Shopping for a CEO's Fiancée
She’s holding that tape measure like a dominatrix with a whip. “Or shall we fit you with breeches?” Her eyes narrow as she circles around me, taking in my body, the tip of her pink tongue poking out to lick her lips.
“Breeches?”
“Pantaloons?”
“I want whatever’s in Gina’s report.” What started out as a silly joke to call Amanda’s bluff has turned into something more annoying. I should call this off.
“She calls for the full Mr. Darcy treatment.”
“Fine.” I widen my stance. “Let’s get my measurements and just do it.”
Ten minutes later, the professor has recorded all my inches along with whatever last vestiges of innocence I used to possess. I feel like I should offer her a cigarette. I’ve had less intimate sexual encounters at frat parties.
“Did you have to be that…thorough?” I ask, resisting the urge to adjust everything.
“Nothing but the best for you, Andrew.” She hands me one of the pairs of pants she’s brought. “Please change into these. They are made of a fine wool and while the length is unacceptable, I believe the rise will be a near-perfect fit. We will recreate the design.”
I sigh and walk into my bathroom like I’m on Death Row, then repeat the walk two minutes later to show her the result.
Only this time, my stride is about six inches. I walk like a nineteenth-century upper-class Chinese woman with bound feet.
“These are—”
“Perfect!” the professor squeals.
“—cutting off blood supply.”
“One must suffer for historical authenticity. Men in Regency England were unashamed of their stallion-like figures.” She gives me a long look, eyes hooded. A long sigh ripples out of her. “And yet, we do have an issue with the front flap buttons.”
“Flap?”
She drops to her knees in front of me and pulls out a small measuring tape and a magnifying glass. “One moment,” she declares with a sigh, holding up a flap of fabric with buttons on it.
Just then, the door to my office opens. I look up.
And in walks Vince.
“I am having a hard time finding it,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham announces in a breathy voice. “I might need to get my tweezers.”
Vince crosses his arms over his chest and leans one hip against a chair near my desk.
“When dealing with a freakish rise like yours, Andrew, I am forced to be creative.”
“Freakish?” Vince asks.
“Freakishly long,” I clarify.
“The magnifying lens in her hand tells me everything I need to know, Andrew. No need to elaborate.” His tone tells me I’m never, ever living this down. At least he’s not Declan.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham looks up. “Oh, my goodness! You’re not the person he’s proposing to, now, are you? Because fitting a body like yours into breeches will require a crowbar!” she chortles.
“Proposing?” Vince asks, eyebrows up.
“Oh, dear. Have I ruined the surprise? Were you going to pop the question to your boyfriend? You used the term ‘partner’ and I—”
“Girlfriend,” I say tersely. It’s hard to be angry when a woman has a pincushion millimeters from parts of me that should poke, not be poked.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham stops what she’s doing, hand in mid-air, and slowly drops every implement, including the thimble perched on the tip of her tongue. She stands and gives Vince an aggressive visual inventory, taking in the broad muscles, the long black hair. It takes her a while. It should. He’s the size of a small mountain.
“You,” she finally says, “are a biological female?”
“No.”
“Then by girlfriend, Andrew’s referring to…?”
“Not me.”
“I am quite confused.”
“We noticed,” Vince and I say together.
“You’re not a couple?”
Gina walks in at that exact moment, eyes twinkling, pinging between me and Vince before settling on the professor. She punctuates that question with a shrug.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks the professor. “You see it too?”
Vince glowers.
“I’m preparing to propose to Amanda. My girlfriend.”
“Amanda Warrick?” Gina peeps. “The woman from Consolidated Evalu-shop who has all those two-hour meetings with you three days a week? Ohhhhhhh.” Her face twists with disgust. “Meetings?” she asks, using finger quotes. “I need more Lysol in my desk drawer,” she says out of earshot.
Except she’s not.
“And my sexuality is none of your business,” Vince declares. “But Andrew’s not my type.”
“I could be your type,” I insist, a little offended.
He gives me a funny look.
“Not that I want to be,” I quickly add.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham claps her hands twice and shouts, “Boys! Boys! As lovely as this sweet argument is, we have more important issues to attend to, such as your leggings.”
“Leggings?” I keep my voice nice and low. Masculine.
“Yes. In theater, the men wear thick pantyhose—”
Vince snorts.
“But for this custom fit, I suggest thigh highs.”
Gina snorts.
“Thigh what?”
“Thigh highs. Long leggings much like dress socks for men of your stature. They need to go far above the knee to fit the look. The fine wool we’ll use for the pants will be dry-clean only. Wouldn’t want to wash it and have it shrink!” she adds, with a laugh that sounds like a happy teakettle. Not that I would know, because I’ve tuned her out. The only sound I really hear is the mocking laughter radiating off of Vince.