by Laura Burton
“Right. No tailored suits,” Blaze affirms. I scribble down some notes and try to think of another question, wishing that Josie sent me a script or, at least, a list of questions.
All she sent me was the list of measurements I’d need to take.
Heaven help me when I have to take this man’s measurements.
“What are your favorite colors?” I ask, looking up again. Blaze’s thick brows knit together and he rakes a hand through his silky locks like he’s a model in a shampoo commercial.
“I haven’t been asked that since I was in middle school. I don’t think I have any…”
“Okay, fine. I’ll put you down for salmon pink, floral, and polka dot patterns and brown chinos…”
Blaze raises his palms, his smile dropping. “Okay, you’ve made your point. I’ll wear anything but any of that. Or dresses. What are you writing? Please tell me you’re striking off the floral print?”
I smirk as I keep scribbling notes. “So, you want to look like a man’s man, huh? Super macho, strong…” Blaze nods along to my words, his shoulders relaxing.
“Exactly. You’ve got it.”
I finish taking notes and then pull out the tape measure from my purse. All that’s left to do is get these measurements and then I can run away, never to see this heartthrob again.
This will just be a funny memory to share at dinner parties. I can brag about the time I met Blaze Hopkins.
“Right, so I just need to take your…” I hold up the tape measure and Blaze rises to his feet, his expression turning serious. “Is it okay if I stand like this?” He squares his shoulders and straightens his spine, but the collective bulge of his back muscles is immense.
I unwind the tape measure and wrap it around one bicep. My fingertips graze his skin. It’s like the softest leather with a surprising squish to it. I expected his muscles to be hard as rock, but they’re supple and tender. When I’ve got the measurement, I hurry to jot it down, turning away to hide my burning cheeks.
Three hundred dollars.
That’s what Josie promised me. Three hundred dollars.
That’s three Benjamin Franklins.
I’m pretty sure the gin has now taken full effect––or maybe it’s the reminder that I’ve got money riding on this. I turn back with a beaming smile. “I’ve got to do your neck… Do you mind?”
Blaze gives a passive shrug and looks out the windows again as though the thought of having a perfect stranger wrap her arms around his neck is something he experiences all the time.
Wrapping the tape measure around him forces me to step into a cloud of his cologne. Now that I’m this close, some entirely new scent envelopes my body like a security blanket. Under the layers of wood and spice, there’s a salty scent I can’t quite place. Kind of like peppered steak, steaming on a plate.
Oh my… is that his natural scent?
Dizzy with brain fog, I busy myself with the tape measure and rush back to the couch to write it down. The absence of his body heat sends a chill through me. I chew my lip, looking at the list of measurements needed.
I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.
How should I measure his waist? The only method I can think of is to give him a bear hug while wrapping the tape around his delightfully defined torso. He stiffens as my ear hovers close to his chest. I swear my cheek brushes over one of his pectorals.
The problem with my method is that my face is completely buried in this man’s beefy chest and there is no way I can read the number on the tape measure.
As I try to think fast, I notice that Blaze has gone quiet. In spite of the unconventional way I’m doing this, he’s completely calm.
Struck by an idea, I place my thumb and finger on the place where the two ends of the tape measure meet, then back away to read the number.
It might not be the exact measurement, but seeing as he doesn’t want anything tight or fitted, I figure I can just tell Josie to add an inch or two.
Blaze keeps still, his gaze focused straight ahead, as I kneel down and take his pant leg measurements. There’s silence but for my shuffling and Blaze’s steady breaths coming long and slow, like a sleeping dragon.
But then I come to the inside seam and I want to die a thousand deaths.
In fact, I wish the gin was rat poison and had put me out of this awkward situation.
I’ve never done this before. How high up inside his leg do I have to put the tape measure? My face is on fire and I take my sweet time propping the tape measure at the bottom of his shoe. Slowly, I run it upward and pray to God - and all the other gods I know of, just in case - that I don’t go too high.
Please don’t let me mess this up. Please. I’ll just die.
But then the tape grows taut and I’m not even all the way up his leg yet. I give it a tug with a grunt, trying not to make eye contact with the man’s lower body as I work with the tape. Then, to my total horror, the tape snaps and pings Blaze right in the area I was trying to avoid.
He grunts and steps back, covering his crotch with both hands. A tear slides down his left cheek.
This is so much worse than going up too high with the tape. So much worse.
I stare at him dumbfounded for a few seconds before I find words. But instead of offering an apology, I hold up the two broken pieces of tape and frown at him. “You’re so big, you broke my measuring tape!”
Chapter 4
Blaze
Why do I get the impression this woman has never done this before?
When the searing pain in my groin fades to a dull ache, I adjust myself and blink away the tears in my eyes. Leila is still kneeling on the floor, her pretty red dress splayed out across her knees.
“Did you just call me big?” I ask, smirking.
Leila’s pink cheeks grow a deep crimson.
I approach her and stretch a hand out to help her up, but only her eyes move as she glances at my hand.
I’m used to getting this kind of treatment on tour, or out and about. But the people my PA hires are usually much more professional. Stoic, even. And definitely, far less attractive than the woman currently sprawled on my floor, looking at me like I’m a bomb about to explode at any second.
