Lag (The boys of RDA #2)(4)
Nervous with all the visual attention and not wanting to be caught staring at him, I clear my throat. I stick one leg under me on the couch, in a half Indian-style pose, and turn toward him.
“I hope you’re feeling better… you know… from…… um.” I stumble over my thoughts but wave my hand in the general direction of his junk.
His smile grows in size. “You mean are my balls feeling better after you tried to take them home with you?”
My eyes go wide at his comment. I open my mouth to respond but only produce a squeak. He throws his head back and releases a boisterous laugh at my expression. Realizing he isn’t angry, I join him in the moment. I’m not sure which is funnier, my inability to say the words or his blatant honesty with our earlier situation.
His beer sits on the end table behind him, and I try a better approach to break the ice. “Can I get you another beer?” It feels like the least I can do for the guy.
He reaches behind him to recapture the abandoned beverage. “Sorry. Your elbow may have roughly fondled me earlier, but I can’t accept a drink from a girl I don’t know.”
His joke breaks away more of my tension and I lean toward him with my hand extended. “Simone Stevens.”
Our hands connect and the warmth from his fingers reminds me how cold I’ve become in the short time I’ve spent on the couch. I’ll have to go back upstairs to get a jacket eventually, but I don’t want to leave here without his name first.
“Trey Good. It’s nice to meet you, Simone.” My name rolls off his tongue when he puts extra emphasis on the “one” making it sound almost dirty. If my mouth had been open, I might have been caught in a moan.
I’m reluctant to pull away, but I shiver from a sweep of breeze roaming through the patio we’ve taken up residence in. From the way Trey inspects his clothing for a moment, he must have noticed my chill but doesn’t have anything to offer me. The thought seems to make him remorseful if his pursed lips when his head raises are anything to go by.
My libido tempts me to ask for his button down shirt. I could easily make some comment about how the light blue shirt would pair well with my pink tank top, but I can’t openly flirt with someone I’m not sure is single. Plus, I didn’t feel anything with my elbow jab earlier today, but my ninja skills may strike fear in his manly bits now. At least that’s what I tell myself. It will make any impending rejection easier to handle.
“So where are you from, Simone?” He says my name again with his question, but it doesn’t sound as risqué this time.
Before I answer, a waiter in the standard hotel polo and black pants walks past our couch. Trey reaches a hand out and waves him in our direction.
“What are you having?” he asks.
“I thought I was buying?”
He doesn’t answer my question with words, but the pinched, straight-faced look he tosses my direction tells me not to fight it. And for some ridiculous untold reason I don’t. “Get me a Long Island, please.”
“Two Long Islands and a blanket for my lady,” Trey directs the waiter and turns back to our conversation.
I almost release a stupid girly laugh at the “my lady” part, but I get ahold of myself in time. I’m back to normal before I speak. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ll be fine.”
Trey slides his thumb back and forth on his jaw line as his eyes noticeably travel up and down my body, stopping at my chest to linger. “Let’s let me do what I need to do, okay?”
His not-so-cryptic comment about my hard nipples causes my face to heat. I wrap my arms around my sides to try and cover up the evidence before they poke through my tank top more. My B-cups have never felt so large and in the way before. Plus, I’m not sure if it’s the temperature or his gaze that’s to blame for my current condition.
In a hurry to change the topic, I fill the silence with my answer for Trey’s earlier question. People seem to think life in New York City is a whirlwind of excitement, but in my case it mostly involves working. I explain my job title might be “Executive Assistant,” but I’m more of a gopher. My days — and sometimes nights — are spent making sure my bosses’ clients are satisfied with our financial services.
You’d think it would be simple since I work for a financial firm, copy some papers here or there, but over the last five years I’ve done it all. From shopping for a million-dollar apartment with Mrs. Peterson to buying a new Aston Martin Vantage GT in green for Mr. Clark.
High profile clients often come with high profile problems, which is why I get paid so much to make sure every detail is taken care of before issues arise. It’s also why I’ve purchased every birthday, Christmas, Valentines, and anniversary gift for the wives of more than one of my male clients. If I’m truthful, there are a few mistresses on my gift list too. I’m paid to not ask questions.
It’s not how I planned to use my accounting degree after graduation, but a girl needs to eat. I like food. Food is expensive in the city… along with everything else.
My description of Clark’s face when he realized he couldn’t drive the stick shift, but he’d already signed on the dotted line for his brand new pretty Vantage has us both laughing.
“I drove the car home for him and then set him up private lessons with a tutor the next day.” My face hurts from how far my lips have stretched as we’ve talked. I can’t remember the last time I smiled so much.