His eyes flick over me again. “Much as I like you in my clothes,” he says, “you need to change. There are outfits in your closet.”
“Seriously? Did you just stock it?” I ask, trying to figure out when he could have slipped the clothes by me.
“Naw,” he says, walking out of the kitchen, “the clothes were always there waiting for you. Last night I just wanted to see you in mine.”
Wiley bastard.