He walked out into the small area where there was a floor-to-near-ceiling mirror. His expression was hesitant with a twinge of self-conscious, another new look for him.

“I feel uncertain,” he said, frowning at his own reflection.

“Why?”

“The bottoms.” He waved at his black sock-covered feet. “They seem far too wide.”

“That’s because they’re boot cut.”

“They’re what?”

“Oh, come on, Arthur. You’ve heard of boot cut.”

“If I had I wouldn’t have said ‘They’re what?’ ”

“Are you from this planet?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

He half turned, checking himself out. But the jacket was in the way.

“Here,” I said. “Take that off so you can get a better view.”

He did as instructed and I held the jacket against my chest as he continued his appraisal. And I did, too, assessing the shape and fit on him, until all at once I became aware that I was staring at Arthur’s ass.

A blush came over me out of nowhere and I glanced away. What the . . . ?

The image of Arthur at the Halloween party—where he’d come dressed in a black tuxedo with his hair slicked back and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip, informing everyone he was “Sean Connery James Bond” as opposed to any other version—popped into my head. He had looked suave at the time, which I would never have pictured if I hadn’t seen it for myself. I don’t know why I was thinking about that. Seemed silly.

Arthur’s eyes met mine in the mirror and for one absurd moment I thought he could read my mind. But of course he couldn’t. Thank God.

“You’re the Wrangler expert. What do you think?” he asked.

“Um,” was my extremely articulate reply. “Good.”

He arched a brow. “Could you be a tad more specific?”

“They fit well.” Please don’t make me look at your ass.

He turned back. Frowned. “Do you think so?”

“Mmmm-hmm.” Oh, no. Was I starting to sweat? This was bonkers. I swallowed and changed the direction of my thoughts, pointing to his light gray sweater. “What are you planning to wear on top?”

“Jumper,” he said. I frowned, which he saw and rolled his eyes in mild exasperation. “A sweater,” he clarified in an impressive flat, mid-Atlantic American accent.

I snorted. Then, in a strategic effort to avoid further conversation about the fit of his jeans, I grabbed a medium shirt from one of the racks. Long sleeved, blue plaid, pearl snaps for buttons. Classic.

“Here. If you’re going to go Full Okie, you should have at least one flannel shirt.”

A disdainful grimace was his response. “I do not wear flannel.” He turned back to the mirror.