Page 53 of Gunnar

The tailor—a thin man with silver hair and an accent I can’t quite place—circles me with a measuring tape draped around his neck. He clucks his tongue, adjusting the jacket I’m wearing, pinning fabric here and there with quick, efficient movements. “The shoulders are excellent,” he muses, more to himself than to us. “Very broad. We’ll need to let out the chest slightly. You have… bulk.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Devyn giggles, staring at my chest with an expression that has nothing to do with fashion.

“And now the trousers,” the tailor says, gesturing for me to step off the pedestal.

I comply, stripping out of the jacket and handing it over before reaching for the pants the tailor offers. They’re black, sleek, and have a satin stripe down the outside. I step into them, and they’re immediately uncomfortable. They are too fitted in the thighs and remarkably restrictive around the crotch. I adjust myself subtly, scowling at my reflection.

“They’re supposed to fit like that,” Devyn snickers, reading my expression. “Slim-cut and modern.”

“They’re supposed to let me breathe,” I counter. “The trousers are squeezing me so aggressively I’m starting to wonder whether this counts as a second vasectomy.”

“Vanity requires sacrifice,” Jake deadpans as the tailor pins the waistband.

The tailor holds up a strip of black silk, already pre-tied in a ridiculous bow that seems designed specifically to make grown men look like children playing dress-up, and I have officially reached my limit. “No,” I state flatly.

“It’s traditional,” Jake protests.

“It’s ridiculous,” I shoot back with cocked brows. “I look like a waiter. Or a penguin.”

“Gunnar.” Jake sighs. “It’s a black-tie event. You have to wear a bow tie.”

“I’ll wear a regular tie. A black one. Simple and functional.”

“A regular tie with a tuxedo is like wearing sneakers with a ball gown,” Devyn argues gently, standing and walking toward me. She takes the bow tie from the tailor, her fingers nimble as she loops it around my neck. “It just isn’t done.”

“It looks stupid.”

“It looks distinguished.”

Her compliments aside, I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. “I look like I’m about to ask someone if they’d like an hors d’oeuvre.”

Devyn finishes the knot, stepping back to survey her handiwork, and her expression softens. “You look handsome, like you belong next to me on the red carpet.”

I stare down at the sincerity in her eyes, and the fight drains out of me. If she wants me in a ridiculous bow tie, I’ll wear the fucking bow tie.

Fuck, I’d wear a clown suit if it means she keeps looking at me like that.

“Fine,” I grumble, adjusting the stupid noose around my neck. “But I’m taking it off the second we’re out of the public eye.”

“Deal,” she says, rising onto her toes to press a kiss to my jaw before whispering, “And you make an adorable penguin.”

The tailor clears his throat, and we both remember where we are, surrounded by mirrors and fabric samples, with Hawk and Jake observing us. “I can have this ready by morning, Ms. Martin,” the tailor says, gathering his pins and notes. “Do you need it delivered?”

“Yes, please,” Devyn answers, turning her smile on him with the warmth she reserves for people who make her life easier. “To the Malibu address. Thank you, Henri. Jake was right, you’re a godsend.”

Henri bows slightly, hanging the jacket with care. “My pleasure, Ms. Martin. I’ll include the studs and cufflinks. We agreed on mother-of-pearl, yes? Classic. Timeless.”

“Perfect,” Devyn agrees.

We leave the boutique about twenty minutes later, after I’ve changed back into my tactical pants, a black Henley, and boots that have seen actual use. The afternoon sun hits us when we step onto the sidewalk, and Devyn’s hand slips into mine, her fingers threading through my calloused ones with easy intimacy. After thanking and saying goodbye to Jake, we make our way toward the parking garage.

Hawk falls into step behind us, maintaining a respectful distance that gives us the illusion of privacy while still maintaining his protective perimeter. The street is quiet for Los Angeles, devoid of paparazzi and tourists. “This is nice,” Devyn shares, squeezing my hand. “Well, minus the chaperone.”

I glance back at Hawk, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. “He’s not so bad.” I smirk. “For a shadow.”

“For a shadow,” she agrees, leaning her head against my shoulder as we walk.

When we pass a coffee shop, the scent of espresso and baked goods wafting onto the sidewalk, Devyn’s steps falter. Her hand tightens in mine, and I follow her gaze to a man emerging from the shop’s entrance. He’s tall, dark-haired, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my truck, and carrying himself with the easy entitlement of someone who’s never been told no.