Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

take fashion advice from someone wearing black sweatpants? Granted, they were the athletic jogger kind that clung to his muscled thighs and butt like they were made for him. He’d paired it with a green athletic shirt that brought out his blue eyes and hugged his upper body, showing off the lean definition of his arms. Okay, he was mouth-watering. Seeing him in a tux was going to be fantastic. Seeing him out of the tux was sounding more intriguing all the time.

I shook myself, realizing I’d yet to respond to his last reassurance. “Great. Let’s go then. We’ve got to satisfy those fantasies.”

He smiled into my eyes. “Let me know if you have any that I can make come true in return. But whipping’s off the table. Unless you really, really want it back on the table. Speaking of tables, those are totally on the table. For sex,” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

He was joking. At least, I was pretty sure he was joking. But the smolder in his eyes implied more, and I couldn’t help the spike in my temperature. He was throwing innuendo like comedians threw shade. He brought up sex, and all I could do was imagine myself sprawled across the table while he worshipped my body. I fanned myself absently as he turned around for the door. Even the view from behind was sexy. I could picture the fine hairs at the back of his neck lifting in reaction as my tongue stroked the strong column to place a kiss along his collarbone. The sweats that lovingly cupped his butt as he moved toward my front door called for me to reach out for a handful of his firm glutes.

When I didn’t move or respond, he turned back to me, his expression crestfallen. “I’m sorry. I made it weird again, didn’t I? This is what happens when I get too familiar with someone. My verbal filter implodes. I’ll try to rein it back in. No more talk of table sex.”

I couldn’t speak beyond my tight throat. I was okay with his teasing. I welcomed it, but it made me want things that weren’t on offer. Yet. Thoughts of turning his suggestions into reality had me tongue-tied.

“Um. It’s not. Weird, that is. Tables or whipping. Not that I want to do those things right now, I’m just saying that I’m more open-minded than you might think. Sorry. I’m a little distracted.” Apparently it was my turn to make it weird.

I searched for an excuse and shared the first one I could come up with. “I was just reading. Half of my brain is still stuck in that world.”

Chase gave me a small smile as I locked up my apartment and we moved toward his car. “I probably have more empathy for that situation than the average person. Speaking of which, I’m truly sorry I wasn’t on time today. I’ll try to do better.”

I nodded at the apology. Played it cool. He didn’t need to know I’d been annoyed. My insecurities were more drama than he had signed on for—coming with me to the wedding was sure to be bad enough. I didn’t need to dump my other issues on him.

Not sure what I anticipated a semi-famous author would drive, but Chase’s slightly messy red and white Mini Cooper wasn’t it. It was a cute car, but I struggled to contain my smile watching Chase fold his tall body into the driver’s seat.

“Nice car,” I said.

His grin was sheepish. “Not what you expected, huh? What can I say? It’s as close as I’m going to get to James Bond’s Aston Martin in this lifetime.”

He drove with quiet competence to the nearby mall, his hands sure on the steering wheel as he merged smoothly with traffic. His tall body dwarfed mine as he placed a hand at my elbow and escorted me inside the department store to begin the great dress search. The sea of racks with women circling like sharks didn’t appear to intimidate him. Chase’s attention focused on me.

“Okay, to get started, how would you describe your style?” he asked.

My eyes rolled to the side, checking to see if he was serious. “Um, practical?”

“Okay ... and what look are you going for at the wedding?”

Again, I checked to see if he was expecting a serious response. I hadn’t anticipated such thoughtful questions, but it was clear he wanted to help me feel my best. “Um, nice?”

He shook his head at me. “Nice isn’t a style. At best, it’s a lukewarm adjective.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay then, appropriate?”

He shook his head again and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clearly I have my work cut out for me. Appropriate? What are you, eighty? No offense, but the last word that comes to mind to describe you is ‘appropriate.’ Sexy, sure. Maybe a little irreverent, but that’s what I like about you. Let’s try this a different way. How do you want to feel at the wedding?”

The warm glow of hearing him call me sexy had me tilting my head, considering. Learning to dance had shown me I had more potential for commanding a room than I usually took credit for. It was time to show the world a small slice of that poise. “Confident?” I said way too tentatively.

He nodded. “That’s a good start. We’ll go with that. What type of clothing makes you feel strongest? Bright and floral, or sleek and dark?”

Again, I was lost. “No freaking clue. You realize I wear scrubs ninety percent of the time, right? So, if you’re asking for confidence, scrubs would be it.”

“Why don’t we go look at a few things together, then we can find a fitting room?”

We perused the racks after an uncomfortable conversation about my size range. It felt intimate sharing such a personal detail. He grabbed a few things I thought could be nice. There’s that word again, nice. I could do better. I grabbed a few dresses that were wildly outside