Page 25 of Never Bargain with the Boss

Cameron leans my way. “She’s going to make the ugliest outfit imaginable. You know that, right?”

“Maybe.” I shrug, pleased that he’s paying attention. “Maybe not. You’re not off the hook either. Tell me when to stop.” I at least have the decency to choose a rack of men’s clothing for his journey into thrift store outfit creation. But he doesn’t say a word as I flip through the hangers. Instead, he defiantly shakes his head like he’s not participating in this adventure. But he is, like it or not. I pick one at random for him and hold it up like I’m sizing it—and him—up. “Good luck.”

I lay it over his chest and pat his pectoral muscle, registering that it’s rock hard at the same time I realize it’s completelyinappropriate to touch him this way—especially after this morning’s peep show—and quickly let go of the hanger. Luckily, the shirt stays, stuck on his broad shoulders, and I pin him with a look, daring him to refuse.

He slowly drops his gaze to the linen shirt, which is a short-sleeved, button-up with vertical cream-colored stitching on a black background. It’s vaguely vacation-like, but not quite Hawaiian. Honestly, it’s a much easier assignment than Grace’s, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate the gift I’ve given him. When he scoffs at the not-that-bad shirt, I sing-song, “I could choose again. I’m sure it definitely wouldn’t be anything uglier.” I delicately tap one finger on a hanger that’s holding a particularly busy, neon print shirt and offer a sly smirk that promises a much worse fate.

“Fine,” he mutters, catching the shirt before it falls, which is a good thing because thrift store floors aren’t the cleanest of places and Cameron’s already being snotty about being in here. I don’t imagine he’d touch anything contaminated by the floor.

The silly exercise is the icebreaker we all need because in minutes, Grace and Cameron both come back with completed outfits in their hands. Grace has found a pair of blue and green plaid shorts that do in fact match the T-shirt, and a hat with a huge blue flower on it. Cameron went the easy route and brought back taupe linen slacks, but the fact that he participated at all is a win in my book.

Grace is holding her outfit up with a victorious sparkle in her eyes. Cameron looks slightly less constipated, but only very slightly.

“Great job!” I tell them, clapping and acting like they succeeded at an impossible mission. “Can we have a little fun now?”

“Yeah!” Grace says, her smile back. “The shirt is awful, but I actually like these shorts. Can I put them in the cart?”

“Absolutely.”

As Grace starts to flip through the racks again, considering each piece, I give Cameron a teasing grin and ask, “What about you? Feeling like the shirt or slacks are representative ofCameron Harrington?”

He arches one brow, giving me a dead-eyed glare. “No.” But a heartbeat later, he leans my way and, quiet enough that Grace won’t hear, says, “Instead of the linen ones, I should’ve grabbed the old man golf pants just to fuck with you. They were ivory, black, and red plaid.” He shudders like they’re the worst possible thing to ever exist, which piques my interest to find these amazing pants.

For science.

And maybe to fuck with Cameron a bit. Because I think I just got a tiny peek into his sense of humor. I wasn’t sure he had one. But maybe it’s in there, deep down below all the seriousness.Waydeep down, under the rules and restrictions he lives by.

Testing that theory, I suggest, “You still could. I would even get them rush dry-cleaned tomorrow so you could wear them to the office on Monday.”

“People would think I’ve lost my mind.” He glances around us at the thrift store and adds, “They’d probably be right.”

But there’s not the same venom in the judgment now. It almost seems like he’s poking fun at his own assumptions about this place.

“It’s pretty great, right?” I whisper.

He scrunches up his face like he got a fresh whiff of mothball. “I don’t know if I’d go so far asgreat. Maybe unexpectedly not-entirely-horrific?”

I give him a single, firm nod and a winning smile. “I’ll take it.”

By the time we make it through a few more racks, I’ve found two shirts for myself—one a vintage T-shirt with a cutecat screen printed on it, and the other an oversized green- and white-striped button-up—and three for resale.

I feel like I need to explain my selection process to Cameron so that he understands that I’m good at what I do, not only with Grace, but with my side hustle. “See? This one is a Wrangler brush popper. You can tell because of the thick material.” I rub the fabric between my fingers, and though he looks at me like I’m weird as hell, he touches the shirt too and nods like he understands. “These are high demand, especially in bright colors and patterns like this. It needs a patch, but I can get creative with that and make it even more desirable. And that sweatshirt with the collar and the embroidered flowers? Granny chic, and it’ll go with a skirt I already have listed, so hopefully, they’ll sell together. This one falls under Grandpa style.” I hold up my latest find, a brown argyle sweater vest.

“That looks like oatmeal on whole wheat toast,” Cameron says, but his lips quirk ever so slightly like he might be trying to smile. Or have a stroke. One or the other, for sure.

“Ooh, good marketing phrase,” I tease. “I might have to use that on the listing. What do you got for this one?” I hold up the Wrangler shirt, examining the turquoise-green buttons to make sure none are missing. That’ll be the motif I go with for the patch too, adding extra flair.

“Terrifying?” Cameron suggests dryly, but there’s another tiny hint of laughter in his tone.

“It is a littlewhoa,” Grace agrees, holding a hand out like she might stop the shirt from getting any closer.

“You’ll see. It’ll be my fastest seller, guaranteed.”

A few minutes later, Grace finds a denim skirt. She virtually has hearts popping out of her eyes as she holds it up for me to see. “Look! There’s a little buckle on the back.” She flips it around, pointing to the attached belt to cinch in the waist.

“That’s adorable.” It is, but I can already see an issue with the skirt. It’s short, in micro-mini, club-going, poster-girl-dress kind of way.

“Absolutely not,” Cameron scoffs, sounding like he expects his word to be the final say-so on the issue.

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