He still had his beige t-shirt on, but a corner of his tighty-whities winked at her from his hips. They screamed, "Take us off and throw us away! Far, far away!"

Before she blinked, she couldn't help but notice they cupped a generous package. A very generous package. She gulped.

The word boxers appeared on her mental shopping list.

She averted her eyes from both his underwear and the tops of his wickedly long, sculpted legs, and wound up staring at the silk screen picture on his t-shirt.

A terrifying mash-up of a crab and a scorpion held up a hand-drawn sign: face hugs for free.

"Good thing I grabbed some plain t-shirts for under your sweaters and dress shirts," she said. "What is that monster and why would anyone hug it?"

"This is a Giger baby alien face hugger, and I will keep my science jokes and sci-fi t-shirts."

"But a plain t-shirt is better under your clothes, and looks better in case you start to," she paused, voice catching at the sudden images in her head, "take the work clothes off for someone."

"Nope. In fact, liking my t-shirts is sine qua non for a serious relationship. We all have our lines drawn, and we all set the bar somewhere, right? How can I love someone who doesn't love my t-shirts?"

Reese's fantasies of taking off that horrible tee came to a screeching halt, and the sudden impact stung. She had no idea what a Giger thingamajig alien was or where it came from, and apparently it ruined her possibilities of ever hooking up with him. Which was just as well, because someone that in love with a freaky alien was not for her. Plus—he was client.

"You are the boss when it comes to setting the bar, but the picture is visible through the dress shirt fabric," she said.

"Is that bad?"

"It's not good. Can we compromise? You keep the fun t-shirts for the weekends?"

Kenneth nodded. "Lose the tee's during the week. Understood."

"Try those jeans first. I'll be right here."

She pulled the door closed and leaned against the opposite wall, waiting. In Kenneth's cabin, the rustling of his clothes was interrupted by constant alerts dinging on his phone. The man must have a million notifications a day.

"So, what's your sine qua non for a relationship?" he asked, his feet visible below the door as they stepped into his jeans. "The one thing you can't compromise on, beyond obvious things such as ethics and hygiene. You have a line in the sand, right?"

"I have several actually, but if I had to choose one..." What would she choose from her description of the perfect man?

Attractive, sweet, never forgets anniversaries? Boring shit.

No, the one thing a man had to do was be her hero. Reese had to know he would rescue her if she fell. He would always be by her side to fight for her. And to lead her in a waltz. Or the lindy hop, she wasn't too picky.

"Dancing," she said. "He should know his way around the dancefloor."

"Huh. You set the bar pretty damn high. But more power to you, really. Okay, I've got the jeans on."

"How do they fit around the waist?" she asked. "You need a belt anyway, but how do they feel?"

"What do you think?"

He stepped out of the cabin. The t-shirt had disappeared, as per her orders.

Reese stumbled in place at the sight of his muscle-lined waist, jeans hanging low on his hips like the forbidden fruit ready for plucking. And oh, she wanted to pluck those things right off him and follow that V down the road to sin.

His V card would be a thing of the past in seconds if she didn't calm down.

The sight of his bare chest and waist was better than the teaser she had gotten in the break room. This view would never get old, especially dressed up in jeans this time.

"They look"—she cleared her throat—"they are perfect, in my opinion."

"Good. Should I try the other pants next?"

"Yeah. And the shirts. I'm going to get some water from the fountain." Which loosely translated meant I'm going to hose myself off in the bathroom.

Kenneth was all wrong for her and had made it abundantly clear that she was wrong for him.

But she still wanted a taste of that forbidden fruit.

*** So she wants to get him out of those clothes? Who can blame her? ***