I flick through costumes, studiously ignoring him.
He says, “Fine. Whatever,” and disappears from my aisle. I hear him a few yards away, scraping hangers just as aggressively as I am.
After another twenty minutes of searching, I find a dress I think will suit Viola, and I head into the small curtained-off dressing area to try it on. When I pull the curtain back, Ethan’s there, shirtless, bent over the button-fly of what look like leather breeches.
He looks at me and grits his teeth as he pulls at his crotch. “I can’t get these fucking things done up. It’s like trying to thread a goddamn needle with a banana.”
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so devastated by seeing him half naked and practically touching himself.
“Ah, fuck it,” he says as he abandons his efforts so he can slip on the matching jacket. The style is part biker, part Elizabethan doublet. The effect is all sexy.
He steps out of the dressing room and gestures for me to go in. “Go for it. I can wrestle with this stupid fucking costume out here.”
I step inside and pull the curtain across. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t peek through to watch his chest flex as he struggled to button the jacket.
You’re totally and completely indifferent, goddammit!
“What monologue are you doing, anyway?” I say as I drag my attention away from him and pull off my T-shirt and bra.
He grunts in frustration. “Hamlet. I swear to God, these buttons don’t fit through these holes. Do I need an engineering degree to get into this goddamn costume?”
I take a moment to register that we’re having a relatively normal conversation. It’s strange but also kind of cool. Maybe we really will be able to become friends one day.
I pull the dress over my head and try to reach the zipper. “Hamlet’s a bit of an obvious choice for you, isn’t it? Moody. Troubled. Self-destructive.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not really in the headspace right now to play light and fluffy.”
“Are you ever?”
He pauses. “What’s your point?”
I twist my arms up behind me and tug, but the zipper isn’t cooperating. “Fracking crap.”
“Let me guess, you can’t get your costume zipped up.”
The curtain pulls back and he’s standing there—jacket open, bare chest, pants half buttoned. His eyes widen when he registers how low cut my dress is.
“Uh … you want me to…?” He gestures with his finger, obviously trying to drag his focus up to my face. He’s successful for about half a second before he drops back to my cleavage. “Uh … help with the … uh…”
“Zipper?”
“Yeah. That. I’ll help you if you help me.”
I turn around and feel him step behind me. He tugs the zipper up to the middle of my back, then warm fingertips brush across my neck as he sweeps my hair over my shoulder. I think I hear him swallow. The zipper protests as he pulls it all the way up, but he gets it done. The bodice is so tight, I can barely breathe. Taking shallow breaths, I turn and press my hands against my waist.
“Jeez, how did women wear these things every day? I feel like my internal organs are going to merge together in a giant blancmange of gross.”
There’s silence.
When I look up, Ethan is staring. The lust in his expression makes a shiver run through me.
“Uh-huh.”
He steps closer, and now it’s not the dress that’s making it hard to breathe. I stare at his neck because I really can’t look at his face. I study the pattern of his scruff and how it gives way to smooth skin. Even now, after all these months, I remember so clearly how that skin tastes. How he used to moan when I nibbled it.
“Cassie?”
“Hmmm?”
“The buttons? Your fingers might be more dexterous than mine.”
“Oh. Right.”
I take the edges of the jacket and pull them together. His chest is too broad, so it’s not easy, and he’s right, the buttons do seem too large for the holes. I struggle with the thick fabric but have success with the bottom few buttons before running into problems.
“Have you put on weight?”
“A bit. I’ve been working out.”
“Boxing?”
He pauses. “Yes. How did you know that?”
I shrug. “Lucky guess.”
I pull again but the button’s not cooperating.
“I can’t get it.”
“Leave it then,” he says, his voice tight. “It’s fine.”
Once more the button pops out. “Dammit!”
“Taylor…” He closes his hand over both of mine. “For God’s sake, just fucking … stop.”
I freeze. Time slows down.
He’s touching me.