Lag (The boys of RDA #2)(64)
“Mari, have you met Simone?” Trey’s voice is tight and it worries me. I don’t enjoy feeling like the other woman, and even though I tell myself I’m not, I feel as if I’ve stolen her man.
Mari leans closer with her upper body and sneers in Trey’s direction, reducing her voice. “Yes, I do believe I have. I didn’t know you weren't above sleeping with the help.” In her hand she has a larger than normal martini glass, and as she leans back, some of the liquid sloshes over the side soaking into the carpet.
I freeze at her words and try to sink into my chair so she’ll forget I’m here. Trey, sensing my discomfort, lets go of my hand and I’m quick to pull it to my lap. It's the wrong decision as the movement catches her eye and she follows it to where it leads right to me.
“Mari, now isn’t the time or place for this.” Trey keeps his voice low, but from the way his face tightens it takes effort.
She takes a jerky step back in his direction. I’m pretty sure Mari’s drunk or well on her way to being drunk. I don’t remember her having balance problems when she was in the office.
“Where is the time or place? You won’t take my calls. How am I supposed to talk to you?” Her hand sways again and a drop or two more of the liquid spills out. "Now I see why you barred me from the office. You wouldn’t want me to walk in on the maid dusting off your dick.”
I gasp at her cruel words and my mouth falls open in shock. She didn’t just say that out loud, did she?
Trey stands jostling the glasses on the table. “That’s enough.”
“You’re right. I’ve had enough of watching this spectacle in public.”
In slow motion her hand flails out, and Mari tosses the remainder of her drink in my direction. The liquid splashes on my neck and travels down into my sweater. I reach a hand up to wipe the already sticky mess from my chin, and the harsh odor of liquor follows until it’s the only distinguishable smell.
I stand, a base reaction to being doused in liquid. I can’t believe the crazy chick threw her drink on me. Mari turns and walks away through the double doors and out to the lobby where the elevator we rode up waits. Behind her our waitress stands with an open mouth, a witness to the scene. She stammers for a minute before placing our food on the table and offering to bring me a towel.
Trey looks me over and reaches a hand around my back to hold me in a half hug. “I guess we’re getting this to go.” His words are hard and flat in tone.
I worry whether it’s because we’ve caused a scene or because he upset Mari.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I flick off the light in Trey’s hallway bathroom and walk toward his kitchen. We left the restaurant after Mari’s outrageous display, which sucks because the view was great and I’m starved. I tug on the hem of the azure button down shirt Trey loaned me while he promised to save my sweater. His long sleeve shirt is large on me, but since I’m tall it doesn’t completely cover up the plaid boxers I’m using as shorts, also from Trey’s dresser. I’m not sure why he thinks the sweater can't be washed. But working on it made him stop muttering obscenities about Mari, so I ran with it.
Honestly the man’s more upset about it than I am, and I was the one wearing a martini. A double from the amount I soaked up. I give the shirt one last tug and turn the corner to find Trey leaning over his kitchen sink with both hands submerged in the tub of bubbly water.
I lean on the entryway to the room, a little hesitant to enter for some reason. “Do you own anything besides button down shirts?”
“Yes, but button downs are practical. They have the look of casual professional expected of me with investors but can easily be made more laid back when I’m done for the day.”
My face scrunches up at his technical answer, but since Trey never turned to look at me he doesn’t notice. I guess he’s still a little upset about the Mari business.
His hands come out of the sink and he wipes off the bubbles flicking them back in the tub. I’ve never seen stain remover bubble so much, and my curiosity has me step a few feet closer until I’m looking down at the shirt as it soaks.
“Why is it so … sudsy?”
He sticks his hands back in and pushes the blue sweater down into the water from where it floated to the top. “Maybe I used too much soap.” His hand reaches to the back of the sink where a bottle of green dish soap rests on the counter.
Across the bottle big bold letters advertise it as “Concentrated grease fighting formula with EXTRA suds.” I smash my lips together so I don’t laugh and ruin all his hard work on saving the now questionable piece of clothing.
“Do you think ‘ol blue is going to make it?” I look over the sink again and a few bubbles pop on the counter edge.
“Well I have her on life support, but it’s still touch and go.” Trey walks toward me as I turn to face him. My back presses up against the counter as he wraps his strong hands around my midsection. He steps closer until I’m surrounded by Trey and the smell of his heady cologne — the fate of my sweater lost and forgotten between his comforting arms.
His hands move in opposite directions. One rests on my lower back and the other higher over the strap of my bra pulling my shirt up with it. One finger stretches out and he runs the digit under my bra strap leaving goosebumps in his wake. “Your pants are in the washer. Should I throw your bra in as well?”