Love in Lingerie
Page 13
He shouldn’t be this calm, or this friendly. He should be questioning our friendship, and subtly asserting his dominance. There should be a healthy distance between us, a squaring off of masculinity, a rolling up of sleeves in the fight over this woman. My woman.
That is how all of this should play out. That is the game I know how to fight.
I can’t fight a nice, well-mannered pushover. It would make me look like an ass. It would push her away.
I reach for my glass and mentally correct myself. It doesn’t matter how he reacts, or how the game should be played. I can’t fight him because I shouldn’t have her. It’s the mantra I keep forgetting, the plan that keeps going astray.
The restaurant door opens, and I know it’s her from the smile on the maître d’s face.
“Where’s Craig?” I pull out her chair, glancing toward the front of the restaurant. It’s terrible, but a part of me hopes that he is sick, some sort of stomach bug that will keep him in their room and out of our hair for the next two days.
“Something came up, late last night. He’s on the way to the airport now. He has to go home.” She picks up the napkin and spreads it in her lap, her eyes on the motion. Something is wrong, her voice too forcibly light.
I sit down and smooth my own napkin, keeping my gaze on her. “Do you need to go with him? I can handle the rest of the meetings without you.”
“No.” The shake of her head is short and quick, almost a shudder. “It’s fine. I’ll see him when I get back.” She smiles at me, and something is definitely wrong, the lines of her face pulling at the wrong places, her eyes avoiding mine, her study of the menu uncharacteristically focused.
I fight a war between protective aggression and giving her space, my tongue poised, unsure of how to act. I catch her eyes and there is a flash of raw vulnerability, silently begging me to leave it alone. I reach forward, passing her the basket of bread, and eye the ring that still sits on her finger. “So, no Craig.”
“No.”
“And our meeting with the factory rep is at ten?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you use bigger words in our meeting. You’re the only chance we have to sound intelligent.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, and it feels like a monumental victory. “Okay.”
“And you know you’ve piled a lot of extra work on me.”
Her eyebrow raises, and a hint of life enters her eyes. “In what way?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Now I’ve got to entertain you for the next two days. Play host, get you drunk on Hong Kong sake, and give you a vacation you’ll never forget.”
She rolls her eyes and picks up the menu. “Shut up. We both know I’ll be getting room service tonight, and you’ll be banging some Chinese whore.”
“I’m canceling the Chinese whore,” I say with a hurt tone. “I mean, I was going to bang her, but you and your inconvenient loneliness just cost her the greatest orgasms of her life.”
“Oh my God.” She lifts the menu higher to hide her smile. “Please stop.”
Her foot bumps against my leg, and I look at my own menu, wishing that ring was off her finger and this restaurant was deserted.
Her
“I’m not drinking that!” I call up to Trey, hoping he can read lips because the noise in the club is deafening. He smiles down at me and I tug on his dress pants, smacking a hand across the top of his shoe to get his attention.
Standing on top of the bar, he calls out something and the crowd erupts into cheers, a chant starting which I can’t understand. I raise my hands in question and he points to the girl next to me, yelling something at her. The girl, a pig-tailed sexpot with cat eyes and combat boots, leans forward and presses her mouth to the ice block, her eyes flicking up to Trey. He tilts a bottle and red liquor flows down a gulley, through the ice and into her mouth. It looks unsanitary and extremely sexual, two directions I have no plans of stumbling down tonight. She closes her eyes and swallows, lifting her mouth from the ice and wiping across her lips with the back of the hand. She gestures me forward.
“No!” I wave my hands at Trey, shaking my head emphatically, but the crowd chants louder, fists pounding the bar top, bodies beginning to jump in concert. He winces, as if he is innocent in all of this, then holds up one finger.
“One shot,” he yells. “Just one!”
I can’t. If I do this, if I yield to him, he will be hell. It will be like giving the devil keys to my kingdom. He will know that if he flashes me that smile, and gives me that wink, that I will bend, will behave, will do whatever he wants me to do. And I do mean whatever. His eyes catch mine and he crouches, smoothly setting down the liquor and swinging off the bar, landing beside me, his hand cupping the back of my waist and pulling me against him. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Just one, Kate. For me.”
Maybe it is the proximity to him, or the way his voice softens on the last two words. Maybe it is the fact that I have to turn away from him and take that shot or I’ll tilt my chin up and kiss him. Whatever the reason, I step away and up to the ice.
I tell myself that ice is sterile, and it doesn’t matter that I’m putting my mouth in the same place where a stranger’s was.
I tell myself that because I didn’t tell Trey that I broke up with Craig. It makes this night fine, removes any romantic layers, and drinking with my boss is as inappropriate as this will get.
