Love in Lingerie(19)

I think it’s the alcohol that has numbed me. There is no reason, when he moves to the bed and pushes inside of me, that I don’t emotionally react. No reason why, when we finish and I roll over in bed, my dress still on, hair still up, that I should feel alone.

But I do. I lay my hand across the dark grey sheets, the diamond glinting at me, and I feel the deep certainty that I am making a mistake.

At 4 AM, I wake up Craig and tell him everything.





Him

I end the call and nod to the waiter, waiting for him to replace my drink. I eye the third place setting, and regret, for the hundredth time, allowing her to bring her fiancé along. Initially, I had thought it a good idea. I thought that seeing her happy, seeing her future—it might make everything between her and I a little clearer, a little less tempting. That plan backfired as soon as they arrived. This guy isn’t right for her. Hell, he’s completely wrong for her. But I can’t tell her that. If I do, she’ll dismiss it, and then there will be animosity, and as close as we’ve become during the past nine months, I’m not certain we can bury that conversation and move on.

I run a finger over the tines of my fork, pushing down on the silver, irritated by the fact that he is here, putting a damper on everything. Today, we should be celebrating, the merchandise purchase complete, a chunk of money saved, everything continuing to move toward success. Instead, I’ll be staring across the table at him, and pairing all of the ways he is wrong for her against all of his strengths.

Unfortunately, he does have a few strengths.

He’s attractive, in a Brooks Brothers, men’s catalogue sort of way. Perfectly neat hair, straight teeth, boyish good looks.

He’s successful, assuming she’s happy as middle-class.

He’s smart, annoyingly so, something he has gone out of his way to point out.

He also seems oblivious to the fact that I want to fuck his future wife. He seems to have no concern over our long hours, or casual familiarity, or the moments that our eyes meet across the table, wordless communication in just the tiny movements of a smile or glance.

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 ma?tre 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.