Speaking of that hair, and his general appearance … Earlier today, I’d e-mailed my sister Theresa and told her I was bringing Nav as a wedding date. Claiming bragging rights, I’d described him as good looking and successful. Which he was, in his way.
His career was taking off, and I was thrilled for him. Now it was time he dressed for success. For being a flauntable wedding date, too.
For us, discussions about appearance had been a running joke, a stalemate. How could I now get him to listen?
I swallowed the last bite and put my empty plate on the coffee table. “By the way,” I said casually, “do you own a suit?” I’d never seen him in one, but didn’t every guy have a suit?
His lips curved, then smoothed out. “For the wedding? I can manage something.”
Given what I’d seen of his taste in clothes, I hated to think what he might manage. “Hmm.” I chewed my lip. Could I possibly persuade Nav to let me buy him a classy suit? No, not the guy who fought me for pizza bills.
I respected male pride, but damn it, this was about my pride, too. He needed a makeover before he met my family. They were rough on dates. I’d yet to bring a man home they approved of, and Nav’s scruffy appearance would be a big strike against him.
Maybe if I bought a suit and had it delivered, and there was no receipt that would let him return it … Still trying to act casual, I asked, “What size are you, anyhow?”