Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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The hum of Chandler's sewing machine filled her tiny loft. Elliot was standing beside her, shuffling through swatches of fabric when a knock sounded at her door.
"It is open," she stated, never veering her sight from her work.
To Elliot's surprise, Wyatt entered the small space. He looked out of place in his Chandler's home. Everything she owned was minimal, clean, and always organized. Wyatt Kelly was none of those things. His tattoos and black clothing made him an ink splotch on ivory lace. His mere presence annoyed Chandler. She grimaced as he stepped inside.
"Pierce wants to see you," Wyatt told Elliot.
"Where is he?"
Wyatt nudged his head eastward. "The hotel."
A day had gone by since the wedding and rain had started again. Nothing too worrisome. The top of Wyatt's dark hair was barely damp. A dim drizzled sound of water reverberated through the roof. From the window, Elliot could see the streetlamps glowing off the wet pavement. The patches of light made the city look like a midnight bonfire.
Elliot opted not to take an umbrella, assuming he'd reach the hotel before a storm formed. He bid his sister goodbye before leaving.
Wyatt chose to stay, lounging on Chandler's pristine white couch.
"Oi? Andouille. Are you not going back to the hotel?" Chandler asked Wyatt. Her head was peeping over the top of her desk, glaring at him with explicit irritation.
Wyatt shook his head. "No. I'm still recovering from the snails I ate last night. Don't want to push myself too hard." He stretched his arms over his head, getting comfy. "It's best I stay here for a while."
"The hotel is only a short walk away."The way she said is sounded like eez. Wyatt wanted to kiss her, wanted to know if her sighs had an accent too. "Past la boulangerie."
Wyatt huffed. "There're no lingerie stores around here." He smirked at her. "Are you flirting?"
Chandler rolled her eyes. "Fine. Je vois." She stood, understanding that Elliot would not be returning anytime soon. "Get up."
Wyatt grinned wide. "What're we going to - ?"
"Lève ton bras," Chandler instructed.
Wyatt's eyes bulged. "Lift your bra?" He blinked. "I didn't realize French girls were so direct, but - "
"Non. Andouille," she hissed. "Lift your arm."
Wyatt instantly obeyed.
Chandler unraveled her tape measure. "Elliot was going to be my model. But you will have to do."
Wyatt watched her slender fingers run up and down his torso, tracking each number with severe precision. "You're really into this fashion stuff, huh?"
Chandler's jaw was tight. "Oui."
"That's cool. When did - ?"
"Your neck is too long. Lanky. Like a heron."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Non." She turned toward her desk to grab some fabric. She held it up to his arm, analyzing what shade would be most flattering with his inked skin.
"Didn't think so." Wyatt peered down at her, admiring. "I think your neck is beau- "
She stuck him with a pin in his bicep.
"OW!" Wyatt shrieked. "You know, this might be hard to believe, but I'm not really a fan of needles."
"It is a pin." She held it up to show him. "See? A needle has a tiny hole at the end for thread. Learn the difference."
"Whatever it is, it causes pain."
"Pain does not last long," Chandler stated, assessing her sketches and avoiding eye contact.
Wyatt rubbed his arm, still hurting. "I'll remember that for the bedroom."
Chandler blushed, as if Wyatt had said something right. "Tournez," she commanded.
