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I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m sure the job has to have affected you in some ways by now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like Tucker’s tattoo, for example. You get to design art that lives on people’s bodies, pictures that mean something to them. Have you ever done a tattoo that really stuck with you?”

Gage stares down at his beer, and I realize this is first time I’ve seen him drink a beer. “The ones that hit me hardest are done in memory of someon e. The worst are baby footprints with angel wings, or portraits of a child that someone lost.”

I reach out and cover his hand with mine. “I can’t imagine.”

“I try not to think about it too much. Loss is part of life, you know?” He pulls his hand back and adjusts himself in his seat. “Man, I’m starving. Hope the food gets here soon.”

I can tell that my question rattled him, so I don’t push further. “It usually comes out pretty fast.” Reaching for my iced tea, I take a sip before changing the subject. “So what do you think we should find for the apartment?”

“I don’t care.”

I sigh. “Oh, come on. We’re supposed to find something we both agree on.”

Gage’s eyes meet mine. “It’s your apartment. What do you want?”

“You live there now too, so…”

“But I don’t plan on being there long term.” He taps the table in front of him. “It’d be best if you picked something you’d still want when I’m gone.”

Something in my stomach twists. “Well, forgive me for trying to make the best of the situation and follow the rules, like the letter said.” I take my phone from my purse and snap a picture of his grumpy ass sitting across the table.

He frowns. “What was that for?”

“Just documenting, you know…for the letters.”

Gage sighs, looking out over the bustling restaurant. He stays silent for a moment before surprising me. “I know we brought my bike, so we’d have to pick it up later, but an ottoman would be nice. Something to put my feet up on when I’m sitting on the couch.”

His suggestion momentarily stuns me. “Okay…”

“ I had a recliner back at my place in Florida, and I like being able to put my feet up. You sprawl across the whole damn couch when you’re editing or coloring, so it’d be nice to have somewhere to put my feet.”

Suddenly, I realize how hard this probably is for him. He left his home, his things—his entire life—to be here. He probably feels like a stranger in my space.

“Okay then,” I say, nodding. “We will find one.”

Gage stares down at his beer. “If they even have one.”

I reach across and grab his hand again, taking him by surprise. “If we don’t find one today, I’ll order one. I want you to be comfortable at my place.”

That smirk of his returns. “You sure you’re not just trying to butter me up so I’ll enjoy this date a little more?”

I yank my hand back, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to have fun with this, Gage, because that’s the type of person I am. You’re stuck along for the ride either way. Might as well make the best of it.”

***

“This place smells like ocean air and asshole,” Gage whispers in my ear as we step into Thrifty Finds, the thrift store on the boardwalk.

I wrinkle my nose. “It’s concerning that you know what that combination smells like, Gage.”

We finished up our dinner at Catch & Release and made it here just before closing. And sure enough, when we walked in, Judy knew exactly why we were there.

Diane must have gone to great lengths to set all of this up…and just thinking about that makes my chest ache. God, I miss her.

Pus hing the thought aside, I force myself to focus on the task at hand—finding the most ridiculous outfit possible for Gage and capturing evidence for future blackmail, if necessary. The ironic thing is, I bet he’s thinking the same thing.

“Where the hell are the clothes?” Gage grumbles as we walk deeper into the store, past shelves of mismatched kitchenware and old bakeware.

“Calm down, we’re almost there.”

“I am calm.”

“Really? Because you’re hovering so close I half expect you to jump on my back for a piggyback ride.” I glance back over my shoulder to find Gage practically glued to my side.

“I hate clutter, Spitfire.” He visibly shudders, and I can’t help but laugh. This store is brimming with clutter, tons of unnecessary items that people have discarded over the years because they no longer served a purpose in their lives.

“Well, that makes two of us,” I say as we finally come to a stop in front of dozens of clothing racks. “But remember why we’re here.”

Gage’s eyes widen in disbelief at the sheer volume of clothes there is to sort through, but he quickly recovers. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

“No need to remind me how badly you’re itching to get away from me,” I say, turning toward a rack of absurdly patterned blazers.

But before I can take a step, Gage grabs my hand and spins me into his chest. I let out a small squeak of surprise, my palm pressed against his solid frame. When our eyes meet, I see sincerity in his. “Clutter makes me anxious, Spitfire. That’s all, okay?”

Nodding, I simply accept his truth. “Okay.”

His grip lingers for a second longer before he releases me, then turns and walks in the opposite direction, leaving me standing there, trying to get my racing heart under control.

That’s the third time he’s intentionally touched me. And each time, it leaves me completely rattled.

Luckily, I have a mission to keep me busy—finding the most ridiculous outfit possible. I take a deep breath, hoist my purse higher on my shoulder, and get to work.

I just hope he’s not going to be as mean as I am.

***

About fifteen minutes later, we meet each other at the dressing rooms, hiding our selections behind our backs.

