Love in Lingerie(21)

His tongue runs along the inside of his bottom lip and he, almost reluctantly, lifts up his own glass. “To Marks. And to bonding with coworkers.”

I tip back my glass and look away.





chapter 8

Her

“I just don’t understand why you haven’t told Trey.” Jess pushes the shopping cart forward and stops beside a rack of purses, picking up a knock-off Betsey Johnson clutch. “It’s been a month since you and Craig broke up. What do you guys talk about all the time?”

“Business.” I spin a rack of sunglasses and pluck a pair off the top. “And other stuff. I don’t know. He doesn’t bring up Craig.”

“You guys are weird.” She holds up the clutch. “Do you think this is worth forty bucks?”

“No.” I push the glasses on my face and bend down, looking into the mirror. “We aren’t weird.”

“You’re totally weird. Even Mom thinks you’re weird, so that’s pretty much the kiss of death.”

“In what way are we weird?” The glasses don’t look terrible on me. I tilt my head, considering them.

“It’s the way you look at each other. Like you guys are having subliminal conversations. It’s rude, you know. When other people are there. I felt left out having lunch with the two of you. Plus, there’s the whole attraction thing.”

I take off the sunglasses and check the price tag, sighing as I return them to the rack. “Lots of friends are attracted to each other.”

“Ummm … no.” She tosses the clutch onto the pile and pushes the cart forward. “Actually, they aren’t. It never works out.”

“You liked Gabe Jordan.”

“That was ninth grade, Kate.” She checks her watch. “Shit. It’s already two. We need to hurry.”

I watch as she turns down a housewares aisle, her steps increasing in speed as she moves past the cooking items, bee-lining for a display of picture frames. Maybe Trey and I are weird. I certainly feel ungrounded at times, as if we are tip-toeing closer and closer to the line of inappropriateness. It’s the reason I haven’t told him about Craig. I feel like my fake relationship with him is a layer of protection, something to point to and say See? We are just friends. We must be, since I am happily engaged.

“Hasn’t he asked about your ring?” Jess asks, carefully placing a picture frame into the cart.

“I told him I need to get it resized.” A terrible excuse, but one he hadn’t questioned.

“I still can’t believe how smoothly your break-up went.” She pauses. “Actually, never mind. I can. If I ever divorce Adam, I’m having Craig handle the entire thing.”

She is right. My break-up with Craig couldn’t have been more peaceful. He hadn’t argued or shouted. There had been no tears or debates. He had listened to my fumbling attempt at discussing my feelings, then had moved to the closet and packed his bag. Before stepping out of the hotel room, we’d discussed our relationship going forward (cordial acquaintances), and whether he should contribute to the hotel bill (no). I have no doubt that, in his perfectly-organized home office, there had been an ‘In Case We Break Up’ folder, complete with a list of to-do items. By the time I’d returned to the US, I had a box on my kitchen counter with all of my things from his house, along with a typed list of items he was requesting from me. He had paper-clipped a counselor’s business card to the top of the list, along with signed papers from the bank that removed his name from all of our joint accounts. I’d returned his things the next week, and hadn’t heard from him since.

I lean against the wall. “I’m worried telling Trey will change our relationship.”

She looks at me. “That might not be a bad thing. He’s ridiculously hot … you need a new man…” She shrugs as if my problems are solved.

“It’s not that simple. Maybe if we were just friends—” I rub my eyes. “But the company needs us both. And he knows that. I don’t think he’d even do anything with me, for fear of messing up that.”

“Okay…” she drawls out, nodding at a passerby and moving farther down the aisle. “You’re not making any sense. Do you want to date the guy or not?”

Do I want to date Trey? It isn’t even worth considering. I can’t date Trey. “No,” I manage to say.

“No?” She raises her eyebrows in the knowing way that only a sister can.

“No,” I repeat, and this time the short word is heavy with resolve.

She only laughs in response.





Him

The brunette is a younger version of Kate, her breasts swelling over the top of the balconet bra. I watch as she lounges against the pillows, one knee pulling up, a hip curving. A man in a suit steps forward, stopping before her.

“What do you think?” Kate asks quietly. Bulbs flash and there is a snap of the shutter.

“It’s a gamble.” I shrug. “But I like to gamble.” Like father, like son.

“Think it’ll be too risqué for the stores?” The man kneels before the model, his hand on her thigh.

“I’m not sure. But marketing loves the idea of sexualizing the shoot. They think they can get the photos to go viral.” I pull out my phone and refresh my email.