking at you, but you already have a boyfriend and thus barely register them.”

  “But I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Brit!” he said in exasperation.

  “Okay, okay.” She gave a little shake of her head, and this time when she walked toward him, it was better. Much better.

  “Good,” he murmured as she held his gaze. “Good, now pretend that I’m the boyfriend, and you only have eyes for me.”

  He said the words as her coach, as an actor playing a part, but when their gazes locked and held, for one strange, weird moment, he forgot that this was Brit and that he’d just seen her pick lettuce out of her teeth.

  He forgot that he’d eaten three pieces of pizza in front of her, and that he’d seen her through the flu, and she him.

  Instead, he was thinking about that brief glimpse of the smooth skin on her torso, about the way the top hugged her full breasts. . . .

  She paused in front of him, reaching down and plucking the beer bottle from his hand, taking a sip. “Well?”

  “Good,” he said, clearing his throat. “Really good. Not bad.”

  Brit lifted her eyebrows. “Which was it? Really good? Or not bad?”

  He groped blindly to his side and in desperation grabbed the first piece of clothing he touched. “Here. Let’s try this one.”

  She gave it a skeptical look. “That’s a workout tank.”

  “Guys like a fit woman,” he said stupidly, grabbing his beer and shooing her back a step, trying to recover. “What if they want to go on a run for one of your first dates?”

  She opened her mouth to argue, then gave the shirt a considering look. “You know, I heard that’s when Julie Greene fell for her husband. On a run.”

  “See, there you go,” he said, even though he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Julie Greene was an editor from Stiletto, Oxford’s sister magazine. He knew Julie. Liked her. Her husband too, from their brief meetings a
t parties with mutual friends.

  But right now all he really cared about was getting his mind off the visual image of Brit in that sexy black shirt.

  In the end, Brit didn’t end up with nearly as many clothes in the donate pile as she’d expected.

  Sure, Hunter had rather vehemently insisted that a pink pantsuit be forever banished, as well as a blouse that he’d claimed was more tent than shirt.

  And she’d finally let herself admit that even if she did someday manage to fit into the same jeans she wore when she was twenty-two, the boot cut likely wouldn’t be in style anyway. She also said goodbye to a couple of sweaters that had long ago passed the point of tired.

  Hunter had also demanded she banish all shoes that made her feet hurt, because as he pointed out, a woman limping or complaining about her shoes completely canceled out any sexiness factor.

  She’d fudged the truth a little on that one. While she’d happily handed over a few pairs of flats that gave her blisters, she’d exaggerated the comfort level of her beloved stilettos.

  Strictly speaking, they weren’t sooooooo comfortable as she’d claimed. But there were some things in life where the pain was worth it, and Louboutins and Jimmy Choos were on her list.

  Other than that, though, most of the clothes in the go pile had been her choosing, not Hunter’s. She’d been prepared for Hunter to tell her to get rid of anything that wasn’t super short or boobalicious, but he’d surprised her.

  Sure, he’d been a bigger fan of tighter tops over flowing tunics, and like most guys he’d given her short cocktail dresses a thumbs-up; her flowing, floor-length maxi dresses had been dubbed enormous.

  But mostly he’d made her realize it wasn’t about the clothes themselves; it was about the way she wore them, the way they made her feel. She’d figured out she felt weird displaying cleavage but felt sexy as heck showing a bit of back. She realized that patterns looked fun on the hanger, but once she put them on, they didn’t feel like her as much as solid colors did.

  Hunter had pointed out that when she tried on the hot-pink sweater she’d claimed to love, she tugged constantly at the sleeves, which were just a touch too short.

  “Guys notice that?” she’d asked.

  Hunter had shrugged. “Not explicitly, necessarily. Don’t know that it would even bother us. But we pick up when you’re preoccupied with something else, even if subconsciously. It means you’re not completely into us.”

  She got rid of the sweater.

  Now with her closet back to rights and a bagful of clothes by the front door, ready for donation tomorrow, Brit plopped down on her couch beside Hunter, a slice of pizza in hand.

  He glanced over at her, a knowing look. “Oh, so now you eat the pizza?”

  She grinned and plucked at the baggy, comfortable T-shirt she was wearing. “Damn straight. This is my eating shirt.”

  “Funny, I didn’t see that one when we were going through the wardrobe purge.”

  “I knew you’d make me get rid of it.”

  “More like you knew I’d make you give it back,” he said.

  She glanced down at it again. “Is this yours?” Her voice was faux innocent.

  Hunter rolled his eyes and took a sip of the bottle of sparkling water he’d gotten out of her fridge. “Right. I’d forgotten you went to the University of Missouri.”

  “I must have misread it,” she said, plucking a mushroom off her pizza and popping it into her mouth. “I thought it was my alma mater, University of Michigan.”

  “Uh-huh.” He turned his attention back to the TV, where he’d turned on some sports recap.

  “So what’s next on your lesson plan?” he asked, his attention still mostly on the television.

  “Ah, Obi-Wan is eager to teach.”

  “For the record, I’m Yoda. And I’d just like to be prepared.”

  “Oh, come on, tonight wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Could have been worse,” he admitted. “At least now I know where my favorite T-shirt went. But I also have a feeling this was the easy part.”

