Page 23 of The Boyfriend Boycott
Spencer nods, her eyes narrowing as she thinks.
“I don’t like that look. I have a feeling it’s going to involve another makeover or some shit,” I say, flicking my eyes over to her momentarily before fixing them back on the road ahead of me as I pull away from the curb.
“Not quite,” Spencer says. “But we need to respond. PR is all about being one step ahead, Grady. When people see that sign and think about having somewhere more upscale to go to, we’re going to lose the advantage.”
“How do we get the advantage back?”
“We need to remind Heartwood what their values are. Remind them what’s at stake. I think I know how to do it.”A secretive smile plays on her lips. It gives me the distinctimpression that she’s already formulated a plan and that I don’t really have a say anymore. The cogs in her brain are turning, and she hardly speaks for the rest of the drive.
CHAPTER 10
SPENCER
“This place looks kind of douchey,”Grady points out as I lead him into a trendy men’s clothing store. The mannequins in the window are silver chrome and wearing slim-fit trousers and button-downs. Not exactly what I would consider douchey, but they’ve styled them with the first three buttons undone, so I guess I can see where he’s coming from. “Slacks and a button-down aren’t really my style.”
“Are you from the 1970s? No one calls them slacks anymore,” I say, flicking through shirts on the rack by the front of the store. The music in here is loud and the lighting is almost too dark, but I can see Grady bouncing on the balls of his feet in my periphery. “Keep an open mind, okay? And stop doing that, you’re making me feel rushed.”
Grady immediately stops bouncing, but he’s started fidgeting with his hands. He catches himself before I can say anything and shoves them into his pockets.
“Let’s just get this over with sooner rather than later.”
“This is not a process you can rush,” I say, whirling around to face him. “This is phase one of the plan. We want you to look like you give a shit, Grady. That includes giving a shit about yourself. People will take you seriously when you take yourself seriously.No more of this”—I point a finger and wave it up and down at the outfit he’s currently wearing; faded jeans, a black T-shirt that is so threadbare I can just about see right through it, and that god-awful baseball hat—“scruffy bar owner look. And no more backwards ball cap.”
“First the motorcycle, now my ball cap?” Grady protests. “You are a cruel, cruel woman.”
“Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind,” I retort, turning my attention back to the rack of clothing.
“Be careful, Rebel, it’s kind of turning me on.” The nickname he just used causes an interesting warmth to melt down my spine, but I ignore it and flash him a glare over my shoulder. I rummage around in the rack a little longer, choosing not to respond to his comment.
“Here. Hold onto these,” I say, pulling out a few shirts I like and shoving them towards him.
“These are not my style. Can’t we go somewhere else?”
“Stop being a baby about this. You’re just trying them on,” I scold. “And I’m not saying you need to wear a button-down and trousers every day, but you need something nice to wear to the party.”
“The party? What party?” Grady follows me like a puppy as I make my way to the back of the store and start sorting through the folded pants on a table.
“Phase two. The party,” I say, realizing that I’m only just filling Grady in on this part of the plan now. I spent the entire drive planning it out in my mind. A cocktail contest at the bar. Kind of like the Christmas trees in the mall, where businesses can decorate their own and have them on display. The winner of the cocktail contest would be featured on the Whisky Jack menu for a whole year, and proceeds will be funnelled back to the community. It’s genius, really. It gets people involved and showsthem how tight knit the community is. But mostly, it proves that Grady is forward-thinking, that he prioritizes the town.
“How many phases are there?” Grady’s tone is aghast.
“You told me you’d trust me, right?” I hand him a stack of pants that complement the shirts, and his arms adjust to the weight of the clothing, his thick forearms tensing. “Also, I haven’t decided how many phases there will be yet. Phase two only came to me about two hours ago on the drive here.”
“Do you care to fill me in?”A muscle in his jaw twitches beneath his groomed beard.
“Later. Right now, you need to go and try those on.” I turn Grady around with a hand on his shoulder and direct him toward the changing rooms. “Come out and show me everything.”
“Okay, Mom,” Grady grumbles.But as much as Grady complains about it, he does as he’s told, and then steps out from behind the thick black velvet curtain in the first outfit. He’s wearing a pair of navy blue trousers, a button-down shirt with a faint blue pattern, and a brown belt that accentuates his trim waist.
“Give me a turn,” I instruct, and he does so with hands on his hips in what I can only assume is the only pose Grady knows. He doesn’t give off model energy, and I hope to God the man is never in a situation where he has to walk a runway for his life. Though the shirt fits like it was made for him, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders. I quickly pick my jaw up off the floor before he turns around, schooling my face into casual indifference. “It looks great. Why do you look like you’re wearing a shirt made of poison ivy?”
“It’s kind of … stuffy.” He shifts around as if he’s allergic to looking good. I uncross my legs and stand up from the bench where I was seated. I approach him to assess the outfit.
“It’s the way you’ve styled it. Or rather, haven’t styled it,” I say. “You’ve got the top button done up. Here, let me help.” I get close enough to him to adjust the buttons on his shirt, and as I do, I feel my movements slow down, like somehow Grady’s gravitational pull fucks with time. He’s looking down at me, and his breath is a soft puff of warmth on my fingers.
“You don’t have to undo too many. Otherwise, you’ll look like the mannequins in the window, and yeah, I admit they’re a little douchey.” I undo the first button and clear my throat, backing away from him. “There, take a look now,” I say.
Grady turns to the mirror. He’s standing a little taller now and the way his body language has transformed in front of me sends a zing of electricity down my spine. This is the side of him that he showed me in bed the other night. The confident, take charge, and take no shit version of Grady that he needs to embody if he’s going to walk into that council meeting and get what he wants. The way he’s turning in the mirror a few times, admiring what he sees in himself tells me he realizes why it’s important, too.
