I made a beeline for the clothes, he to the women’s section and me to the men’s, and we started noisily flipping through the racks.
I was pretty giddy as I flung the hangers down, looking for the perfect outfit for him. In the past we were all about humiliating each other, which was only fair and fun since we’d both look like idiots. Now I wasn’t sure what the plan was. But making him look like a goof during dinner seemed like a great idea to me.
I came across an extremely loud pink and purple Hawaiian shirt that wouldn’t even look hip on him. It was tacky faux silk and two sizes too large. I’d make him wear it halfway unbuttoned, then I could stare at his chest (honestly, when had I become such a horndog?). After that winning find, I went to the pants section. Something tight would do the trick, even though he hadn’t shown any aversion to tight pants, both then and now.
Then I spotted it. A kilt. Green and black tartan. Oh yes, this would look wonderful on my Scottish Hawaiian dude. I rounded out the outfit with a black fedora. Now he was also a private eye.
“Okay,” I called to him over the racks. “I have your stuff.”
“Already?” he asked, still searching through his end. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be very worried. Unless you’ve always wanted to be a Scottish detective from Hawaii.”
“Like Magnum P.I.?”
“Not even close.”
I walked down the aisle and over to him. He was holding a glow-mesh halter top in one hand. Figures. I peered at his other hand. It was a leather miniskirt.
I breathed out sharply through my nose and shot him an apologetic smile. “Yeah, I’m not wearing the skirt so you can just put it back.”
He shook his head and kept going through some cardigans. “Rules are rules, Ellie. You have to wear whatever I choose for you.”
I crossed my arms, the pile of clothes bunching up. “I am not wearing a skirt.”
He kept on as if he didn’t hear me and the click click click of hangers being slid past were driving me insane. I bundled my clothes under one arm and put my hand on his to take the skirt away. He wouldn’t budge.
“Seriously, you know I’m not wearing that.”
He sighed and turned to face me, his dark brows coming together to create a deep groove between his eyes. “Why not?” He sounded like his patience was being tested, which in turn made my patience feel tested.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know why. I have scars, Camden. Still have them.”
“So?”
I fought the urge to raise my voice. “So? So I don’t feel like wearing something that’s going to humiliate me.”
“We used to humiliate each other all the time. You’re trying to make me look like a cross-dressing Tom Selleck.”
“That’s different. And we had our own rules back then. You knew how I was, so you’d only dress me in pants or long skirts.”
His lower lip moved back and forth as he studied me. “I thought you’d have gotten over it by now.”
My eyes nearly bulged out of my head. “That’s not exactly something you can get over, Camden.” The absolute nerve of him. “I’m not like you . I can’t just get over every shitty thing that gets thrown my way.”
He focused on me intently. “I don’t get over everything.” His voice had dropped a register or two and flowed out of him like a snake.
I broke away from his gaze and took my hand off the hanger. “Well, so then you know. Look maybe this whole thing was a bad idea. I mean, we’re twenty-six years old and playing dress up…”
I took in a deep breath and turned to face the changing rooms. My face looked back at me from the mirror. I didn’t like that view either.
Suddenly I felt him behind me and his arm going around my waist. He turned me around and pulled me to him, then embraced me in a hug. All our clothes and hangers dropped to the floor, and over his shoulder I saw the cashier getting off her stool to look over at the clatter.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m
I was pretty giddy as I flung the hangers down, looking for the perfect outfit for him. In the past we were all about humiliating each other, which was only fair and fun since we’d both look like idiots. Now I wasn’t sure what the plan was. But making him look like a goof during dinner seemed like a great idea to me.
I came across an extremely loud pink and purple Hawaiian shirt that wouldn’t even look hip on him. It was tacky faux silk and two sizes too large. I’d make him wear it halfway unbuttoned, then I could stare at his chest (honestly, when had I become such a horndog?). After that winning find, I went to the pants section. Something tight would do the trick, even though he hadn’t shown any aversion to tight pants, both then and now.
Then I spotted it. A kilt. Green and black tartan. Oh yes, this would look wonderful on my Scottish Hawaiian dude. I rounded out the outfit with a black fedora. Now he was also a private eye.
“Okay,” I called to him over the racks. “I have your stuff.”
“Already?” he asked, still searching through his end. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be very worried. Unless you’ve always wanted to be a Scottish detective from Hawaii.”
“Like Magnum P.I.?”
“Not even close.”
I walked down the aisle and over to him. He was holding a glow-mesh halter top in one hand. Figures. I peered at his other hand. It was a leather miniskirt.
I breathed out sharply through my nose and shot him an apologetic smile. “Yeah, I’m not wearing the skirt so you can just put it back.”
He shook his head and kept going through some cardigans. “Rules are rules, Ellie. You have to wear whatever I choose for you.”
I crossed my arms, the pile of clothes bunching up. “I am not wearing a skirt.”
He kept on as if he didn’t hear me and the click click click of hangers being slid past were driving me insane. I bundled my clothes under one arm and put my hand on his to take the skirt away. He wouldn’t budge.
“Seriously, you know I’m not wearing that.”
He sighed and turned to face me, his dark brows coming together to create a deep groove between his eyes. “Why not?” He sounded like his patience was being tested, which in turn made my patience feel tested.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know why. I have scars, Camden. Still have them.”
“So?”
I fought the urge to raise my voice. “So? So I don’t feel like wearing something that’s going to humiliate me.”
“We used to humiliate each other all the time. You’re trying to make me look like a cross-dressing Tom Selleck.”
“That’s different. And we had our own rules back then. You knew how I was, so you’d only dress me in pants or long skirts.”
His lower lip moved back and forth as he studied me. “I thought you’d have gotten over it by now.”
My eyes nearly bulged out of my head. “That’s not exactly something you can get over, Camden.” The absolute nerve of him. “I’m not like you . I can’t just get over every shitty thing that gets thrown my way.”
He focused on me intently. “I don’t get over everything.” His voice had dropped a register or two and flowed out of him like a snake.
I broke away from his gaze and took my hand off the hanger. “Well, so then you know. Look maybe this whole thing was a bad idea. I mean, we’re twenty-six years old and playing dress up…”
I took in a deep breath and turned to face the changing rooms. My face looked back at me from the mirror. I didn’t like that view either.
Suddenly I felt him behind me and his arm going around my waist. He turned me around and pulled me to him, then embraced me in a hug. All our clothes and hangers dropped to the floor, and over his shoulder I saw the cashier getting off her stool to look over at the clatter.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m
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