Love in Lingerie Page 7

  “Is it bad that I’m almost happy he went home early?” He leans his head back against the headrest and turns to smile at me. “I mean, I’m sure it ruined your birthday but—”

  “It’s not bad.” I gave him a half-hearted smile. “I think it was a good coworker bonding experience.” I reach out my glass, determined to return us to our proper relationship. “To Marks Lingerie.”

  His tongue runs along the inside of his bottom lip and he, almost reluctantly, lifts up his own glass. “To Marks. And to bonding with coworkers.”

  I tip back my glass and look away.

  chapter 8

  Her

  “I just don’t understand why you haven’t told Trey.” Jess pushes the shopping cart forward and stops beside a rack of purses, picking up a knock-off Betsey Johnson clutch. “It’s been a month since you and Craig broke up. What do you guys talk about all the time?”

  “Business.” I spin a rack of sunglasses and pluck a pair off the top. “And other stuff. I don’t know. He doesn’t bring up Craig.”

  “You guys are weird.” She holds up the clutch. “Do you think this is worth forty bucks?”

  “No.” I push the glasses on my face and bend down, looking into the mirror. “We aren’t weird.”

  “You’re totally weird. Even Mom thinks you’re weird, so that’s pretty much the kiss of death.”

  “In what way are we weird?” The glasses don’t look terrible on me. I tilt my head, considering them.

  “It’s the way you look at each other. Like you guys are having subliminal conversations. It’s rude, you know. When other people are there. I felt left out having lunch with the two of you. Plus, there’s the whole attraction thing.”

  I take off the sunglasses and check the price tag, sighing as I return them to the rack. “Lots of friends are attracted to each other.”

  “Ummm … no.” She tosses the clutch onto the pile and pushes the cart forward. “Actually, they aren’t. It never works out.”

  “You liked Gabe Jordan.”

  “That was ninth grade, Kate.” She checks her watch. “Shit. It’s already two. We need to hurry.”

  I watch as she turns down a housewares aisle, her steps increasing in speed as she moves past the cooking items, bee-lining for a display of picture frames. Maybe Trey and I are weird. I certainly feel ungrounded at times, as if we are tip-toeing closer and closer to the line of inappropriateness. It’s the reason I haven’t told him about Craig. I feel like my fake relationship with him is a layer of protection, something to point to and say See? We are just friends. We must be, since I am happily engaged.

  “Hasn’t he asked about your ring?” Jess asks, carefully placing a picture frame into the cart.

  “I told him I need to get it resized.” A terrible excuse, but one he hadn’t questioned.

  “I still can’t believe how smoothly your break-up went.” She pauses. “Actually, never mind. I can. If I ever divorce Adam, I’m having Craig handle the entire thing.”

  She is right. My break-up with Craig couldn’t have been more peaceful. He hadn’t argued or shouted. There had been no tears or debates. He had listened to my fumbling attempt at discussing my feelings, then had moved to the closet and packed his bag. Before stepping out of the hotel room, we’d discussed our relationship going forward (cordial acquaintances), and whether he should contribute to the hotel bill (no). I have no doubt that, in his perfectly-organized home office, there had been an ‘In Case We Break Up’ folder, complete with a list of to-do items. By the time I’d returned to the US, I had a box on my kitchen counter with all of my things from his house, along with a typed list of items he was requesting from me. He had paper-clipped a counselor’s business card to the top of the list, along with signed papers from the bank that removed his name from all of our joint accounts. I’d returned his things the next week, and hadn’t heard from him since.

  I lean against the wall. “I’m worried telling Trey will change our relationship.”

  She looks at me. “That might not be a bad thing. He’s ridiculously hot … you need a new man…” She shrugs as if my problems are solved.

  “It’s not that simple. Maybe if we were just friends—” I rub my eyes. “But the company needs us both. And he knows that. I don’t think he’d even do anything with me, for fear of messing up that.”

