Under the Table(17)
“I don’t think I’m ready to start modeling leather pants yet.” He was wary.
“How about a leather jacket?”
“Maybe.”
Zoey shooed off the salesman asking if they needed help and went over to the folded jeans displays. She asked him his size and wrinkled her nose when he rattled off his thirty-two-inch waist, several inches smaller than her own. She stayed away from the ultraexpensive Saint Laurent and Balmain brands and began pulling jeans for him to try on, Rag & Bone, Citizens of Humanity, R13. She dropped them in his waiting hands until the stack almost covered his face. He drew the line at ripped holes in the knees. The look on his face when she touched the ones that had been fake-rubbed with dirt or grass was laughable.
“I’m looking for stylish, not derelict,” he stated firmly on his way to the dressing room. “My grandmother would roll over in her grave.”
Zoey waited for him, sliding the shirt-holding hangers along the racks for colors that she thought would highlight his green eyes and bring out his all-around coloring.
“What do you think?” she heard from behind her.
She should have been ready for when she turned around. She knew from the leather pants episode that he had a hidden sexy. He had taken off his coat in the dressing room. Underneath it was a burnt orange velour V-neck long-sleeve shirt that he must’ve acquired back on the island. It was easily two sizes too small and clung to him like Saran wrap. Because the jeans were so low, it rode up to display a tiny portion of his flat belly, something he was able to avoid with the high-waisted pants he was used to. In short, he was magnificent.
He turned to give her a view from the back, and her jaw started to unhinge.
“Do they fit right?” Tristan said over his shoulder. “They feel so low, like they could fall off.”
“They’re skinny jeans,” Zoey said, with her mouth suddenly dry. She wasn’t sure about the old adage that “clothes make the man,” but in this particular instance she would have to say clothes made this man hot as hell.
“I’m not skinny,” he replied stubbornly. It was the first exhibition of him having any ego.
Zoey smiled and shook her head. “No, it’s the style of jeans. Skinny jeans. Check the tag yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Oh!” He tapped his forehead with three fingertips in a mock effort to turn on his brain. “Got it. I hope I don’t have to bend over to pick anything up. They feel like they would take my underwear with them.”
It took real effort to strive for casual and keep her eyes above his neck. “They look pretty good. They’ll get softer. You’ll get used to them. And we’ll pick you out the right kind of belt.”
Like leather. And long. Long enough to wrap around my wrists and then tie me to a bedpost, with those jeans slipping lower and lower as he does so, until he unzips them. . . .
Without realizing it, Zoey started biting down on her lower lip.
“What are you thinking about?” Tristan asked innocently.
“Um.” Zoey turned her focus back to the racks to hide the telltale blush. “Shirts that will go with it. Why don’t you go try on another pair?”
He came back out a few minutes later. “I think somebody already wore these and returned them.”
She bit back a giggle. “Those are what is called the distressed look.”
“Why? Because you feel dirty and uncomfortable wearing them?”
“No, silly. The denim is distressed. It’s a process they put the material through to make them appear faded and worn. That’s why it’s mostly on the knees and thighs. Just think of it as the manufacturer breaking them in for you.”
“If you say so. They are comfy though.”
This time, Zoey was able to watch him walk back to the dressing room without fear of him catching her.
They spent the majority of the afternoon in Barneys. Tristan was the ultimate shopping companion. He didn’t balk at any price tag and was willing to try on anything, even the garments he viewed skeptically, such as pants covered in studs or obvious bleach stains. And he was correct in his assessments: the more outrageous things didn’t work for him.
“I don’t mind distressed, as you call it. I just don’t like sloppy,” he told her, and Zoey agreed. Threadbare patches and strategically placed holes or tears were a little too much fashion for him to handle. Excessively baggy was a no-go as well, and Zoey was fine with that. He had hidden that spectacular physique long enough. Tristan fell in love with long shorts after telling her that all the shorts he owned fell above his knees.
“You mean like Bermuda shorts?” she asked.
“No,” he replied seriously. “We got them right in St. Croix. But I don’t know, maybe they were imported.”
His adorable innocence was endless. In all, he ended up purchasing five pairs of jeans, three pairs of other pants that didn’t settle under his armpits, six pairs of shorts, at least a dozen button-down shirts in various colors and patterns, and a slew of pullovers, polos, and sweaters. She picked out both brown and black leather belts but had no idea how to approach him about underwear, so she didn’t. He even unwittingly indulged her fantasy by letting her pick out a leather jacket for him. They both agreed on a hooded bomber style after he complained about the other ones having too many zippers. Zoey didn’t bother mentioning the other style made him look like a frightened Harley rider . . . or Fonzie. The jokes would likely have been wasted anyway. Zoey courteously stepped away and wandered the racks as he paid the exorbitant Barneys bill, telling him she’d meet him at the men’s fragrance counter.