Without a Hitch(68)

“Do you take vacations often?”

“I would if I could afford it, but yes, I do make time for vacations. It’s important to reset and regroup sometimes.”

He takes my hand and leads me out to the patio that overlooks the water. The view leaves me speechless. We’re steps away from the ocean. It’s breathtaking.

And then I see the hammock. A freaking private hammock.

I totally squeal like a little girl meeting Cinderella for the first time.

“Ah, what was that?”

I turn to Lochlan. “There’s a hammock.”

“I see that.” His unassuming grin is indulgent. “And hammocks are good?”

“I have wanted a hammock since I was a kid. We didn’t have anywhere to put one growing up.

Not that we could have afforded one anyway, and now I live in a condo. Not much use for one in the city.”

“Well…” He sweeps his arms toward the dark blue fabric swaying in the breeze. “Don’t let me keep you. Have at it.”

I nearly sprint but catch myself. “We’re not done talking. You go change, and then I want you to lie with me.”

He stares at me like I just recited the periodic table backward. Glancing down at his suit, he adjusts the bottom of his vest, then returns his gaze to me and shrugs. No man should look that good in a suit.

“What would you like me to change into? A bathing suit?”

“I mean, you can. We are definitely swimming in that later,” I say, pointing to the private pool between us and the ocean. “But I want to talk first, so swim trunks or lounge pants.”

“Lounge pants?”

“Sweats? Shorts? Comfy cozies? What do you normally wear on weekends?”

He tugs at the top button of his dress shirt. “This. I normally wear this.”

“I mean, what do you wear when you’re just hanging out at home?”

He stares blankly. “Sometimes I remove the vest.”

I have the uncontrollable urge to look over my shoulder to search for a hidden camera because surely he’s messing with me. But there’s something vulnerable shimmering in his gaze that keeps my attention glued to him.

“What do you sleep in?” I ask.

“My birthday suit.”

My hands land on my hips as I regard him. “Did you bring sweatpants?”

He scoffs. “I don’t own any.”

“Jeans?”

Lochlan shakes his head and undoes another button.

“Do you own jeans?”

“I’m sure I have a pair or two at home.”

“Shorts?”

“In my gym bag.”

“Lover, are you telling me the only time you’re not pressed to perfection is when you’re at the gym or sleeping?”

He tugs at his earlobe, and I have to actively work at keeping my smile neutral. “My standard wardrobe is this. I prefer suits with vests, but I’ll lose the vest for less formal occasions.”

“Uh-huh. Okay. Lose the vest. We’re taking a field trip.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I call for an Uber.

“What do you mean? I thought you wanted to talk. And the hammock?”

“We will talk about everything, and I will be spending plenty of time on that hammock. Trust me.

But first, we’re buying you some loungewear.”

His body goes rigid. “I’m not wearing those.”

My handsome little snob. “Why? I wear them all the time. They’re heaven in cotton form.”

“Because I’ve seen men wear them everywhere from the grocery store to the gym, and they look like slobs.”

“I’m not saying you have to wear them out, but at home, here, I want you to be comfortable.”

He’s shaking his head but following me to the door. “I’m not doing it, Tilly. I draw the line at sweatpants.”

I grin sweetly. “Okay, lover. Whatever you say.”





C HAPTE R 25

LOCHLAN

“I think my brain is bleeding.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Tilly calls over her shoulder. She’s pushing a giant red carriage through a store that accents everything in red bullseyes.

“I cannot believe you’ve never been to Target before. This is like my happy place.”

“Why?” It sounds like a snarl, and I suppose it is. Glancing left to right, I feel like everyone is staring at us, but Tilly marches on, oblivious. “How can one store sell produce and windshield wipers?”

“That’s why it’s so amazing! It has everything!” The glee in her voice thaws some of my unease.

“Here we go. Oh, feel how soft these are.” She hands me a pair of navy cotton trousers.

“Sweatpants,” she says expectantly.

I keep my hands in my pockets, and she rolls her eyes. “Those are baby trackies.”

She pauses with a gray pair almost to the carriage. “Baby trackies?”

“Baby jumpers? Trackies? They look like something only an infant should wear.”

“But have you ever tried them?”

“Sure. When I was a baby.”

“Will you try them again?” I’m about to yell, but she adds, “For me?”