Coming back from yet another round of fittings, Brian stepped into the vast upper lounge of the boutique and found almost everybody gathered there, which meant either the war had ended or the survivors had been herded into one luxurious containment zone.
David was sprawled lazily across one of the couches, scrolling through his phone, the man's default state by now being a permanent horizontal relationship with whatever screen happened to be closest.
Landon sat nearby with the hollow-eyed patience; the boy had seen too much silk, too many pins, and at least three arguments about fabric weight that had shaved something important off his soul.
It made perfect sense. He had just survived two straight hours of women, designers, and fashion consultants debating details so microscopic that normal men could not perceive them without divine assistance, and Brian strongly suspected they were never meant to.