  “Okay…” she drawls out, nodding at a passerby and moving farther down the aisle. “You’re not making any sense. Do you want to date the guy or not?”

  Do I want to date Trey? It isn’t even worth considering. I can’t date Trey. “No,” I manage to say.

  “No?” She raises her eyebrows in the knowing way that only a sister can.

  “No,” I repeat, and this time the short word is heavy with resolve.

  She only laughs in response.

  Him

  The brunette is a younger version of Kate, her breasts swelling over the top of the balconet bra. I watch as she lounges against the pillows, one knee pulling up, a hip curving. A man in a suit steps forward, stopping before her.

  “What do you think?” Kate asks quietly. Bulbs flash and there is a snap of the shutter.

  “It’s a gamble.” I shrug. “But I like to gamble.” Like father, like son.

  “Think it’ll be too risqué for the stores?” The man kneels before the model, his hand on her thigh.

  “I’m not sure. But marketing loves the idea of sexualizing the shoot. They think they can get the photos to go viral.” I pull out my phone and refresh my email.

  “Still waiting on the Neiman Marcus order?”

  “Yep.” We are already solidly in the black for this season. However, their national order could give us firm footing to launch proper advertising. I lock the phone and slide it into my pocket.

  “By the way…” she shifts in her heels, and I look over, something in her delivery giving me pause. “Craig and I broke up.”

  It is so unexpected that I take a step back, my heart doing a confused jig—made of elation and dread. I swallow. “Really.”

  “Yeah. I just thought you should know.” She looks down at her clipboard, making a mark on the page. “Not that it changes anything. I just—”

  “Why did you break up?” She had to have ended it. There was no way that he—that any man—would walk away from her.

  “I don’t know.” Her shoulders lift. “I just felt that I might be making a mistake. And our relationship felt…” she pauses, and I feel my entire soul hang on the end of that sentence.

  “…like a business relationship,” she finally concludes. I understand what she is saying, the sterile way they had interacted, Craig’s formal planning and execution of every task—but still. The word choice stabs at me.

  I force myself to step closer to Kate, to return to our prior positions, my eyes on the models, the man now leaning over the woman, pinning her wrists to the bed. Kate tucks her hair behind her ear, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. She slides a hand down the shooting schedule, and I watch the delicate slide of her fingers across the page. She’s single. My Kate is single. No ring on her finger, no calls on her phone, nothing to stop me from hooking my hand around her waist and pulling her against me. I turn and step away, call out to a photographer’s assistant, and have him walk me through the lighting.

  Working with her for the ten months—it has already been a strain on my willpower. Now, with Craig removed from the equation, will I be able to control myself? I glance back at her, my gaze moving up her body, enjoying the feminine curves, the casual slouch, the confident way she calls out to the photographer.

  In my pocket, my phone vibrates, and I pull out the device, my heartbeat quickening at the email notification that appears. Neiman. The timing is suspect, and I glance up to the ceiling, wondering if the big man upstairs is trying to send me a message.

  I open the email, and scroll quickly through the order, a smile pulling at my mouth as I see the purchase numbers. I stride
over to her and wrap my arms around her, my chest to her back, my chin on her shoulder, my phone held out before her.

  “Look,” I whisper, and I fight the urge to gather her against me, to press my hips forward, against her body, to feel the curve of that ass against me. “Look what you did.”

  She twists around, throwing her arms around my neck, hugging it tightly. “We did,” she states, and when she pulls away, she is beaming.

  She’s right. We did it. And dammit, I can’t mess everything up now.

  chapter 9

  Her

  four months later

  Las Vegas. I win three thousand dollars on a slot machine and am stretched out on my bed, basking in my newfound riches, when Trey walks in. He cocks a brow at me and holds out his wrist. “I need help. This cufflink is a bitch.”

  I roll over and sit upright on the edge of the bed. When he steps forward, between my legs, I look up at him.

  “This could get interesting,” he murmurs, a wicked gleam in his eyes. His shoes settle into place, and his pant legs brush against the inside of my knees.