  He was right. Truth be told, tonight’s endeavor had been as much about easing Brit herself into this whole plan as it had been Hunter. Deep down she knew that her romantic issues had very little to do with her clothes and shoe choices. It wasn’t like she was slogging around Manhattan in Crocs and overalls and scaring off all the hot Wall Street guys.

  But stall tactic or not, it had been surprisingly useful to get some insight into how men saw women in clothes. Even more interesting had been the insight into Hunter.

  Through all their years of friendship, she’d never given much thought to him as a man. He was simply Hunter. She knew he was a guy in the sense that he was the one to call if she needed a dresser put together or her sofa moved. And though she knew on a logical level that he dated and hooked up with women, it had never actually occurred to her that he was a hot-blooded male.

  Tonight she’d seen glimpses of it. Not directed at her, obviously. But when he’d looked at some of the clothes she tried on and declared them sexy or nope, she’d been acutely aware that he was looking at her. As a woman. And for a few split seconds throughout the evening, she’d felt . . . something.

  A tingle?

  Nah.

  She couldn’t even begin to go that way, even as a harmless thought experiment, or the lessons that followed would get weird fast.

  “Next up is date protocol,” she said, taking another bite of pizza. “You know, like the ins and outs of the first date.”

  “How’s that going to work?” Hunter glanced over.

  She chewed and swallowed. “I was thinking we could go out to dinner. Pretend it’s a first date, and you can, like . . . coach me.”

  “I’m sure your dating game is just fine,” he said, still watching the TV.

  She nudged him with her knee. “You agreed to help me.”

  He finally looked her way. “And you think a fake date with me will help?”

  Brit shrugged. “I don’t know. But it can’t hurt. All signs point to you being excellent at dating. Me not so much.”

  She gave him a wide grin and rested her chin on his shoulder as she looked up at him. “Please? I’ll wear the black shirt you liked so much.”

  He rolled his eyes and looked back at the TV, and she saw he was smiling.

  “All right,” Hunter said finally. “Fine. Tomorrow, seven o’clock?”

  “Yay! I was thinking we could try—”

  “No. I’ll pick the place.”

  Hunter’s voice was kind but firm, and held a commanding note she hadn’t heard from him before.

  It was . . . sexy.

  For a split second her mouth went a little bit dry with . . . what?

  Surprise? Anticipation?

  Nervousness?

  Wordlessly, Hunter reached out and took the piece of neglected pizza out of her hand and took an enormous bite, then handed it back. The distracted, unsexy gesture went a long way toward settling that strange fissure of unease.

  Mostly.

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s good,” Penelope Pope murmured, stepping back and taking in the enormous whiteboard that covered the right wall of Hunter’s office. “It’s really good. The question is, will Cassidy go for it?”

  “He will,” Hunter and Cole Sharpe replied in unison.

  “How do you know?” Penelope asked, turning around.

  “Because if he gave a shit one way or the other, he’d have come to the meeting,” Hunter replied.

  “And soccer’s his thing, not American football,” Cole added.

  Brit looked up from where she was transcribing the notes from the whiteboard onto her laptop as best she could. “Why the clarification?”

  “Pretty much everyone outside the United States calls our soccer football,” Penelope said.

  “Right,” Brit said, continuing her typing. “I knew that. I think.”

  She wasn’t totally clueless about sports, but in this group she was entirely
out of her league. Cole Sharpe and Penelope Pope were Oxford’s sports editors.

  Their partnership was legendary at the magazine. Cole had been a longtime contractor, and when a full-time sports editor position opened up, he and everyone else had assumed he’d be a shoo-in for the job.

  Then Penelope had come along, a fresh-faced tomboy from Chicago looking for a clean slate in New York. Spunky, guileless, and utterly likable, Penelope’s sportswriting skills had given Cole a serious run for his money.

  So much so that Cassidy had eventually decided to split the lone sports editor position into two roles. But not before the sports fanatics had fallen wildly, crazily in love.

  That’d been a couple of years ago now, but you’d never know it from seeing them together. Cole and Penelope still acted like a couple in the early stages of infatuation.

  They were beyond cute together, and individually they were two of Brit’s favorite people.

  “You think we can pull it off by the Super Bowl?” Cole asked, tossing a football between his two hands before lobbing it to Penelope, who caught it easily.

  Brit shook her head. Both at the fact that there was even a football in the office and that Penelope looked so easy with the enormous ball despite being tiny.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Hunter said.

  Brit rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Easy for him to say. He wouldn’t be the one who would have to take this plan to the Web-operations team and tell them that their Super Bowl Sunday would be spent managing the elaborate interactive portal on Oxford’s website.

  Still, it was a good idea. Most of Cole’s and Penelope’s were. Since they’d taken over, the sports section of Oxford had gone from being a small sliver of sports bites interspersed between Lincoln’s sex articles and the splashy ads for designer suits to being one of the most visited sections of the website.

  “So,” Penelope said, dropping into the chair across from Brit and helping herself to one of the M&M’s Hunter kept on his desk. Brit’s idea. Chocolate soothed. “How’s your training in the art of seduction going?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Brit saw Hunter shoot Cole a murderous glance, and Cole lifted his hands with a laugh. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell her.”