Love in Lingerie(13)

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.”

“Quality time together,” I say, reaching forward and pulling the water bottle from my bag. “Team building. The chance to see my excellent navigational skills.”

“Money,” he drawls.

“Are we saving money?” I squint, then shrug. “Oh, well. That too.”

I pull off my heels and settle into the seat, tucking one foot underneath my butt. I pick up my cell phone, and look through my texts. According to Trey’s recovered Tesla—in fine condition, minus one side mirror—we’ve got six hours to go, which includes a power charging break. And …. according to my schedule, we’ll be fine on time. Tonight, dinner and drinks with suppliers. Tomorrow morning, I’ve got interviews with two different designers, then we’ll make the trek back. I check for texts from Craig, but there are none. This trip is causing me to miss our second Mensa meeting. He seems as relieved as I am with the timing, one I carefully orchestrated. At our twenty-year anniversary, we’ll laugh about it. But now, the bitch that is Mensa seems like an anchor tied to our relationship, sinking Craig’s viewpoint of me and dragging my tolerance level down along with it.

I look over at Trey, who is relaxed against the seat, his eyes on the road, and flip through the list of questions I had jotted down to discuss during this drive. It had been Jess’s idea, being convinced that—given six hours alone with me—we could become best friends and cement my job security forever. She doesn’t understand fashion, the fickle beast that it is. She doesn’t understand that my job security hinges on my performance, my ability to revitalize the Marks Lingerie brand. I can bond with Trey Marks until I’m blue in the face and it won’t change the fact that his company is dying. I wet my lips. “How did you get into lingerie?”

It’s a story that should be known, should be sprinkled over every article, Wikipedia page, and company bio. But I’ve found nothing online, no breadcrumb trail to explain how this man ended up with the sixth largest lingerie company in the world. Were the rumors right? Had he seduced an old woman out of her riches?

“It’s a long story.” He glances at me. “And fairly boring.”

As if anything about him could be. I set down my phone. “I like boring stories. If it’s really good, maybe you can lull me to sleep and not have to deal with my incessant chatter for the next six hours.”

He gives a short smile—more polite than authentic. “Maybe another time.”

I huff out a protest. “I can’t properly create a vision if I don’t know the bones of the company.”

“Hasn’t seemed to bother you so far.” He shifts in his seat. “Besides, it’s not in my job description.”

“Ha. Funny.” I reach down and dig into my purse. “Do you allow people to eat in your car?”

“Of course.” He glances over, watching as I pull out a bag of M&Ms, ripping open the top and offering it to him. “No thanks.”

“If you’re not going to tell me, I’m just going to invent something scandalous and put it on the website. Poof.” I shrug. “Done.”

“I’m terrified,” he says dryly.

“As you should be. Wait until everyone finds out that you were a homeless street performer, playing a ukulele outside a trim factory. You broke in one night, looking for food, and built a hammock bed out of straps and a ukulele bag out of lace. One day, a wealthy woman saw your ukulele bag and—”

“Please stop.” He smiles, and it is an actual smile, one without sexual pull or cocky undertones. “You’re offending street performers everywhere.”

“That’s not offensive,” I say indignantly. “It’s the start of a ukulele-playing mogul! Look what you became!” I gesture to him, and his smile widens.

“Please stop saying ‘ukulele.”

“I’ll stop saying ‘ukulele,’ if you tell me the real story.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He puts both hands on the steering wheel. “I started at Bloomingdale’s, in their ED program.”

“How’d you get into that?” I interrupt him despite my best attempt to listen. South Central and Bloomingdale’s … talk about two completely different worlds.

He grins. “When I was thirteen, I was caught at Bloomingdale’s, shoplifting. The loss prevention manager wanted to know what a thirteen-year-old kid wanted with a woman’s blouse.”