Love in Lingerie(38)

“Oh my God.” I push the hood off my head and wipe underneath my bottom lashes with my fingertips. “I miss California.”

He runs a rough hand through his hair and water splatters everywhere. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who wanted us to open a French boutique.”

“It was a terrible idea,” I decide. “You should fire me for it.” I look out on the street. “I mean, look at these women. They aren’t going to buy two-hundred-dollar panties.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He leans against the wall and points to a man who holds an umbrella, helping a brunette across the street. “But he is. And so will the women, once that billboard goes up.” He turns to me. “Or so you tell me.”

The billboard is actually the side of a building, one that will host a ridiculously sexy picture of Trey, in his hottest suit, our LeCort bra hanging from the tip of his finger. It’s part of the campaign I had brainstormed the night of Trey’s mugging. This billboard was one of eight ads, all which featured Trey, domination pouring from the images. I had been right. He ordered women to buy our lingerie, and they responded in staggering numbers. Our focus groups had obsessed over it, and sales in US cities spiked everywhere we’ve run the ad. The billboard will be the first of a full French marketing campaign.

“It doesn’t matter if they buy.” I jump in place, watching my shoes, bits of water squirting out the top of them as I land. “This entire thing was really just an excuse for a free trip to Paris. And now that I’m here, and it’s freaking bleak and dreary, I’d like to cancel it all. Let’s just forget the grand opening altogether and fly home. I’ll even give you a free grope mid-flight.”

He makes a face, his hands tucking into his pockets. “No deal. I grope you anyway. As soon as you start drooling all over my shoulder, my hands get to working. But if you can wear a front-clasp bra, that would make my life easier. It’s a bitch to undo it from the back, especially when people are watching.”

I smile despite the weather and the hours of work ahead of us. He catches the movement and steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he matches my stance, both of us looking out into the street. Even through the rain and the fog, it does have a certain ethereal beauty to it. A beauty that I never thought I would experience and yet here I am, in the most romantic city on Earth, with him. I glance over, and he looks down at me, a grin stealing over his face. “You know we’ve done it, Kate. Pulled Marks Lingerie from the ashes.”

I nod, and for once, I don’t have words. Tomorrow, we will open the doors to a French store, a sister to the Los Angeles boutique we opened six months ago. This year, we will clear two million in profits. Next year, we should triple that, launch a men’s line and five more boutiques. It’s incredible what we’ve done, all in two-and-a-half years. As fucked up as our attraction occasionally gets, at least we have this. I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life.

I nod again, and he wraps his arm around me, his chin resting on my head. “Thank you, Kate.”

I smile. “You’re welcome.”





“I love Paris!” I scream the words into the night, the wind carrying them down to the street, a few tourists cheering in response. An arm hooks around my waist, and I giggle as Trey hauls me off the balcony, his hands firm as he turns me in place and then points to the suite’s couch.

“Sit, my drunk beauty.”

“Yessir,” I mock, plopping down on the red velvet, some of the champagne sloshing out of my flute. I take a small sip, watching as he feeds another log into the fireplace, bright orange embers curling through the air, some floating into the room. I close my eyes and stretch my bare feet toward the fire.

“Warm enough?” he asks, and the couch beside me dips from his weight. I roll my head to the side, smiling at the look of him, his bow tie loosened, tux jacket gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Rumpled. My rumpled and sexy man.

“I’m perfect.” I hold my champagne glass out to him. “Finish this please.”

He takes it from me and finishes off a hundred dollars’ worth of champagne in one thick gulp.

“Is it weird that I didn’t bring Stephen with me?”

He looks down into the empty champagne flute, then sets it on the side table, slouching down on the couch until his position matches mine. “No. It was a work trip.”

“Is it weird that I didn’t want to bring him?”

He turns his head to the side, his ear against the couch pillow. “A little.”

“Did you think about bringing Chelsea?” It’s been eight months, and I still struggle to say her name.

“It wouldn’t have made much sense to. We broke up last week.”

“What?” I readjust, turning slightly to see him better. “Why?” They broke up? My drunk self can’t handle the news; it doesn’t know how to react, and whether to cheer or cry. I’ve spent months trying to adjust to the impending possibility of their long-term relationship, months trying to see him as a friend and never ever anything else.

“You want the long or short answer?”

“Both.”

“She wasn’t you.”

Three simple words, yet they hit like sledgehammers. I look into his eyes and wonder how much of the emotion welling in me is from the champagne, how much is from Paris, and how much is from him. I have a boyfriend. I need to remember that. Stephen is a good and stable man. I just can’t, right this second, remember what makes him better than Trey. I swallow. “Is that the long or short answer?”