“Since when are you so concerned about my wardrobe?” I asked, trailing behind him as he made a beeline for a display of jeans. “Last I checked, you were more interested in critiquing my dishwashing technique than my fashion choices.”
“Since you started looking like you’re auditioning for the role of ‘orphaned street urchin’ in a community theater production,” he shot back, holding up a pair of jeans that actually looked like they might fit me. His eyes swept over my body with clinical assessment, lingering a beat too long on my legs. I could feel that electric warmth pulse between us, different from what I felt with Jaxson—sharper, more aggressive. “These should work.”
“I don’t look like an orphan,” I muttered, though even I had to admit my current outfit was hardly winning any fashion awards. “I look… comfortable.”
“You look like you’re drowning in fabric,” Xander chimed in, appearing at my side with an armful of t-shirts in various colors. He held one up against my chest, his body way too close behind me, his breath warm against my neck. “Which is a crime, considering what’s underneath.”
I felt my face heat at his comment, unsure if he was complimenting me or just stating a fact or—oh God, was he flirting? No, that was ridiculous. This was Xander, my stepbrother who once held my head over the toilet when I had food poisoning. He wasn’t flirting. He was just being… Xander.
Before I could come up with a suitably snarky response, Jaxson joined our little group, adding a few button-downs to the growing pile. His eyes met mine over the clothing, and something in his gaze made my mouth go dry.
“These would look good for classes,” he said, his voice deeper than usual. “Better than those oversized hoodies you always hide in.”
“My hoodies are comfortable,” I defended, though it was a weak argument at best. “And they keep me warm and they hide my… you know.” I gestured vaguely at my body, which had always been on the slender side, lacking the impressive muscle definition my brothers all seemed to have acquired from the Sinclair gene pool.
“Hide what, exactly?” Colt asked, his eyebrow arching with dangerous precision. His gaze intensified, dark eyes tracking over me with an almost predatory focus that made my skin prickle with awareness.
“Nothing,” I mumbled, suddenly finding the floor tiles absolutely fascinating. “Can we just get this over with?”
“Not until you try everything on,” Xander insisted, adding another shirt to the pile. “We need to make sure it all fits properly.”
“I thought we were here for pajamas,” I reminded them, eyeing the growing mountain of fabric with the suspicion usually reserved for suspicious packages at airports. “Not an entire wardrobe transplant.”
“We’re being efficient,” Jaxson explained, his smile making my heart do that stupid flutter thing it always did around him—like a drunk butterfly trying to navigate a hurricane. “Besides, you need more than just pajamas.”
“I need to be able to pay rent more than I need new jeans,” I pointed out.
“Consider it an early birthday present,” Jaxson said, his tone making it clear this wasn’t up for debate. His hand brushed mine as he added another item to the pile, the brief contact sending an electric current up my arm.
“My birthday is months away!”
“Very early,” he amended, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Consider us exceptionally prepared this year.”
I was about to argue further when Jaxson’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting to one of professional concern.
“I need to take this,” he said, already stepping away. “It’s the office.” He fixed Xander and Colt with a look that could have frozen lava. “Behave. I’ll be right back.”
As Jaxson walked toward the store entrance for better reception, I felt oddly abandoned, which was ridiculous. He was just taking a phone call, not emigrating to New Zealand. Still, without his mediating presence, the air between Colt and Xander seemed to crackle with a tension I didn’t fully understand.
“Let’s see how these look,” Xander suggested, his hand settling on my lower back as he guided me toward the changing rooms. His palm was warm through the thin fabric, fingers splayed wider than strictly necessary, thumb brushing against the spot where my spine dipped.
Before we could get there, however, a high-pitched squeal cut through the store’s generic pop music with the ear-piercing quality of a smoke alarm.
“Xander! Oh my God, it is you!”
A group of college-aged girls descended upon us like a flock of designer-clad vultures, all glossy hair and excessive enthusiasm. The leader, a tall blonde in a crop top that defied the laws of physics (seriously, how was that thing staying up?), immediately latched on to Xander’s arm like she was afraid he might escape.
“We haven’t seen you at Vertex in ages!” she pouted, her grip on Xander’s bicep tightening possessively. “Are you working tonight? Please say yes!”
Xander’s easy smile never faltered, though I caught the flash of resignation in his eyes. “Ladies, what a surprise. I’m actually off tonight, but I’ll be back behind the bar tomorrow.”
“You have to tell us about the party,” another girl chimed in, this one with auburn hair and a phone already poised for selfies. “Is it still happening? Amber said the theme might be changed and we already bought our costumes!”
“It’s still Midnight Masquerade,” Xander assured them, somehow managing to look both engaged and desperately seeking escape. His eyes flickered to me apologetically. “Listen, I’m actually in the middle of?—”
“You have to come see the new place,” Blond Crop Top insisted, already tugging him toward the store exit. “It’s just down the hall. Five minutes, I promise!”
Xander hesitated, clearly torn between politeness and abandoning me. “Lan, I?—”