Page 82 of Without a Hitch
“My birthday suit.”
My hands land on my hips as I regard him. “Did you bring sweatpants?”
He scoffs. “I don’t own any.”
“Jeans?”
Lochlan shakes his head and undoes another button.
“Do you own jeans?”
“I’m sure I have a pair or two at home.”
“Shorts?”
“In my gym bag.”
“Lover, are you telling me the only time you’re not pressed to perfection is when you’re at the gym or sleeping?”
He tugs at his earlobe, and I have to actively work at keeping my smile neutral. “My standard wardrobe is this. I prefer suits with vests, but I’ll lose the vest for less formal occasions.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. Lose the vest. We’re taking a field trip.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I call for an Uber.
“What do you mean? I thought you wanted to talk. And the hammock?”
“We will talk about everything, and I will be spending plenty of time on that hammock. Trust me. But first, we’re buying you some loungewear.”
His body goes rigid. “I’m not wearing those.”
My handsome little snob. “Why? I wear them all the time. They’re heaven in cotton form.”
“Because I’ve seen men wear them everywhere from the grocery store to the gym, and they look like slobs.”
“I’m not saying you have to wear them out, but at home, here, I want you to be comfortable.”
He’s shaking his head but following me to the door. “I’m not doing it, Tilly. I draw the line at sweatpants.”
I grin sweetly. “Okay, lover. Whatever you say.”
CHAPTER25
LOCHLAN
“Ithink my brain is bleeding.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Tilly calls over her shoulder. She’s pushing a giant red carriage through a store that accents everything in red bullseyes.
“I cannot believe you’ve never been to Target before. This is like my happy place.”
“Why?” It sounds like a snarl, and I suppose it is. Glancing left to right, I feel like everyone is staring at us, but Tilly marches on, oblivious. “How can one store sell produce and windshield wipers?”
“That’s why it’s so amazing! It has everything!” The glee in her voice thaws some of my unease. “Here we go. Oh, feel how soft these are.” She hands me a pair of navy cotton trousers. “Sweatpants,” she says expectantly.
I keep my hands in my pockets, and she rolls her eyes. “Those are baby trackies.”
She pauses with a gray pair almost to the carriage. “Baby trackies?”
“Baby jumpers? Trackies? They look like something only an infant should wear.”
