“That doesn’t answer my question,” he shoots back, clearly amused by how flustered I am.
Mortification deepens the flush of my cheeks. "I guess they're cute..."
"Hmm, not something you'd like?" He puts them down and grabs a white lacy pair with a fully covered butt instead. "You probably prefer something a little more innocent than a thong, huh? How about this?"
Crossing my arms and looking away, I tell him, “Why don’t you just worry about the woman you’re actually shopping for? I don’t think my underwear preferences are any of your business.”
“I’m no good at picking these things out myself,” he says dismissively.
I clutch my heart in feigned shock. “Did you just admit to not being good at something?”
His lips curve up in self-deprecating amusement. “Shocking, I know. But when it comes to lingerie, I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. You’re a woman; you know what to look for.” He picks up an expensive white bra with nice lace detail. “How about this one?”
I flush, giving him a curt nod, and he adds it to his shopping basket.
He keeps shopping, quick and efficient, until his basket is full of skimpy lingerie he made me pick out for someone else. I notice everything is in the smallest size, and the bra size is the same as mine, too. At least I'm his type, I guess.
Finally, he approaches the cash register where a flirty sales associate adds up his astronomical bill.
"Oh, is this your little sister?" she purrs, shooting me a sweet smile.
"Um, no," I reply, barely resisting the urge to make a face at her.
He hands the woman a platinum credit card to pay with. Her eyes flash with even more interest and she scans his card. As she does, I glimpse the amount on the register and have to do a double take.
He just spent several hundred dollars on underwear.
“Someone sure is a lucky woman,” the cashier says as she reaches across the counter and hands him a shopping bag full of delicate undergarments.
“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs noncommittally as he takes the bag, completely missing the way she tries to catch his eye.
Despite the fact that he just bought all this stuff for someone else, I'm pretty sure the woman wants to ask for his number.
Mr. McLaren doesn't seem to notice, motioning me out of the store without another word to her. I follow in his footsteps, secretly pleased that I cockblocked him. I don't want to see who he's hooking up with.
Although... I kind of do. If only to know more about the women he likes.
"You want a milkshake?" he asks me once we're outside the store.
"I guess so.” I glance ahead at the food court. "Do you have any more shopping to do before we leave?"
"Just one more stop,” he answers.
When we get to the counter, without even asking what I like, he orders for us both. One vanilla for him, one strawberry for me.
I can't take my eyes off him. Forget the presumption inherent in what he just did—how the hell did he know my favorite flavor? It's like he's reading my mind. And while obnoxiously arrogant, I do kind of like that he took the liberty of ordering for me...
Still, I can't help myself, innocently saying, "I was actually hoping for vanilla, too."
"No problem," he says, not looking up as he scrolls through his phone. "You can have some of mine."
Heat rushes to my cheeks at the idea of taking a sip of his drink. That’s so intimate, something a couple would do.
Goosebumps erupt all over my skin, and I clear my throat to hide my nerves, then I try to shift the conversation back toward familiar ground. "So, what are we going to be doing in these private study sessions, anyway?"
"Whatever I tell you to do," he states, pocketing his phone and looking over at me.
I cock an eyebrow, skeptical. “Whatever you tell me to do?”