Fitting Room Sparks

The community theater smelled like dust and ambition. Calder Junely pushed through the backstage door a quarter hour early because Carson had drilled punctuality into him since they became roommates. His sneakers squeaked against the worn linoleum as he made his way past stacked set pieces and coiled cables toward the costume shop.

He'd volunteered for wardrobe duty earlier that week. Carson had asked, casually, over pizza. "Mom needs help with quick changes during the show. You're good with your hands, right?" Calder had said yes before his brain caught up with the implications. Carson's mom. Cassie Terramore. The woman who'd made him stammer at every dinner she'd hosted.

Now he was walking into her workspace.

The costume shop occupied the basement level, a long room lined with rolling racks and industrial sewing machines. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a clinical glow that somehow made the vintage gowns and military uniforms look even more theatrical. Fabric bolts leaned against walls in every color. A dress form stood in the corner like a headless torso waiting for instructions.

Cassie stood at the cutting table with her back to him. Her auburn hair was pinned up in a loose twist, a few strands escaping to brush her neck. She wore a fitted black blouse and dark jeans that hugged her curves in a way that made Calder's throat go dry. She was forty-five, divorced for two years, and the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen up close.

"Calder." She turned, and her green eyes swept over him with professional appraisal. "Right on time. I like that."

"I try to be." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "Carson said you needed help with fittings."

"I need help with everything." She smiled, and there was something in it that made his stomach flip. "But fittings first. Come here."

She gestured him toward the fitting area near the mirrors. Three full-length mirrors stood in a semicircle, their surfaces slightly cloudy with age. A stool sat in the center. Calder walked over, suddenly aware of every step he took, every way his body moved under her gaze.

"I've got the period shirt ready for you to try." Cassie picked up a cream-colored linen shirt from a nearby rack. "It's for the ballroom scene. Carson's character wears it, but I need a fit model since he's at rehearsal. You're about his size."

"Close enough." Calder took the shirt. The fabric felt soft and worn, like real antique linen. "Should I just..."

"Go ahead. I've seen plenty of shirtless men." She said it lightly, turning to arrange something on her worktable. "Though I suppose I should warn you. I'm particular about fit. I'll need to touch you to make adjustments."

"That's fine." He pulled his t-shirt over his head, feeling the cool air hit his skin. "I don't mind."

He heard her footsteps approach as he shrugged into the period shirt. The linen hung loose on his shoulders, the sleeves too long. He fumbled with the small buttons, his fingers feeling clumsy.

"Here." Cassie's hands covered his, gently moving them aside. "Let me."

She buttoned the shirt herself, starting at the collar and working down. Her fingers brushed his chest with each button, light touches that sent electricity through his skin. He held his breath, watching her hands move. She had elegant fingers, the nails short and practical but perfectly shaped. A silver ring glinted on her right hand.

"There." She stepped back to assess. "The shoulders are good, but the chest needs taking in. Turn around."

He turned, facing the mirrors. She came up behind him, and he watched her reflection as she reached around to pinch the fabric at his sides. Her arms circled him, her chest brushing against his back through the thin linen. He could smell her perfume, something floral with an undertone of vanilla.

"The waist is loose too." Her voice was close to his ear. "I'll need to take it in about two inches here." Her fingers traced along his ribs, pressing the fabric against his skin. "And here." Her hands moved lower, skimming his waist. "You're leaner than Carson. More defined."

"Been working on some stuff." His voice cracked slightly. "Theater tech requires lifting."

"It shows." She held the fabric in place, her knuckles pressing against his stomach. "Hold still. I'm marking the seams."

She reached for a box of pins on the nearby table, but instead of stepping away, she worked around him. Her body pressed against his back as she reached for the pins, then she was in front of him again, kneeling to pin the side seams. Her fingers worked quickly, efficiently, but each touch lingered a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"These pants are awfully tight for a dresser." She looked up at him, her eyes traveling down his legs. "Are those your work pants or your going-out pants?"

"Work pants." He swallowed. "They're comfortable."

"They're flattering." She stood, brushing off her knees. "Though I suppose that's the point, isn't it? Young man your age, you know what you're doing with your clothes."

"I don't know about that."

"You know exactly what I mean." She circled him, and he watched her reflection in the mirror. "Turn your head to the left."

