Love in Lingerie
Page 8

“We can discuss it Monday.” There is a clip in his tone that I have heard before, the subject closed, and, for a moment, I don’t see his bare body or the tight fit of the underwear. For a moment, I only see defeat.
I threaten Trey with eviction, and he finally puts on the robe, balking at the idea of lying down in the makeshift bed. “I’m not having you tuck me in,” he complains. “I’m a grown man.” He sits at the other end of the couch, stretching his legs out, his bare feet against the rug.
“I’m not tucking you in,” I argue. “I’m just trying to get you to be comfortable.”
“I’m not going to be comfortable lying down, covered in blankets, while you do laundry. It feels awkward.”
I pause, mid-fold. Maybe now isn’t the time to fold my towels. Maybe now is the time to excuse myself and let the man sleep. He is right. This should be awkward, only it doesn’t feel that way to me. It feels, for the first time since I’ve met him, natural and relaxed. “I don’t feel awkward,” I say, completing the trifold action and neatly stacking the towel into the basket. “Hasn’t anyone ever taken care of you? Just think of me as—”
“STOP.” He holds up a hand. “You’re about to ruin all of my future fantasies about you.”
“Ha.” I roll my eyes. “Little chance of that.” I frown at him. “Besides, you aren’t supposed to have fantasies about me, or anyone else at Marks. In case you missed the memo, the CEO is a real dick about fraternization.” I smirk at the thought of his last all-company email, one that spanned three pages, all devoted to ensuring that our hands are kept to ourselves, and our minds are clear of the gutter. Which had been humorous, in a way, since the company is all about sex and seduction.
“You’re confusing the rules. I’m allowed to have fantasies; I’m just not allowed to act on them.” He crosses his arms over his chest and rests his head against the back of the couch, his eyes closing, as if he hasn’t just delivered a baby of ridiculous proportions.
That’s the problem with beautiful men. They don’t know their impact; they don’t realize how a casually tossed out thought can be devoured, obsessed over, life-changing. He’s lucky that I’ve known men like him before, I’ve friended them, I understand the careless way they wield their looks, their flirtatious comments that mean nothing. He is on the verge of sleep, and there was less stock in that statement than there is energy in his body.
“Are you happy, Kate?” The question is mumbled, his eyes still closed.
I consider my answer, doing a quiet self-assessment of the key factors (love, health, quality of life = all acceptable). Acceptable. Does acceptability equal happiness? I think it does. I think, for a woman in her mid-thirties, happiness is more about the lack of negatives. And right now, my list of negatives is pretty short. “I am. Are you?”
He doesn’t say anything. A full minute passes, then his hand falls limply from the couch arm, and the muscles in his face go slack.
I finish folding the laundry in silence, my mind still stuck on his question.
Am I happy?
Him
The touch on my shoulder is soft, then increasingly incessant—a press that is becoming more annoying then nurturing. It stops, then someone lifts my ankles and pulls slightly. I open my eyes and watch Kate Martin attempt to pull an end table underneath my feet. “What are you doing?” I say, and she jumps slightly, the room dark, most of her in the shadows.
“You need to lie down,” she whispers.
I turn my head and look at the bed she made, the corner of a blanket turned back, ready for me. I move slowly, my feet filled with lead, my neck sore, and roll onto my back, the pillows unbelievably soft. She moves over me, her hair soft against my chest, a faint scent of perfume tickling the edges of my senses. She pulls a blanket over me, and I open my mouth to thank her, but I can’t get the words out before everything fades away.
If this moment was lingerie, it’d be our Shameless Robe, soft and warm to the touch, the sort of thing that you pull on and never take off.
Chapter 5
Her
“Of course you’re happy.” Mom pops pistachios in the seasoned manner of a competitive eater, her hands flying from the bowl to her mouth to the trash, all in perfect harmony. Around her neck, a neck massager purrs. “Why wouldn’t you be happy?”
“You’re not happy,” Jess interjects, sitting in the chair next to Mom, her shoulders shuddering as the massage chair tortures her poor back fat to death. “No one who asks themselves that question is happy.”
“Jess, are you happy?” Mom pauses, a pistachio shell before her lips, and peers at her youngest daughter.
“Meh.” Jess mashes a button on the remote, and her feet slowly lift, her head tilting back. “This, though. This could make me happy. Kate, spend all of that money you’re making and get me this for Christmas.”
“She’s not getting you a massaging chair for Christmas,” Mom intones, her fingers digging into her purse and coming up with a fresh handful of nuts. “She’s got to save her money for the wedding.”
“Actually, I’m not getting you that chair because it’s six thousand dollars,” I say, leaning forward and looking at the black contraption currently surrounding my feet. “Did this thing hurt when you guys did it? I think it’s broken. It’s crushing my toes.”
“That’s normal,” Mom says, with the air of a seasoned Brookstone shopper. “I think it wakes up your blood vessels or something like that.”
“Excuse me?” We all turn to the man, a store employee who clutches a clipboard in one hand. “You can’t eat in here.”
“Sure I can.” Mom defiantly stuffs two nuts past her coral-red lips. “John told me I could.”
He sighs. “No one named John works here.”
Jess meets my eyes, and I look at my feet to hide my smile. Poor guy.
“I didn’t say John!” she says indignantly. “I said Jim. Or was it Jeff?” She waves a hand dismissively and a pistachio escapes, flying toward a display of drones. “Something like that. A tall guy.” She sniffs. “With glasses.”
“There’s no eating in here,” he repeats. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“I’ve got thirteen minutes left,” Jess pipes up, holding a remote almost the size of my head. “We can’t le-le-leave-ve-ve yet-et-et-et.” The last words of her sentence reverberate out of her, her chin shaking as the chair starts that sort of karate chopping motion that masseuses all love.
“Jacob said I could eat in here!” Mom insists, and I reach down and turn off the foot massager. Beside me, a little girl stops, her finger crawling up her right nostril as she stares at my mother. Move along, little lady. Nothing to see here. My mental urging has little effect. She plops down on the floor, and I meet Jess’s eyes. Let’s go, I mouth.
It is hard to tell, with all the shuddering of her body, but I think she nods.
“Does this make you happy?” Mom stands, and the cord rips out of the neck massager, the soothing purr gone. “Taking food out of little old ladies’ mouths?” The man reaches for her arm, and she snatches it away, her cup full of pistachio shells swinging through the air, a rainfall of white half-moons cascading down.
My eyes catch the little girl’s, and she grins, showing a few missing teeth.
“So anyway, as of last month, I’m banned from Brookstone.” I reach over and turn on the heated seats, my elbow brushing against Trey’s.
Craig, had I told him this story, which I did not, would have been appalled. Trey merely grins. “Any Brookstone? Or just the one in Fashion Square?”
I pause. “I’m not sure. Maybe just that one.”
“So you’re not fully a bad girl. Just in Westfield.”
“Well… yes.” I smile. “But again, that was all my mother’s fault. I was completely innocent.”
“I’d rather picture you as a rebel.” He reaches forward and starts the navigation, the car informing us that a turn is approaching in fourteen miles. “Remind me again why we didn’t fly to San Francisco.”