I pulled on the trousers. They fit perfectly. Suspiciously perfectly.

  Did she measure me with her mind? I wondered.

  I pulled on the turtleneck.

  I stepped out.

  Wanda was waiting. She was sitting on a velvet ottoman, legs crossed.

  She looked up.

  Her eyes widened. She stood up slowly.

  "Well?" I asked, doing a little spin. "Do I look like I’m about to discuss existentialism in a café?"

  She walked around me. She reached out and tugged the hem of the shirt down. She smoothed the fabric over my shoulders.

  "You look..." she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound in the plush silence of the boutique.

  "I look like a man who has far too many opinions about poetry," I joked.

  "No," she murmured, her gaze traveling from my shoulders down to my waist with a possessiveness that made the fabric feel like it was smoldering. "You look... right. Like you finally stepped out of the shadows."

  I looked at her. The air was heavy with her scent and the sound of my own thudding heart.

  "It’s a bit tight," I said, tugging at the collar to break the spell. "I feel like I’m being strangled by an incredibly soft sheep."

  "It fits," she corrected, her hand resting on my arm, grounding me. "Next."

  For the next hour, I was a mannequin.

  Outfit 2: A white button down shirt and navy chinos.

  I stepped out.

  "Too... boat owner," I critiqued.

  "No," Wanda said. She walked up to me. "The sleeves. Roll them up."

  "What?"

  "Roll them up. To the elbow."

  I started to fumble with the cuffs.

  "Here," she said, swatting my hands away. "Let me."

  She stood in front of me.

  She unbuttoned the cuffs. Her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my wrists. She folded the fabric up.

  I looked down at her. Her head was bent. I could see the part in her hair. I could smell her shampoo.

  My heart started doing that stupid drum solo again.

  This is incredibly intimate. Why is buttoning a cuff sexier than nudity? Explain this science.

  She finished rolling the sleeves. She smoothed the fabric over my forearms. She ran her hands up my arms to my biceps.

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  She looked up. Her eyes were dark.

  "Better," she whispered. "Much better."

  I swallowed. "Okay. Good. Rolling sleeves. Noted."

  Outfit 3: A forest green flannel shirt and dark jeans.

  This one felt more like me.

  Wanda looked at me. She nodded.

  "It matches the picnic," she said. "It matches the cornflowers."

  She walked over. The shirt was unbuttoned at the top.

  "One more button," she murmured, reaching for my chest.

  She buttoned it. Her knuckles grazed my collarbone.

  She didn't pull her hand away immediately. She flattened her palm against my chest, right over my heart.

  Thump thump.

  Thump thump.

  She smiled.

  "Fast," she noted.

  "You’re standing in my personal space, Wanda," I said breathlessly. "Biology reacts."

  "Good," she said.

  Outfit 4: A beige cable knit sweater.

  "I look like a librarian," I complained.

  "You look smart," she countered. "Put it in the 'Yes' pile."

  …

  We were down to the last outfit.

  A suit.

  A charcoal grey suit.

  "Wanda," I called from behind the curtain. "This is overkill. Where am I going? The Oscars? A funeral?"

  "Just put it on," she commanded.

  I put it on.

  I stepped out.

  I looked in the three way mirror.

  Damn, I thought. I look good.

  Wanda stood up. She walked over to me. She didn't say anything.

  She picked up a tie from the bench. An emerald green tie.

  "May I?" she asked.

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  She stepped into my space. She flipped the collar of the shirt up. She draped the tie around my neck.

  She began to knot it.

  Her movements were slow. She was looking at the knot, but I was looking at her.

  She bit her lip in concentration.

  She tightened the knot. She slid it up to my throat. She folded the collar down.

  She smoothed the lapels of the suit jacket.

  She looked up.

  We were inches apart. The air in the dressing room was stiflingly hot.

  "There," she whispered. "Perfect."

  Her hands rested on my chest. My hands, acting on instinct, found her waist.

  This is it, I thought. The dressing room scene. The part where the sexual tension snaps the reality of the room.

  "You look..." she searched for the word. "You look like the man I saw."

  "Saw where?" I asked.

  She froze. A flicker of panic crossed her eyes.

  "In my head," she recovered quickly. "The man I... imagined you could be."

  I looked at her.

  "I’m just Aryan," I said. "Just a guy in a suit."

  "No," she shook her head. She went up on her tiptoes. She leaned in closer. "You are more."

  Her breath ghosted against my lips.

  I leaned in.

  Just one inch. Just close the gap.

  "Sir?"

  A voice from outside the curtain shattered the moment.

  "How are we doing in there? Do you need a different size?"

  We jumped apart like teenagers caught making out in a closet.

  Wanda turned away, smoothing her hair, her face flushed.

  I cleared my throat, adjusting the tie that suddenly felt very tight.

  "We’re good!" I called out, my voice cracking. "We’re... great. We’ll take it. All of it."

  I looked at Wanda. She was looking at the floor, smiling. A satisfied smile.

  "All of it?" she teased.

  "All of it," I confirmed. "Are you happy, stylist?"

  She looked up at me. Her eyes were glowing.

  "Very happy," she said.

  We walked back to the car carrying ten bags. I was wearing a new flannel shirt and jeans. My old hoodie was stuffed in a bag of shame.

  "I feel like a new man," I said, putting the bags in the trunk. "A well dressed, slightly over-mannered new man."

  "You aren't over-mannered," Wanda dismissed, her eyes sweeping over the new flannel with a satisfied heat. "And you look... respectable."

  "Respectable," I scoffed, leaning against the car. "I used to be cool, Wanda. I had street cred. Now I look like I should be hosting a gala or debating the merits of fine wine."

  "You were hiding yourself in layers of faded cotton and anonymity," she reminded me. "You have too much substance to dress like a man who wants to be invisible."

  I turned back to her, trying to ignore the way my heart was currently attempting a jailbreak. "Invisible was working for me. It’s very low maintenance."

  "Not anymore," she whispered, her hand lingering on my arm as I closed the trunk. "I see you."

  …

  We got into the car.

  I looked at the rearview mirror. I adjusted the collar of the flannel shirt.

  "It is comfortable," I admitted.

  "I told you," Wanda said, buckling her seatbelt.

  I looked at the audience.

  Okay, fine, I admitted silently. She was right. I look amazing. And she touched me about forty times in the last hour. So, really, who’s the winner here?

  I started the engine.

  "Home?" I asked.

  "Home," she said.