  It won’t. The man is a complete tease. He flirts like a teenage boy, then walks away and leaves me panting.

  “There are certain lines I don’t cross, and fucking my employees is one of them.”

  His line from my interview plays on repeat in my head. After our San Francisco road trip, I looked up Vicka Neece. Like I had expected, she is beautiful, and very different from me. Blonde instead of brunette. Taller than me, and thin instead of curvy. She has that sophisticated scowl that I’ve never mastered. I can see why a man would go for her. And I can see, in the tattered remains of Marks Lingerie, what interoffice relationships can lead to.

  I hadn’t thought much about it while I was with Craig, but in the last five months as a single woman, Trey’s stance on fraternization has haunted me. And right now, his belt is at eye level, the buckle begging to be freed, zipper yanked down, and all of Trey Marks’s mysteries unveiled. My hand hovers above the belt. It would be so easy. I sigh and reach past it, for his waiting shirtsleeve, my hands quick and efficient as I fasten the cufflink. I look up at him and stick out my tongue.

  “What is that for?” He extends the other hand, a smile playing across his lips.

  “You. You and your ridiculous temptingness.” The truth slips out before I can harness it in. I bite my bottom lip and look down at the cufflink, struggling more with getting this one through the hole.

  “Oh good. I was worried I was losing my touch.” He flips over his hands, offering them to me and I pull, getting to my feet.

  “Nope. No worries there.” I eye his suit. “So it’s this kind of a dinner?”

  “You were expecting the buffet? Keno and sweatpants?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I groan, moving past him and to the bathroom. “I’ve worn heels for, like, fourteen hours now.”

  “You don’t have to come.” He stands in the doorway and watches me. I grab a washcloth and rub it over my face, removing my makeup. I glance in the mirror, at my face, slightly pink from the hot water, and frown. Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised that Trey isn’t trying to fuck me. Not when he sees me like this, in threadbare yoga pants and a shirt I borrowed from his suitcase without asking. That’s what he gets for owning T-shirts that feel like suede and for booking us in adjoining rooms. I may be bringing his company success, but I’m not above blatantly stealing from his suitcase.

  “I know Mira and her husband,” he continues. “Why don’t you take the night off? Get room service and a movie.”

  I turn off the water and glare at him in the mirror. “Her husband owns thirty-seven department stores in California. I don’t care if you know Mira. Their first order, if we can get it, will be huge. No offense, but I’m not letting you screw it up.”

  “How can I not take offense to that?” He barks out a laugh, and follows me to my suitcase for a straightening iron.

  “It’s the truth.” I plug in the iron. “And don’t flirt with her.”

  “Oooh … jealous Kate. I knew you were in there somewhere.”

  “I’m not jealous, I’m sane. You don’t know how you are, what you do to women. You say something casual to her, and her husband is going to bury you into next year—”

  “Kate.”

  “…and he isn’t going to care if—”

  “KATE.” He steps forward, pushing me against the bathroom counter, the line of his body hard, fitting perfect into my curves, one of his legs moving forward, in between mine, a stiff line of muscle against an area that hasn’t gotten any attention since Craig in Hong Kong. “It’ll be fine. I’ve met her husband before. Everything … will … be … fine.”

  He drops his eyes from mine and down to my lips. His hands are resting on either side of me, flat upon the counter, caging me in, and I flinch when he moves just his thumbs, the scrape of them slowly caressing the sides of my hips. I can feel the delicate shift of air as he exhales, his eyes tracing over the lines of my lips, and I wet them in preparation. I should step aside, make a joke, mention the time. Instead, I close my eyes, my chin lifting, and wait for his kiss.

  I hear his groan in the moment before he pushes off the counter, his body leaving mine, my skin suddenly cool without the heat of his touch. I open my eyes and he is there, against the wall of the bathroom, his hand worrying over his mouth, then crashing through his hair. He steps through the doorway, and then there is the slam of the connecting door, and I am alone.