I close my eyes and wait for the alcohol, and tell myself that I don’t care if I look sexy, or if Trey is proud of me, or impressed, or anything else.
The liquor hits my tongue and it’s ice cold. I swallow it and stand, some leaking from the side of my mouth. As I go to clean it, Trey’s hand is there, his fingers soft against my chin, and our eyes meet as he wipes away the liquor and then moves his hand up, gently sucking the edge of his thumb into his mouth.
Good Lord. This man will be the death of me.
My flight to Hong Kong had been bearable, Craig and I lucky enough to be seated next to one of those scrawny teenagers who wears headphones and doesn’t hog the armrest. But flying back, Trey upgrades me to first class, an expensive transition I initially balk at. The mid-flight neck massage, private television, and sushi softens my resistance. The full bed, privacy curtain, and seven-hour nap have me swearing off coach forever.
“Is everything okay with Craig?”
I consider the question without turning to look at him. “He’s fine. It was a work emergency. I think he’s handled it.” It’d be easy to tell him the truth; I should tell him the truth. Trey isn’t just my boss—we have become friends. It’d be weird not to tell him.
But telling him I’ve broken off my engagement will lead to questions, ones that I haven’t quite worked out in my head. Maybe, back in the US, I will change my mind. Maybe, after cataloguing all of the decision-making factors, I’ll realize that I shouldn’t have made such a life-altering decision while drinking. Maybe I’ll call Craig and tell him that I’d made a mistake.
Or maybe I won’t. I feel absolutely zero regret over my decision. If anything, I feel better—the knot of anxiety over our future gone, my possibilities wide open. Last night, I had the best night of my life. At some point, we had danced, in a dark club off a side street, one where drag queens greeted us at the door and disco pumped through the speakers. I’ve never danced. Not in college, definitely not in grad school. The formal events that Craig and I sometimes attended had a few slow songs we’d swayed to, in the most dignified manner possible. But nothing like last night. That had been arms up, ass shaking, gyrations. We had moved deep into the crowd, in a place of rough, jam-packed movement, his arms protectively wrapping around me, my body occasionally brushing against his to the tune of the techno. When we made it to the upstairs bar, we took tequila shots and found a jukebox. I put on a country song, managed to mix it with an Irish jig, and Trey laughed and told me that I was a terrible dancer. He also, over tapas in another bar, brushed my hair out of my face and told me that I was brilliant. I don’t remember my response. I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, except that I fell asleep in a taxi, and he ended up carrying me to my room.
That is how all of this should play out. That is the game I know how to fight.
I can’t fight a nice, well-mannered pushover. It would make me look like an ass. It would push her away.
I reach for my glass and mentally correct myself. It doesn’t matter how he reacts, or how the game should be played. I can’t fight him because I shouldn’t have her. It’s the mantra I keep forgetting, the plan that keeps going astray.
The restaurant door opens, and I know it’s her from the smile on the maître d’s face.
“Where’s Craig?” I pull out her chair, glancing toward the front of the restaurant. It’s terrible, but a part of me hopes that he is sick, some sort of stomach bug that will keep him in their room and out of our hair for the next two days.
“Something came up, late last night. He’s on the way to the airport now. He has to go home.” She picks up the napkin and spreads it in her lap, her eyes on the motion. Something is wrong, her voice too forcibly light.
I sit down and smooth my own napkin, keeping my gaze on her. “Do you need to go with him? I can handle the rest of the meetings without you.”
“No.” The shake of her head is short and quick, almost a shudder. “It’s fine. I’ll see him when I get back.” She smiles at me, and something is definitely wrong, the lines of her face pulling at the wrong places, her eyes avoiding mine, her study of the menu uncharacteristically focused.
I fight a war between protective aggression and giving her space, my tongue poised, unsure of how to act. I catch her eyes and there is a flash of raw vulnerability, silently begging me to leave it alone. I reach forward, passing her the basket of bread, and eye the ring that still sits on her finger. “So, no Craig.”
“No.”
“And our meeting with the factory rep is at ten?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you use bigger words in our meeting. You’re the only chance we have to sound intelligent.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, and it feels like a monumental victory. “Okay.”
“And you know you’ve piled a lot of extra work on me.”
Her eyebrow raises, and a hint of life enters her eyes. “In what way?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Now I’ve got to entertain you for the next two days. Play host, get you drunk on Hong Kong sake, and give you a vacation you’ll never forget.”
She rolls her eyes and picks up the menu. “Shut up. We both know I’ll be getting room service tonight, and you’ll be banging some Chinese whore.”
“I’m canceling the Chinese whore,” I say with a hurt tone. “I mean, I was going to bang her, but you and your inconvenient loneliness just cost her the greatest orgasms of her life.”
