Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
“Wow, thanks,” Jamie said, feigning offense. “So you’re into the kilt, then?”
“Absolutely not. I look ridiculous. Besides, I’m not even Scottish.”
“Noted. Are we keeping the beret?”
Edgar shot them a look, and they laughed.
“Okay, okay. Next step: I want you, using everything that we have learned here tonight, to put together an outfit of your own.”
“Yes, sir,” Edgar muttered and made his way into the bowels of Magpie Vintage.
What had he learned about his style? He didn’t like anything scratchy or stiff or that had tight collars. He disliked the color purple. And there was something a little bit—dare he say sexy?—about the idea of titillating someone with his body.
The number of choices was so overwhelming that Edgar finally picked a rack, closed his eyes, and ran his hand along the clothes until he felt a texture he liked and pulled it out. The T-shirt was worn soft and had the characters from Super Mario Bros, on it. Edgar smiled. When they were kids and their dad had brought home a vintage Game Boy, Allie had said they were like Mario and Luigi. Poe had demanded to be Wario instead.
He found black jeans and a pair of sneakers and brought the armful back to Jamie, who was on their phone. They slid it back into their pocket when they saw him.
“Good job,” they said, and Edgar’s stomach thrummed with warmth. “I’m gonna close my eyes this time, and you tell me when you’re dressed so I can get the full picture.”
“Uh, I don’t think it’s gonna be that good.” Edgar eyed the jeans and T-shirt. Not creative. Not that much different than what he usually wore. “I don’t think I did a very good job. Maybe I should try again.”
“You can try as many outfits as you want, but this is just to see. You’re not getting graded or anything.”
“No, I know.” But Edgar wanted Jamie to feel like he’d listened, like he’d tried.
“Please show me this one?” Jamie asked, blue eyes soft. There was no way Edgar could deny them. He didn’t want to.
“Okay, yeah. Sure.”
Jamie smiled and closed their eyes.
He pulled on the jeans first. They were a little snug in the crotch and short in the leg, but they zipped. The shoes were uncomfortable. When he pulled on the T-shirt, it was clearly too small. But instead of stripping it off and looking for a larger size, Edgar pulled it taut over his chest and stared at himself in the mirror, wondering what Jamie would see when they looked at him.
“You can open,” he murmured.
“Will you tell me about what you chose?” they asked, voice giving nothing away as they looked him up and down.
“I, um. The jeans are too short. This shirt was soft, so I picked it. But it’s too small.”
“Is it?” they asked, voice neutral again.
The shirt was tight. It skimmed the waistband of his jeans; his biceps strained at the fabric.
And Edgar couldn’t look away from himself. “Isn’t it?”
Jamie moved in front of him. They tugged the sleeves up so the hems were above the swell of muscle and bent to cuff his jeans.
“The shoes suck,” Edgar said.
Jamie stood beside him. They slid an arm around his waist and tucked their hand into Edgar’s back pocket. Then they pointed at the mirror.
“If you saw those two walking down the street, what would you think of them?”
“I would think…” Edgar stared into the mirror. “I would think they were gay.”
“Would you think that one’s shirt was too small?”
“No, I’d just think it was tight.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted to look good for his—” Edgar cut himself off, heart thumping in his ears. He felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden.
“Finish the sentence,” Jamie commanded softly. They looked at him steadily, eyes warm, expression telling him that however he finished the sentence was okay.
“Boyfriend?” Edgar said, so low his voice was barely more than breath.
“Yeah?” Jamie asked, turning Edgar to face them. Their eyes burned, and there was a flush high on their cheekbones. “Is that what you want?”
Edgar had lost track of whether they were referring to him or to this hypothetical couple he was seeing on the street, but the answer was the same in either case.
“Yes.”
Then Jamie was kissing him and kissing him. He was pressed back against the cash wrap, and a pile of folded clothes toppled to the floor.
Edgar was burning up. Jamie’s clever hands slid up his back and down his pants. He’d never felt anything like this before—the vulnerable squirming electric shiver of being the object of desire. Visions flooded him. Of wearing an outfit that would make Jamie look at him and think of sex. Think of undressing him. Think of revealing inch after inch of flesh to their ravenous mouth. An outfit that Jamie would want to tear off him after they shoved him against the wall and—