  I sag against the counter and let out a curse.

  Him

  My shoes clip across the hotel tile, a dominating sound that grounds me, another piece of the external appearance of control. I need the illusion, while inside, I fall to pieces.

  My company needs her.

  I need her.

  And, unfortunately, so does my cock.

  And that right there, is how things fall apart.

  I step toward the maître d’, and hope like hell she doesn’t come to dinner.

  Her

  My hair up, I wear my best suit—a sexy YSL number that Trey bought for me in New York. He had groaned when I had stepped from the dressing room with it on. A very similar groan, in fact, to the one that had ripped from him in the bathroom.

  Maybe he likes to torture himself. Or maybe he can only get himself off, and women are all just pawns in his ridiculous game of arousal.

  Whatever the reason, this dinner is too important to let our misplaced sexual tension get in the way. I pass the hostess stand, my heels careful on the slick wood floors, and move through the tables, looking for him. In the back, in an elegant four-top overlooking The Strip, his eyes meet mine. He rises from his seat, and I step toward him.

  Mira and Edward are from San Diego. She is a hugger, and I brace when she wraps her arms around my shoulders, her height putting her face uncomfortably close to my breasts. She’s in a low-cut red dress, one that shows off impressive curves and olive skin. She’s not traditionally pretty, but has the sort of face that is transformed when she smiles, her energy infectious. Her husband is more of the strong and silent type, a courteous gentleman who rises alongside Trey and extends a polite hand toward me. He is our mark—his upscale department stores the perfect home for our lingerie. We are in town for an expo, and Edward, apparently, loves any excuse to gamble.

  “Trey was just telling us all about you.” Mira leans forward, tucking a dark curl behind her ear and lowering her voice as if this is a secret of some sort. “He said you used to work at Lavern & Lilly.”

  “I did.” I make a face. “It wasn’t nearly as much fun as working for Marks.”

  She gives me a knowing smile. “Oh, I believe that. I worked with Trey before. I know how well he keeps his coworkers entertained.” She steals a shrimp off the appetizer platter and turns to Trey. “Isn’t that right, Trey?”

  Trey attempts to give her a stern glare, one that loses its impact in the curve of his mouth. “It’s not
like that, Mira.”

  Goosebumps pop along my arm, and I study her face, the way she smirks at him before dipping the shrimp into sauce. From under the table, I feel Trey’s hand settle on my thigh, his fingers squeezing, a brief warning that is entirely unneccesary.

  “I’m sorry.” I smile politely. “I didn’t realize that you two worked together.”

  “It was at Bloomingdale’s,” Trey lifts his glass, the ice cubes settling in the amber liquid. “Mira worked in their accounts department.”

  “I seduced the poor boy,” she interrupts grandly, holding up her wine glass to her husband, who lifts the bottle. I watch the dark red wine pour, and wonder exactly how many Bloomingdale’s employees he went through. “And, honestly, he didn’t have a chance.”

  “I wasn’t exactly a boy, Mira.” Trey lounges, his arm reaching behind my seat, the tips of his fingers brushing against my back. “I was twenty-four, same as you.”

  “I was wise beyond my years.” She turns to her husband, who seems completely unconcerned about their history. “Wasn’t I, babe?”

  “Still are.” He leans forward, setting down the wine bottle. “That’s why you get along with me so well. I’m immature and you’re ancient.”

  She scoffs, Trey chuckles, and I feel a combination of jealousy and confusion. I lift my drink and steal another glance at Mira, this one more apprising. I’ve seen a handful of Trey’s dates, most the long-legged kind who don’t concern themselves with breakouts, limp hair, or extra pounds. But Mira … she is a real woman, one whose nose is a little too big on her face, her features pleasant but not breathtaking, her body shape one that could shop at Lane Bryant as easily as Saks. She catches my eye and smiles, and her easy confidence is overwhelming. I swallow a sip of my mojito and search for something to say. “Edward, you met Mira through Bloomingdale’s also?”