Flying High

He supposed it was time to let Erin off the hook on the clothing front. But he couldn’t wait to present her with his medieval table manners, and he had plans to work his way through his entire repertoire of tasteless jokes.

He stepped out of the changing room and spread his arms wide, executing a turn.

She stepped forward and a wide grin broke out on her lips. “That’s it!”

Striker ignored her grin, and the resultant warm glow working its way up his legs, leaving a tingling yearning in the pit of his stomach. He was cursed with a Pavlovian response to beautiful women. But there was no time like the present to beat it.

“You sure?” he asked her, pretending to hesitate over the suit. “I think it would look better in brown.”

The salesman brushed the shoulder and straightened the back of the jacket. “Very good, sir.”

Striker wiggled his shoulders, holding out for just a few seconds longer. “It feels a little—”

“Not at all,” said the salesman.

“We’ll take it,” said Erin.

Striker turned and grinned at her. “How do you get four suits for a dollar?”

Both Erin and the salesman looked at him blankly.

“Buy a deck of cards.”

Erin blinked in astonishment.

“Very good, sir,” said the salesman.

Striker chortled obnoxiously at his own humor. “I’m going to need some blue jeans, too.”

“I’m afraid we don’t carry blue jeans,” said the salesman.

“We’ll definitely take the suit,” said Erin. “And an extra shirt, the shoes and the paisley tie.”

“Where can we get blue jeans?” asked Striker.

“I believe the Garment Barn on Second Avenue carries western wear.”

“What about some pleated chinos?” asked Erin.

“Perfect for daywear,” said the salesman.

“Do you have a pair in green?” asked Erin.

As the salesman crossed the store, Striker turned to Erin. “I’d rather have sweats than chinos.”

“Trust me. I’m the image expert.”

“What’s wrong with sweats? They’ll make me look like a jock.”

“They’ll make you look like a couch potato.”

Striker leaned in a little closer. “I have abs of steel.” He pulled the dress shirt out of his slacks, revealing his bare stomach. “Want to feel?”

Erin’s eyes widened in shock. “Will you stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop acting like…like…”

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, leaving the tails of his shirt hanging out, trying valiantly not to laugh at her mortified expression.

“Not if it involves me feeling your abs, you won’t.”

“You want to feel my abs?”

“No!”

“I’ll let you think about that one. Offer’s open.” He pulled the tails of his shirt apart, giving her a come-hither look.

“No.”

He shrugged. “Your loss. Okay, let’s talk deal over clothes.”

“You are not getting sweats.”

“Deal is, I’ll wear whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“Finally,” she said. “You’re coming to your senses.”

“In return.” Striker paused for full effect, waggling his eyebrows and trying to look as lecherous as possible. “I get to pick an outfit for you.”

There was a split second silence while his words penetrated. “No.”

Short, sharp, definite.

Striker shrugged. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

She lowered her voice, glancing at the salesman across the store. “You can’t make deals. You’re on my payroll.”

“Not if I quit.”

She stared at him, looking genuinely worried. “You wouldn’t.”

This was way too much fun. “One outfit. My choice. You wear it.”

She bit her lower lip, and he knew he had her.

“Don’t worry.” He patted her shoulder. “I won’t make you wear it in public.” Then he moved his mouth closer to her ear. “You can wear it just for me.”