She finally lifts a hand and places it in mine. Her hand is so tiny, just the lightest tug has her stumbling to a stand. She hops from foot to foot, pats herself down, and stuffs the two broken pieces of tape in her purse.
She doesn’t answer my question, and I don’t press her on it.
I’m pretty sure the word she was looking for was tall. But I’ll take the compliment either way.
In fact, the faux pas is one I’m going to store in my mind forever. Whenever I’m having a bad day, I’ll take it out and chuckle to myself.
Leila tears her gaze from me and grumbles, looking through her notes. I glance over to see she’s missing some details. “I can have my tailor send you my measurements.”
Leila’s eyes shoot up and meet my gaze so suddenly, it sends a zing straight to my heart, like a shot of adrenaline. “That would be amazing… Thank you.”
She lowers her gaze for a splinter of a second before she looks up at me and blushes again. “I’m so sorry about the whole… tape slingshot situation. Are you okay?”
I crack a smile at the word slingshot. “I’m fine. Sorry I broke your tape measure; I’ll buy you a new one.”
Leila scoffs and waves a hand as though to bat the idea away. “It belonged to my sister, and she’s got loads more.”
I cock my head to the side, confused. “What, you don’t have your own? Or do you make a habit of breaking them and injuring your clients?”
Leila rolls her lips inward and her cheeks dimple. She flounders for several moments, unable to look me in the eye, and pretends to busy herself with looking through her purse. But we both know she’s not going to find another tape measure in there. Or a way out of this awkward moment.
Am I a jerk for enjoying this?
Humming to myself, I scratch the stubble o
n my chin and pick up my drink from the coffee table.
She’s far too flighty to be a professional, and she looks like she’s never held a tape measure in her life, let alone measured someone. Plus, I don’t know if she meant to admit that it belonged to her sister. Or if that crucial clue just slipped out.
Besides, what kind of personal shopper arrives at a client’s house dressed up like they’re going to Buckingham palace for afternoon tea?
None of this adds up.
I finish my drink and turn back to her. She’s playing with her hair and staring out the window. For a moment, it actually looked like she was thinking about jumping out of it.
Who is this woman? What are her intentions? And how do I make sure I get to see her again?
I could ask the questions running through my mind right now… Are you a real personal shopper, or are you pretending? Is the woman I was supposed to meet tied up in the trunk of your car? Or did you somehow win the gig by faking it on the phone? If so, I should fire my PA for being so careless. This woman could be a psychopathic killer for all I know. Or worse, a reporter.
I know I should be freaked out or, at the very least, unnerved, but the thrill of not knowing is giving me the tingles. Good ones.
“Would it be okay if I took a look in your closet?”
I lift a brow at the question. It’s exactly the type of thing a super fan would ask.
Like the one time I was on tour, and a couple of drunk girls broke into my dressing room. I walked in just as they were taking my favorite shirt off the rack. The shock of being interrupted made one of them knock my decanter over. The expensive Persian rug was instantly soaked in Bourbon. The other one, who had just been lighting a cigarette, dropped the lighter she was holding, and the next thing I knew, the whole room was up in flames. I was lucky to make it out of there alive.
“You want to look in my closet?” I ask slowly. Leila straightens her spine and clears her throat. “It’ll be helpful to see what your current style is, don’t you think?”
I tap my forehead and ignore the question that just sprang to mind.
Didn’t she already ask me about my style?
I lead her to my room. “Right. It’s this way.”
She’s still keeping up with the personal shopper act and seems to have recovered herself, but I decide to test her. “So, who else have you worked for? Anyone I know?”
Leila follows me into my bedroom, and her gaze flickers around briefly before she’s looking at me again. Her neatly groomed brows pinch together, and I imagine she’s trying hard to keep her expression cool. The little bulge in her jawline gives her away, though.
“I can’t disclose that. I’m sure you’re aware of client confidentiality?”
I’m impressed. She’s quick on her feet.
“But you have done this before, right?”
I watch her closely, determined to pick up on any change in body language, like her shoulders rising or sweat gathering on her temples. But she keeps her behavior impassive and pulls out her phone. Then she looks around at my clothes with a perfectly neutral expression. The jawline bulge is gone.
“Trust me, Mr. Hopkins, this is not my first rodeo.” And with that, she starts taking pictures with her phone.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask, pointing to her phone. At this point, I half-expect those to end up on the front cover of some trashy magazine before the week is out. But Leila stops and places a hand on her hip. Her cheeks are still red, and she gives me a hard look. It catches me off-guard. People don’t look at me like that these days.
“Do you want to look like a clown, Mr. Hopkins?”
I stiffen. “No.” I hate clowns. Did she already know that? Or was that just a lucky guess?
Leila puffs out her chest. “Then I suggest you let me do my job.” She turns on the spot and continues taking pictures.
I rub my chest. It kind of feels like her words hit me hard there. Nobody talks to me like that. Never with a disapproving tone.