He obeyed. She came up behind him again, her hands on his shoulders, rotating him slightly. Her fingers traced along his collarbone, following the line of the shirt's yoke.

"The collar's a bit loose too." She pulled the fabric away from his neck, and her fingers brushed the sensitive skin behind his ear. "But that's an easy fix."

He could feel his pulse beating in his throat. She had to feel it too, her fingertips so close to his jugular. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she held the fabric there, studying the drape in the mirror.

"You know, I was nervous when Carson said you'd volunteered." Her voice was soft, almost contemplative. "I thought it might be awkward. You being his friend. Me being his mother."

"It's not awkward." The lie came out automatically.

"Liar." She said it with a smile, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "You're blushing. Your pulse is racing. I can feel it."

He opened his mouth to deny it, but nothing came out.

"It's fine." She released the collar and stepped back. "I like that you're nervous. It means you care about getting this right." She picked up a measuring tape from the table. "Now hold still. I need to get your actual measurements for the record."

She wrapped the tape around his chest first, her arms encircling him again. He could feel her breath on his back as she read the numbers. Then she moved to his waist, the tape sliding around him just above his hips. Her fingers pressed against his stomach as she adjusted it.

"Breathe out."

He did, and the tape tightened. Her knuckles pressed into his abs, and he watched in the mirror as her eyes flicked down to where his body responded to her proximity. The tight pants suddenly felt much tighter.

"Interesting." Her voice was neutral, but her eyes weren't. "Let's get the shoulder measurement."

She moved behind him, and the tape stretched across his shoulders. Her fingers traced along the seam of the shirt, pressing into the muscle beneath. He could feel every point of contact like a brand.

"You've got good shoulders." She said it like a clinical observation. "Broad, but not bulky. It's a good frame for period costumes." Her hands slid down his arms, the tape following. "And your arms. Long. Elegant."

"I don't know about elegant."

"I do." She finished measuring and stepped back, writing something on a clipboard. "I've been doing this for twenty years. I know bodies."

She looked up at him, and there was something different in her expression. Something appraising, but not in a professional way.

"Take the shirt off. I need to see how it sits without the fabric bunching."

He unbuttoned the shirt slowly, his fingers still clumsy. She watched him, making no move to help this time. When he pulled the shirt off, she took it from him and laid it over the back of a chair.

"Stand in front of the mirror."

He turned to face his reflection. He looked like himself, but different. His skin was flushed, his eyes dark, his breathing shallow. Behind him, Cassie stood watching him in the glass.

"You're a good-looking young man." She said it simply, like a fact. "I'm sure you know that."

"I don't hear it often."

"Then people aren't paying attention." She stepped closer, until she was just behind him. "Look at yourself. Really look."

He met his own eyes in the mirror. Behind him, Cassie's reflection was watching him with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

"You're nervous because you think I'm off limits." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Because I'm Carson's mom. Because I'm older. Because you think this is wrong."

"It's wrong." The words came out before he could stop them.

"Is it?" She reached out and placed her hand on his bare shoulder. Her palm was warm, her fingers curling slightly into his skin. "Tell me why."

"Because..." He couldn't think. Her hand was on his skin, and all the blood in his body seemed to be rushing to that single point of contact. "Because Carson is my friend."

"And what Carson doesn't know won't hurt him." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "I'm not asking you to do anything you don't want to do. I'm just saying... if you're interested in learning, I'm a good teacher."

Her hand slid from his shoulder down his arm, leaving a trail of heat. She stepped back, picking up the period shirt.

"I'll have this ready by Friday. We'll do another fitting then." She smiled, and it was warm, almost maternal. "Same time. Come alone."

She turned back to her worktable, dismissing him. Calder stood there for a moment, his skin tingling where she'd touched him, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Calder?" She didn't look up. "You can go. I'm sure you have things to do."

"Yeah." He grabbed his t-shirt and pulled it on, the cotton rough against his overheated skin. "Yeah, I should go."

He walked toward the door, then stopped. "Cassie?"

She looked up.

"Friday. Alone." He swallowed. "I'll be here."

Her smile widened, just slightly. "I know you will."

He walked out of the costume shop and up the stairs, his legs unsteady. In the main theater, he could hear the cast rehearsing, Carson's voice carrying over the others. Calder leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing.

What the hell had he just agreed to?

He knew exactly what he'd agreed to. And the worst part was, he couldn't wait for Friday.