Monty approached the line of people standing outside the Louis Vuitton store on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. He tried to remember everything his handler had emailed him and focused his efforts on not locking gazes with anyone else waiting.

It was hard. Very hard.

The dark-haired man with the electric blue eyes was just too damned handsome.

And, oh, gulp. He’s looking at me. He’s looking at me! Monty tried not to slam into the velvet-roped stanchions separating the crowd from the store. Now he wanted to laugh as he got into line three people behind the blue-eyed hunk. Had anyone else realized how ridiculous it was that they were loitering outside an open but completely empty store?

He understood that with California’s lingering pandemic laws, safe social distancing was still the rule of the land. But sheesh. Nobody was in the shop. Not a single customer. He tugged at the elastic straps of his face mask. He’d been warned Beverly Hills was rigorous about the damned things. The cops were swift to ticket you if you didn’t wear one, even on the street. His new cloth mask itched his freshly shaved chin.

His gaze fell to the expensive-looking decals on every square of paving on the sidewalk, screaming at people to keep six feet between them. With a jolt, he stepped back and earned a yelp of anguish from a woman behind him.

Monty turned. “I’m so sorry!”

The raven-haired Goth-looking beauty waved off his apology and rubbed her foot with the other. She texted frantically on her cell phone with one hand and sipped at a Nespresso cup with the other. Dexterous.

Monty glanced forward again and locked glances with the hunk, who had turned to look at him. Oh, boy, he was delicious. Monty approved of his black pants, white shirt, and leather jacket ensemble. Sexy as hell.

After months of quick showers, no shaving, and rotating the same three pairs of shorts and t-shirts, Monty had spruced himself up for today. He’d even borrowed his mom’s mango and ginger shampoo. I smell like a fruit tree. He glanced down and noticed his mismatched socks. Oh, great. I look like I dressed in the dark. Black pants, black jeans, one orange sock and a brown one.

He peered inside the massive windows that were so bright and sparkly they seemed like mirrors. A couple of store clerks rushed around, trying to look busy but weren’t doing very much, a swipe of white fabric on a shelf here, adjusting a shoe there. They must have gotten the same memo because they wouldn’t look at the people waiting for entry into the place.

Monty blew out a breath, and reflected in the window, he caught the gaze of the blue-eyed hunk once more. The guy even looked hot with a face mask on. He was smiling. Monty knew it because his eyes were crinkling above the edge of the mask. Monty smiled back, then averted his gaze. Seventeen people had now lined up outside the store. Not any other store on the street had anyone standing out front. In fact, the area was like a ghost town—a well-appointed, pricey ghost town.

Rodeo Drive was the richest street in the world, and it contained the most expensive menswear store in the known galaxy. Monty would never understand its appeal. The House of Bijan bedazzled rich and poor folk alike. He knew tourists had always flocked to Rodeo Drive to glimpse the store’s legendary wares. Not an easy thing to do when this establishment could only be entered by appointment. Monty had never been impressed by Bijan’s bizarre, freakish clothing. In his good days, his dad had enjoyed going in and being fussed over by a few assistants. But the good days were long gone.

Monty sighed. Not all of Bijan’s stuff was weird, but every single item was way overpriced. He’d never met anyone who’d even considered purchasing a thirty-thousand-dollar crocodile skin-trimmed sweater or an eighteen-thousand-dollar cashmere pea coat.

His father had bought one sportscoat a year ago and rarely took it off, telling people, “Bijan, you know.”

Monty was only surprised his father hadn’t left the price tag on it as proof.

It was a good thing his dad, Montgomery Monty Pellman, Sr., had developed an unhealthy attachment to that one single sportscoat. Monty had learned the average Bijan customer spent near a quarter of a million dollars a year there.

He realized he was in no position to be a shopping snob since he was loitering outside another expensive store under false pretenses. But he wouldn’t spend a dime…not one red cent.

The things I do for a hundred bucks. That made him curious about the hunk. Why’s he here? Is he hard up too?

None of the stores that were open appeared to have any customers. The few people walking on the street threw curious glances at the cluster outside the Louis Vuitton store. The only place doing any real business was Nespresso. They’d removed almost all their tables out front, with respect for the six-foot rule, which left three small tables spaced far apart and filled with a few shoppers juggling phones and takeout cups. I shoulda had a second cup of coffee before I came here. Monty sighed. He’d lose his place in line if he went over to the coffee bar. People milled around inside, but the line also flowed out the door, which meant two stores were boasting some pretty good business.

“Okay,” said a store clerk coming out to greet them. That was the only word Monty understood. Everything else behind the man’s LV emblazoned mask came out muffled.