on a Tuesday in a black SUV that wasn't Lance's.
Brett was in the kitchen at the Cocoon, barefoot in the heated marble, wearing high-waisted cream trousers and a silk camisole that showed the soft swell of his chest where five weeks of hormones had finally given him real, tender curves under the fabric. His long honey blonde extensions were blown out straight and glossy down his back. His big blue eyes were lined soft brown, his full lips tinted rose, his skin golden from the tanning bed.
Mara walked in with a man behind her and Brett's stomach dropped straight to the floor.
He was maybe six foot three, with dark wavy hair pushed back off his forehead, a jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and shoulders that filled out his white t-shirt in a way that made Brett's mouth go dry. He had the kind of smile that belonged on billboards. He was exactly the type of man from the cologne commercial that had made Brett's heart flutter in week four.
"Brielle," Mara said, calm as ever, "this is Matteo. He's a model. He works runway in Milan and New York. He's here for your charm and confidence lessons."
Matteo held out a huge, warm hand. "Ciao, bella."
Brett stared at his hand like it might bite him. His hormones, already making him weepy and soft in the head, surged so hard his cheeks flamed instant pink under his blush. He was twenty-one, five foot eight, down to one hundred and fifty pounds, and he suddenly felt like a clumsy boy in a costume again.
He shriveled. Shoulders in, eyes down, hand fluttering uselessly at his side.
Matteo didn't drop his hand. He just waited, smiling.
"Take it," Mara whispered behind him. "Eye contact. Chin up."
Brett forced his big blue eyes up to Matteo's dark ones and slid his small, manicured hand into Matteo's palm. Matteo's fingers closed around his, warm and strong, and he lifted Brett's knuckles to his lips and brushed the lightest kiss across them.
Brett gasped out loud.
"Perfetto," Matteo murmured, his accent curling around the word. "You see? You didn't die."
Brett wanted to melt into the marble.
They moved to the living room with the lake view. Mara sat in the corner with a notebook. Matteo sat on the white sofa and patted the cushion next to him.
"Sit," he said.
Brett sat, perching on the edge like a bird, his knees pressed together, his hands twisted in his lap. He could smell Matteo's cologne, something expensive and woody, and his heart hammered so loud he was sure Matteo could hear it.
"First lesson," Matteo said, leaning in, his dark eyes locked on Brett's. "A confident woman does not make herself small for a man. Not even for a big one like me."
He reached out and gently, with two fingers under Brett's chin, lifted his face.
"Shoulders back," he said softly. "You have beautiful collarbones. Show them. You have this," he tapped the little gold B at Brett's throat, "show it."
Brett swallowed and rolled his shoulders back. The silk camisole pulled across his small breasts and he felt exposed and seen in a way that made his skin prickle.
"Better," Matteo smiled, and Brett felt the smile hit him low in his belly. "Now, flirting is not a performance. It's a conversation. You listen. You laugh. You touch, just a little."
He demonstrated, placing his hand lightly on Brett's forearm. His palm was hot through the silk. Brett's breath hitched.
"See?" Matteo said. "Not grabbing. Just... hello, I'm here."
Brett tried to copy him, reaching out with trembling pink nails to touch Matteo's forearm. His fingers barely brushed the muscle and he yanked back like he'd been burned.
Matteo laughed, a low warm sound. "Again. Slower. Like you mean it."
Brett tried again. This time he let his fingertips rest on Matteo's arm for three seconds, feeling the heat of his skin, the hardness underneath. He looked up through his lashes the way Julian taught him.
Matteo's eyebrows lifted. "There she is."
They practiced for an hour. How to hold eye contact without staring. How to laugh with his whole face, letting his full lips part and his big blue eyes crinkle. How to tilt his head to show his long neck. How to cross his legs in the cream trousers so the fabric draped over his newly lean thighs.
Every time Matteo leaned in, Brett's pulse went wild. Every time Matteo complimented him, his cheeks went hot. The hormones in his blood made everything feel amplified, like his nerves were on the outside of his skin.
"You are thinking too much," Matteo said at one point, catching Brett's fidgeting hands in his own. "Stop thinking about being a girl. Just be."
Brett stared at their joined hands, his small and pale pink, Matteo's large and tan, and felt tears prick his eyes from sheer overwhelm.
"I'm scared I'll do it wrong," he whispered in his soft girl voice.
Matteo squeezed his fingers. "The most charming thing a woman can do is be a little nervous and do it anyway. That's sexy. That's real."
On the last exercise, Matteo stood and held out his hand. "Dance with me. No music."
Brett stood on shaky legs in his bare feet. Matteo pulled him close, one hand at Brett's newly small waist, the other holding his hand up. They were chest to chest, and Brett could feel Matteo's heartbeat steady against his own racing one.
"Look at me," Matteo murmured. "Not at the floor."
Brett forced his eyes up. Up close, Matteo was devastating. Perfect stubble, perfect mouth, perfect confidence.
"Now smile like you have a secret," Matteo whispered.
Brett did, his full lips curving slow and shy.
Matteo's dark eyes flickered down to his mouth and back up. "Good girl."
The words, not from Lance but from this alpha male stranger, shot through Brett like champagne bubbles. His knees actually weakened. He swayed into Matteo's chest and Matteo steadied him easily, his hand warm and firm on his back.
The lesson ended and Matteo stepped back, professional again.
"You did very well, Brielle," he said, kissing both his cheeks European style. "Next time, heels."
When the door closed behind him, Brett collapsed onto the sofa, his face in his hands, his long hair falling around him, his whole body trembling.
He was breathing hard, his skin flushed, his heart hammering, his panties damp with nervous sweat under his trousers.
Mara just smiled from her corner. "You didn't shrivel."
Brett looked up at her, his big blue eyes glassy, his lips parted. "Oh my god," he breathed. "He's so..."
"Handsome?" Mara supplied.
"Intimidating," Brett whispered. "And I touched him. And I didn't die."
That night at 9 pm his phone buzzed.
Lance: How was charm school?
Brett was still in his camisole, still buzzing, his fingers flying over the screen.
Matteo is UNFAIRLY hot. Like stupid hot. I almost passed out when he held my hand. He called me a good girl and my brain short-circuited. Is this the hormones or am I just gay now? Help.
He hit send and buried his flaming face in a pillow.
Lance replied a minute later: It's the hormones opening doors. And Matteo is objectively unfairly hot. You're doing great. Still no pics.
Brett grinned into the pillow, his whole body still humming from being seen, being taught, being flirted with and surviving it.
He typed back: Fine. But when you get home you're going to wish you'd taken the pictures. x
He fell asleep that night in his silk camisole and his stockings, replaying the feel of Matteo's hand on his waist, learning for the first time what it felt like to be charming instead of scared in the presence of a man who could have anyone.
And loving it...