“Oh my God.” She lifts the menu higher to hide her smile. “Please stop.”
Her foot bumps against my leg, and I look at my own menu, wishing that ring was off her finger and this restaurant was deserted.
Her
“I’m not drinking that!” I call up to Trey, hoping he can read lips because the noise in the club is deafening. He smiles down at me and I tug on his dress pants, smacking a hand across the top of his shoe to get his attention.
Standing on top of the bar, he calls out something and the crowd erupts into cheers, a chant starting which I can’t understand. I raise my hands in question and he points to the girl next to me, yelling something at her. The girl, a pig-tailed sexpot with cat eyes and combat boots, leans forward and presses her mouth to the ice block, her eyes flicking up to Trey. He tilts a bottle and red liquor flows down a gulley, through the ice and into her mouth. It looks unsanitary and extremely sexual, two directions I have no plans of stumbling down tonight. She closes her eyes and swallows, lifting her mouth from the ice and wiping across her lips with the back of the hand. She gestures me forward.
“No!” I wave my hands at Trey, shaking my head emphatically, but the crowd chants louder, fists pounding the bar top, bodies beginning to jump in concert. He winces, as if he is innocent in all of this, then holds up one finger.
“One shot,” he yells. “Just one!”
I can’t. If I do this, if I yield to him, he will be hell. It will be like giving the devil keys to my kingdom. He will know that if he flashes me that smile, and gives me that wink, that I will bend, will behave, will do whatever he wants me to do. And I do mean whatever. His eyes catch mine and he crouches, smoothly setting down the liquor and swinging off the bar, landing beside me, his hand cupping the back of my waist and pulling me against him. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Just one, Kate. For me.”
Maybe it is the proximity to him, or the way his voice softens on the last two words. Maybe it is the fact that I have to turn away from him and take that shot or I’ll tilt my chin up and kiss him. Whatever the reason, I step away and up to the ice.
I tell myself that ice is sterile, and it doesn’t matter that I’m putting my mouth in the same place where a stranger’s was.
I tell myself that because I didn’t tell Trey that I broke up with Craig. It makes this night fine, removes any romantic layers, and drinking with my boss is as inappropriate as this will get.
I close my eyes and wait for the alcohol, and tell myself that I don’t care if I look sexy, or if Trey is proud of me, or impressed, or anything else.
The liquor hits my tongue and it’s ice cold. I swallow it and stand, some leaking from the side of my mouth. As I go to clean it, Trey’s hand is there, his fingers soft against my chin, and our eyes meet as he wipes away the liquor and then moves his hand up, gently sucking the edge of his thumb into his mouth.
Good Lord. This man will be the death of me.
My flight to Hong Kong had been bearable, Craig and I lucky enough to be seated next to one of those scrawny teenagers who wears headphones and doesn’t hog the armrest. But flying back, Trey upgrades me to first class, an expensive transition I initially balk at. The mid-flight neck massage, private television, and sushi softens my resistance. The full bed, privacy curtain, and seven-hour nap have me swearing off coach forever.
“Is everything okay with Craig?”
I consider the question without turning to look at him. “He’s fine. It was a work emergency. I think he’s handled it.” It’d be easy to tell him the truth; I should tell him the truth. Trey isn’t just my boss—we have become friends. It’d be weird not to tell him.
But telling him I’ve broken off my engagement will lead to questions, ones that I haven’t quite worked out in my head. Maybe, back in the US, I will change my mind. Maybe, after cataloguing all of the decision-making factors, I’ll realize that I shouldn’t have made such a life-altering decision while drinking. Maybe I’ll call Craig and tell him that I’d made a mistake.
Or maybe I won’t. I feel absolutely zero regret over my decision. If anything, I feel better—the knot of anxiety over our future gone, my possibilities wide open. Last night, I had the best night of my life. At some point, we had danced, in a dark club off a side street, one where drag queens greeted us at the door and disco pumped through the speakers. I’ve never danced. Not in college, definitely not in grad school. The formal events that Craig and I sometimes attended had a few slow songs we’d swayed to, in the most dignified manner possible. But nothing like last night. That had been arms up, ass shaking, gyrations. We had moved deep into the crowd, in a place of rough, jam-packed movement, his arms protectively wrapping around me, my body occasionally brushing against his to the tune of the techno. When we made it to the upstairs bar, we took tequila shots and found a jukebox. I put on a country song, managed to mix it with an Irish jig, and Trey laughed and told me that I was a terrible dancer. He also, over tapas in another bar, brushed my hair out of my face and told me that I was brilliant. I don’t remember my response. I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, except that I fell asleep in a taxi, and he ended up carrying me to my room.
