Handle With Care (Shacking Up 5)

“Hmm, what?” I reach for the base and the filter. She’s missing the paper component, which is essential if she wants to avoid a cup full of grounds. I open the cupboard, grab a filter, slide it in place, and screw it to the base.

Wren watches as I add grounds and boiling water before I press the coffee through. “Would you like a cup?”

Her nose crinkles. “Is it any good?”

“I think so.” I push the fresh cup toward her and tap the cupboard beside her head. “There’s sugar in here and cream or milk in the fridge if you need it.”

I empty the grounds into the compost and repeat the process while she adds a sprinkle of sugar and two drops of cream to her coffee. It doesn’t even change the color in the remotest way. She brings the cup to her lips and blows before she tips it up and takes a tentative sip.

“Oh, wow, this is really good.” She takes another, more robust sip and makes a face. “And extremely hot.”

“Yeah, careful you don’t burn your tongue off, there.” I add a full spoon of sugar and a healthy dose of cream. It’s an indulgence I haven’t had much of in the past couple of years. Cream isn’t something I often had access to, and I’m not a fan of powdered milk in my coffee so I switched to mostly black, but now that I’m in New York and I can buy cream at every corner store, I plan to capitalize on the luxury.

“You never answered my question,” I prompt.

“What question?” Wren regards me from over the lip of her cup.

“You hmmed me and never explained what it means.”

“Oh! Right. Yes.” She sets her coffee on the counter. I notice the complete lack of lipstick mark on the cup, which should be impossible considering the color and the white mug. “Let’s take a look.”

“A look at what?”

“How everything fits.” Her tone implies I’m ridiculous for even asking. She takes my coffee cup and sets it beside hers, then arranges my arms at my sides. “Roll your shoulders back for me, please.”

I stand up straighter and flex. “I feel a lot like a prize cow right now.”

She snickers. “Prize cow? That’s cute.” Wren adjusts my collar and runs her hands over my shoulders and down my biceps, slipping a thumb under the cuff of the sleeve. “Is this comfortable?” She smooths her hands over my pecs. I get that this is supposed to be a professional assessment, or whatever, but my body seems unaware.

“Lincoln?” Wren blinks up at me, her wide gray eyes fixed on my chin again.

“Huh?”

She goes back to feeling up my pecs. “The shirt, is it comfortable? It’s tighter across the chest than I anticipated. We may want to go up a size. I’m worried about it shrinking in the wash since you don’t seem like the dry cleaning type.”

“Uh, it’s okay, I guess.”

“We’ll see how the others fit.” She moves around to stand behind me and makes another noise, fingertips skipping along my traps. “This is good. The pants are a nice fit. I think we should tuck the shirt in, though, and add a belt. It’ll look more professional.” She grabs me by the belt loop and starts jamming the fabric down the back of my pants. Which means she’s sort of touching my ass. I’m wearing briefs, but it’s still contact. She keeps tucking, moving to the right and then to the left before she comes around front.

For a second, I think she’s going to go ahead and shove her hand down the front of my pants. Just before that happens, though, she seems to realize she’s been manhandling me, or treating me like a toddler who doesn’t know how to dress himself.

Her cheeks flush, and she steps back. “You can get that part.”

“You sure? You’re doing such a good job. I wouldn’t want to mess it up.”

“I won’t be here every morning to help you out. This is good practice.” She grabs her coffee from the counter and takes a sip, possibly to hide her embarrassment. Or a smile. I’m not sure which is more likely.

I stuff the shirt down the front of my pants and do some rearranging to hide my body’s unexpected reaction. All the while, Wren’s gaze stays locked on my chin.

“How’s this?” I hold my arms out.

She taps her lip, eyes moving over me in an assessing sweep. “You need a belt. And shoes. Come.” She motions for me to follow her down the hall.

I spend the next half hour striping down to my briefs—I don’t bother going to the bathroom since I get a kick out of how she pretends to look away, but really she’s watching me from the mirror.

Not everything she picked out is beige and white or black. There are a few shirts with color that she felt would go well with my skin tone, and a selection of button-downs. I have to admit, she has good taste in clothes, and nothing is outrageously expensive. In fact, a few of the shirts have sale tags on them; something I appreciate. I wonder if she did that intentionally since I know my mother and Armstrong would never buy anything on sale.