“Just for a little polishing, nails and such,” I say breezily.

“My nails?” He looks down at his jagged nails and callused palms. “Who cares about my nails?”

“You’d be surprised.” I put on a bright smile and add, “Personal grooming says a lot about a person in the eyes of the media, Lincoln.”

His eyes crinkle at the corner as they dip down and pause at my crotch. His cheek tics, which I take to mean he’s smiling. Or maybe smirking is more like it. “Mmm.” His gaze is slow to return to mine. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

This time my cheeks flush, aware he’s referencing my own personal grooming habits and the up-close-and-personal view he got yesterday in my office. Stupid fan-inspired wind vortex.

Bianca claps her hands again; it must be her thing. “Shall we get started with the suit fitting? Which styles are you most fond of?”

The crinkles disappear from the corner of Lincoln’s eyes, and he lazily flicks a hand in my direction, back to being grumpy. “Might as well ask Wren. She’s the one who has to approve everything, anyway.”

I decide the best option is to have him try on every style, so I can determine which complement his build best. He seems annoyed by the level of attention, and the way people manhandle him—the opposite of his brother.

He pulls at the collar of a dress shirt while Bradley adjusts the lapels of his jacket. “This is too tight. I feel like I’m being choked to death.”

I can’t decide if he’s being overdramatic, or if he’s tired of being prodded. I get it. He’s been living in jeans and T-shirts for a long time, a suit, even if it’s made of silk, is going to take some getting used to.

“Can you stop poking at me for a minute?” he snaps at Bradley.

“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, sir. Can I get you something to drink? A mimosa or a Bloody Mary perhaps?”

“You might wanna just bring me a bottle of vodka,” he grumbles.

“He’s fine, just give us a moment,” I tell Bradley, then give my attention to Lincoln. “Let me see if I can help.”

“How are you gonna make this better?” He rolls his shoulders and tugs at the lapels again.

I ignore his theatrics and adjust the collar, so it’s not all bunched up. Then I attempt to slip two fingers between the collar and his skin. He stills, and his warm breath caresses my cheek.

It’s not the shirt that’s the problem. When I drag my fingers across his neck, goose bumps rise along his throat.

“It’s your tie.” I loosen and adjust it, smoothing it out with my palm. “How’s that? Better now?”

Lincoln swallows a couple of times, eyes bouncing around my face. “Yeah. Better.”

“Excellent.” My voice is pitchy, which is ridiculous, as there’s nothing going on here that should make it sound like I’m huffing helium. I drop my hands and step back, giving Bradley space to work again.

While Lincoln complains about being tortured, I ignore him and continue to set up his social media accounts. It’s another hour before the suit fitting is finally done. Thankfully one of the suits needed only the most minor of alterations, so we’re able to take it with us. The rest I’ll pick up sometime next week.

He seems to relax somewhat when he’s back in his jeans and his juvenile, ill-fitting shirt. We leave Saks, and for about five minutes, he’s not grumpy, at least until we enter the spa, at which point his mood sours once again. We’re introduced to our team, which consists of Ulrich and Belinda, who will deal with his hair and his hands.

Ulrich guides him to one of the chairs, and Lincoln pulls the tie from his hair. His sloppy bun uncoils, long hair cascading over his shoulder, falling halfway down his back.

I step up beside Ulrich and give in to the urge to finger comb it. I’ve never been a fan of long hair on men, or ponytails, or man buns, but even I can appreciate how incredible Lincoln’s hair is. It’s thick and dark and shiny and fairly healthy apart from the split ends.

I comb it with my fingers again as if I’m trying to get rid of knots. “Women would kill to have hair like this.”

“It’s so soft,” Ulrich replies.

“And luxurious,” I add.

“Such a shame to cut it,” Ulrich sighs.

“Maybe we could leave some length?” I suggest. It’s almost a travesty to get rid of it.

“What if I donate it? You know, for wigs for cancer patients?” Lincoln suggests.

“The length is certainly there. We’ll have a good twelve inches if we cut it off at the nape.”

I rest a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder and finger a lock of silky, shiny hair. “That would be incredible.”

He shrugs. “It’s just hair. It’s not like it won’t grow back.”