Just like that, I’m a little kid again, being yelled at by my sixth grade teacher for cheating on my math paper. I was never any good at math.
“I have a question.” I don’t think I meant to say that out loud, but Leila’s already turned back to look at me. Her face is taut and her eyes are flashing. Her defenses are up for sure. I can’t tell if she’s offended by my accusation or if she knows I’m on to her lie. “Shoot,” she says, crossing her arms.
Looking at her standing in my closet like this, with wobbly ankles in high heels she clearly isn't comfortable in, and the skirt of her red dress poofed out like a tarpaulin on a windy day, has me grinning. She’s adorable, and I can’t figure her out. Next thing I know; I’m grinning like a fool. For the briefest moment, Leila’s face brightens and her eyes dance as she mirrors my smile. But then she recovers herself, as though shaking out of a spell.
I clear my throat. “Are you available to join me on my press tour?”
Leila’s hands fall and I get a good glimpse of her narrow waist. The red dress is sitting snug against her skin and accentuating the curves of her upper body. “What?”
I scratch my neck, then swing my arms as I pace the room. I suddenly have no idea what to do with my hands. “The press tour I was telling you about to promote my new movie…”
“The Demolition Beast tour - London, Tokyo, Paris, and Los Angeles,” Leila finishes for me.
I stop pacing and smile at her. She’s so busted. There’s no way she’s the woman my PA hired. But maybe Leila can keep Harry off my back. He did say if I didn’t find a woman while on the press tour, he’d hook me up with Emily Marks, the matchmaker.
And I don’t need no matchmaker.
Besides, I want to see how long this imposter can keep up the act. Making her squirm is highly entertaining too.
“Well, as you say, I do not want to look like a clown on my press tour. And…”
“Don’t you have stylists to go with you?” Leila cuts in. I clamp my jaw. This woman knows too much. Yes, I have a team of stylists that join me on these tours. They make sure I look good. But there’s nothing to say I can’t have one more.
“I’m going to be in four different countries and I want you to shop for clothes in each city. You know, so I can keep them as mementos when I’m home.”
Leila frowns at the floor, her hands planted on her hips. A light mumble makes me wonder if she’s going to confess. She’s not a personal shopper.
But then she looks up at me with another sunny expression. “My daily rate is $400. And there’s travel expenses to consider…”
Surprised by her response, I raise my hands in a mock sign of surrender. “I’ll pay you triple that… and cover all your expenses.” It’s a lot more than any of the stylists are getting paid, but she’s worth it. I’m not exactly sure why.
Leila hums deeply and crosses her arms. “Fine. When do we leave?”
Chapter 5
Leila
“You did––what?” Josie screeches down the phone to me. Her banshee squeal echoes in the subway and several people edge away from me with disgruntled looks. I just told her all about the meeting with Blaze AKA Mr. Hollywood Heartthrob.
Her breaths started to come out in pants when I told her it was Blaze Hopkins. She coughed and spluttered when I got to the part where I drank his gin.
When I told her how I took his measurements, she lost it completely.
“Please, Leila…” I picture her shutting her eyes, a hand to her face in devastation. “Tell me you’re joking about the bear hug.”
“Hey, don’t come at me. I did my best, and you didn’t exactly offer any tips.” I point to the back of the seat in front of me as I mutter into my phone, ignoring the concerned glances from passengers across from me.
“So you thought to walk up to Blaze Hopkins and wrap your arms around his body…”
“Enough!” My cheeks are burning at the memory as it flashes across my mind’s eye. A deep sigh on the other end of the phone t
ells me that Josie is trying to collect her thoughts.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be giving you a hard time.” She puffs out another breath. “Just send me your notes and I’ll take it from here.”
“Yeah… about that.” I pick at the stitches of my purse as I strike up the nerve to fill Josie in on the rest of the visit. Seeing how flustered she is about the bear hug, I decide to skip over the tape snapping incident. There’s no telling how badly she’ll react to that part.
“Blaze asked me to join him on the press tour.”
“WHAT?”
Josie’s pitch is so high; I swear it vibrates the windows. I clamp a hand over the speaker to muffle the tirade of exclamations that follow.
She takes a breath, and I get up as the subway rolls into my station. Then Josie begins a round of twenty questions.
“What did you do? Why does he want you to go with him? Is he paying you? What about me? Am I even supposed to go shopping for him? What happens now? When do you leave?”
The only answer I have is for the last question.
“Tomorrow.”
There’s a pause, and I imagine Josie chewing her lip, a little line forming between her thin brows like they always do when she’s thinking hard. “I’m coming with you.”
I hop onto the platform and open and close my mouth like a fish. What do I say to that? She’s the personal shopper, not me. Besides, I still have no idea why the heck I decided to join Blaze on his press tour anyway.
Maybe this is for the best. Josie can call him up, explain the situation and then…
“But Blaze asked me not…”
“So?” Josie snaps. “I’ll call his people.”
“And say what?”
“I’ll make something up. I’ll tell them we’re a package deal.”
I blow my hair out of my face with a huff and follow the crowd of commuters heading for the steps. A gust of ice cold air charges through the station and slaps me on both cheeks.
