Love in Lingerie
Page 18

I can’t. There is no way. Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and I feel a piece of me break. “God dammit, Kate,” I say softly. “Just forget it. Please.”
She rolls over on the bed, her back to me. “Go away, Trey. Just let me sleep.”
Leaving her is the last thing I want to do. We need to discuss this, to talk this through, to get back to us. But it’s hard to talk through it when I can’t explain my actions, my motivations. I have nothing to say, no defense to give. I move back a step, then another. I wait for a long moment in the doorway, considering what this will do to our relationship, what this will mean. She doesn’t turn, and I pull the adjoining door closed, the act feeling almost ceremonial in its division of us.
Maybe this is it, the death of our possibilities. Maybe I need this reminder of the differences between her and me, of all of the ways that—even without the company dividing us—we would never work. Maybe I should use this excuse, this opportunity, to mentally push away.
She won’t ever accept what happened between Mira, Edward, and me. I swallow that reality and head to the shower, anxious to wash away everything.
If this evening was lingerie, it’d be expensive, the kind that seems worth the price tag but isn’t, the kind that leaves your wallet empty and your mind fucked.
Her
It’s official. The man’s penis only knows stupid mistakes. First that crazy mugger woman, and now this—a married woman. I bet Edward wasn’t even out of the hotel before Trey was knocking on her door. Had I even been a thought? You’d think if the man was going to destroy everything, he might have at least glanced my way, at least considered me before risking the wrath of our client by sleeping with his wife.
I lay in the dark room, gripping a pillow against my chest, and listen to the click of the air conditioner as it comes on. My heart gallops against my chest, my arms tighten around the pillow, and I want to scream, but instead, I only growl. I tell myself that it’s not jealousy, but it is. It’s jealousy, and regret, and months of sexual frustration. Why her? Why not a Vegas hooker, or a horny tourist? Why risk this account, one that we need, all to fuck an ex-girlfriend? If he’s so cavalier about the risk to the company, then why not date me?
I roll onto my back and force my arms to relax, to flop back on the mattress. My mind relaxes slightly. Maybe it’s because, despite all of his flirting, and our latent chemistry—I’m not his type. Maybe all of my sexual tension is one-sided, and he’s operating in a purely platonic world where he flirts for the sheer fun of it, and is oblivious to the delusional fantasies of my starved sex drive. I consider knocking on his door and just asking him, flat out, to explain himself, but abandon the thought. My nerves are too frayed to have that conversation face-to-face, in an environment where all of my reactions and emotions will be seen. No way to play the cool, aloof girl in that scenario. I roll over, pick up my phone, and compose a text.
Are you attracted to me?
Women aren’t supposed to ask questions like that. We should be pursued; we should always know our power. But I don’t. And I need to know. He’s my best friend, and we shouldn’t have to tiptoe around our feelings. We should be able to have a rational and open discussion about this ridiculously huge thing that has been dominating my spare thought processes for the last … hell … even before Craig and I ended.
My phone beeps, and I pick it up off the bedspread.
— Devastatingly so.
I stare at the response, my heart pulled between elation and fear, a flood of new questions arising. I mull them over and wait for him to ask me the same question, but the phone stays dark. Should I tell him that I feel the same way? No. I can’t. I roll onto my back and hesitantly type out the next question, reading over it several times before I press send.
Then why aren’t we together?
I lay the phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling. Part of me regrets bringing this up. What if he wants to start a relationship? Do I even want that? I’ve known him for fourteen months, and he hasn’t had a steady girlfriend that entire time. Would he be good boyfriend material? Can he be loyal? Is he romantic? Too many questions and no answers. I pick up my phone and double-check that my text was delivered. It shouldn’t take this long to respond, to provide a simple answer to such an important question. I close my eyes and attempt to relax, focusing on my feet and slowly moving up my body, relaxing one muscle group at a time, my arms loose and rubbery by the time my phone finally dings. I slowly roll to my side and lift my phone, reading his response.
— too much at risk
The brevity of it irritates me, as if he didn’t have the energy to go into greater detail. But in those four words, I understand his stance. It’s the same logic I’ve told myself a hundred times. He went down this road with Vicka, and his company had tanked as a result. Dating Trey could ruin Marks Lingerie’s forward progress, not to mention our friendship. In some ways our bond seems unflappable. In other ways, we seem as fragile as glass. No one else can hurt me like this. No one else’s opinion is as important. No one else can break my heart as easily as he could mend it.
If he thinks there is too much at risk, then fine. I can cross Trey Marks off my list of prospects and dive back into the world of dating. I can find someone else, someone better for me, someone without consequences. I can find a relationship that, if it ends, won’t destroy every other part of our lives.
I don’t need Trey in my bed, as my boyfriend. I can be happy having him everywhere else.
I don’t know if it’s a lie or not, and in this moment, I don’t care. I wrap my hand around my phone, slide it under the pillow, and close my eyes.
I wake to a note from Mira, one slipped under my door, her handwriting big and flowery. In it, she cancels our lunch, full of apologies and promises to find me on a future trip. The note is attached to a purchase order, one that Trey must have prepared, the unit count enough to make our quarter, if not our year. I roll my eyes and toss it onto the bed.
There is a knock on the adjoining door and I open it, giving Trey a tight smile and returning to my suitcase, the zipper difficult. He pushes down on the lid and I work it closed. “Thanks.”
“Certainly.” He is in khakis and a polo, the bright blue cotton setting off his tan. This is country-club Trey, the preppy look that used to get me hot, the clean-cut exterior so easily twisted with just one smoldering eye-fuck. Used to get me hot. Today I am a new woman, one perfectly content in my Best Friend and Creative Director roles, one who doesn’t wonder what he looks like naked, or what that delicious mouth is capable of.
He strolls over to the bed, reaching forward and picking up the items from Mira. “What’s this?” He flips over the top page, his head dropping as he reads over it. “I thought she was sending this to me.”
“Did you see the note?” I say brightly. “She cancelled our lunch.”
“Yeah. I told her to.” He glances at me. “I figured you wouldn’t want to eat with her after…” He grimaces. “You know.”
“Oh yes.” I smile again, and his eyes narrow. “I know.” I step forward and pluck the pages back. “I would have been fine having lunch with her. I don’t need you running around and rearranging my schedule.”
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds unsettled, which makes me ridiculously happy. I can do this. I can be the cool girl, the friend who doesn’t care that her friend, her boss, is devastatingly attracted to her. I can roll my eyes at his slutty antics and go off and marry a different Prince Charming. We can build this company, be friends, and I can have smoking hot sex and babies who have nothing to do with Trey Marks.
I can have it all. I can. I will.
He looks at me and I look at him, and if he kisses me right now, I would fall apart under his touch.
He holds the gaze, and I look away, afraid of what my eyes might show.
Chapter 11
Her
Four months later, I find my prince in a coffee shop downtown. Or rather, he finds me.
“Kate?” I look up and swallow the sip of coffee, my eyes darting over all of the details.
Soft brown hair, void of product.
Pale green eyes, the kind that smile. He wears glasses, and I unconsciously touch my own, glad that I’d skipped the contacts today.