"You sure about your pick?" I ask him, taking a moment to appreciate the way his biceps strain against his shirt, flexing slightly as he hides his choice from view. Not distracting at all.

“Oh, I’m sure. You?”

“Dead set.”

“Reveal on three?” he asks, his smile building.

“One…”

“Two…”

“Three,” we say in unison, and I hold up my pick just as Gage does the same, and when I see what he’s chosen, I burst out laughing.

“Oh, God. That’s the worst you could do?” I ask as I take in the Grinch pajama onesie that looks about five sizes too big.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to stuff it full of pillows to give you the belly too.”

Lau ghing, I say, “Fair enough.” Then I hold up the outfit I picked for him.

His smile vanishes. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a dress, Gage.”

His eyes narrow. “It looks like a torture device.”

To be fair, it kind of is. The hot pink sequined gown I found has so many straps that Gage may very well get trapped in it, but when I saw it, I knew it was the winner.

“Don’t forget the heels and blonde wig,” I say, holding up the other two items I found to complete the look.

Gage lets out a whistle. “I underestimated you, Spitfire.”

I shove the dress into his chest. “Let this be your lesson to never make that mistake again.”

After I change into the ridiculous Grinch onesie, I step out of the dressing room to find Judy helping Gage into the gown. “Oh God…”

“This dress feels like being stuffed into a tube sock,” Gage mutters as I take in the entirety of him.

The dress is about two sizes too small, but he managed to squeeze his body into it, and my, oh my—what a body it is.

Tattoos cover his back and chest, but his abs are still bare.

The halter top neckline of the dress strains against his broad back and the tight fit does nothing to conceal the bulge between his legs and his muscular thighs.

And now, I’m being forced to process the fact that my husband is absurdly hot in a dress.

“There.” Judy ties the strings in the back of the dress as best she can before handing Gage the wig. “Don’t forget this.”

Gage glares at her. “Gee, thanks.”

Chuckling, I grab a few pillows from the basket by the dressing rooms and stuff them into my Grinch suit, rounding out my belly.

“The sight of you two right now sure is something,” Judy says.

I t ake my camera out of my bag, adjusting the settings. “Blame Diane for this.”

Judy smiles, but it’s a sad one. “If she were here, she’d be laughing right along with you two.”

Gage and I share a look but before either of us can respond, his phone starts ringing from inside his dressing room.

He rushes in to grab it and comes out looking concerned “Shit. I need to take this.”

I nod. “Sure.”

He walks back toward the front of the store to take the call outside, but not before I hear him answer. “Hey, Miranda…”

My stomach clenches.

Who the hell is Miranda?

I quickly turn back to Judy, forcing a smile. “Sorry. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

Judy waves a hand. “No problem, dear.”

A few minutes later, Gage returns.

“Sorry about that,” he says, running a hand over the stiff blonde wig. “But you should have seen some of the looks I was getting from people walking by.”

Even though my mind is still spinning with questions, I force a laugh. “Serves you right for interrupting our photo shoot.”

I try to pretend I’m not affected and go back to prepping my camera. Once I’m happy with the settings, I direct Gage to stand in front of the empty wall to our right.

“All right, Gage. Strike a pose.”

He just stands there, arms limp and his expression blank. I lower the camera, unimpressed. “Come on, at least try to have some fun with it.”

He rolls his eyes, but eventually purses his lips, juts his hip out, and tosses a hand in the air.

“ Yes! Work it!” Laughing behind the camera, I take a few more shots and then hand it to him. “All right. My turn. But for the love of God, please be careful.”

Gage takes my camera from my hands—and immediately pretends to drop it.

He laughs, but I do not.

My face is flat as stone when I tell him, “Just remember that you’re in a vulnerable position right now, dickhead. It would be very easy for me to sucker punch you in the balls.”

“Oh relax, Hazel, and go stand in front of the wall.”

I do as I’m told, holding my fake belly and grimacing, trying to channel my inner Grinch. Judy giggles from the side, and my husband even cracks a smile or two.

My husband.

I hate how easily that thought slips in.

“This is fucking great,” he says, snapping a few more shots.

Judy walks over and takes the camera from Gage, motioning for him to join me. “Now let’s get a couple you together.”

Reluctantly, he awkwardly clomps over to me in his heels and too-tight dress.

"For the record," I say, peering up at him, "you’re the prettiest wife I could have asked for."

His eyes narrow playfully. “Careful, Spitfire, or you’ll really get people talking.”

I throw my head back with laughter.

Once Judy takes a few shots, Gage walks over to the dressing room, grabs his phone, and returns.

“Might as well get a selfie while we’re here.”

The n, without hesitation, he hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me snug against his chest before lifting his phone and snapping a few pictures.

As he lowers his arm, I glance at the screen.

We’re both grinning broadly—and looking far too happy for my comfort.