Love in Lingerie(41)

“Stephen?” Worry shoots through me, my thoughts rocketing to my last call with Kate, a few hours earlier. She’d been on her way to the store; we’d talked about increasing shipping costs and whether she needed a freaking parakeet. I should have told her to be careful, to get off the phone, to watch her surroundings and get back home. I—

“Everything is okay,” he reassures me, reading the alarm on my face. “I just came by to talk to you.”

As quickly as the panic came, wariness replaces it. I can count the conversations I’ve had with this man on one hand, all of them in the presence of Kate. There is no good reason for him to be at my home, on a Sunday morning, without her. I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, sizing him up, my protective instincts on full alert. He’s my size, but less fit, his frame less muscular, the sort that looks good in a tux but gaunt in a bathing suit. In a fight, I would demolish him—not that he would go toe-to-toe with me. He’s too nice for that—too respectful, too friendly. He would adopt kittens but lacks the sharp edge to haul a woman to his side, then fuck her over the trunk of his car. My eyes move past him and to my new truck, its tailgate down, the vehicle blocking my garage, and the sleek collection of testosterone inside. I’d have her against its door, or sitting on that tailgate, her clothes ripping on its rivets and hinges, the cool metal against her skin, her hands trembling against its surfaces, her nails scratching its wax.

“I didn’t mean to bother you.” He clasps his hand, one palm over the other, and gives a nervous smile. “I’m sorry for not calling first. I…” he spreads his hands, “I’m running out of time.”

Running out of time. I think of Marks Lingerie’s fourth year, the two-million-dollar loan I secured with a trio of Italians who’d made my terms of repayment very clear. I had sweated through every minute of that year, through every check I’d written them, until their principal and interest had been paid in full. Maybe that’s what this is about. My eyes flick to the nervous twitch of his gaze, and the possibility of his insolvency encourages me. “What do you need?” I ask.

He glances past my shoulder, hinting at his desire to be invited in. I don’t move, my eyebrows raising, and wait for his response.

“Well.” Those fucking hands spread again, and he looks at them as if they hold something, maybe the words that he needs. He looks back at me. “I know that Kate and you are close. Best friends.”

Best friends. It’s a title that should be reserved for teenage girls, not two people who can barely keep their hands off each other. My lip curls but I say nothing. Is this still about a loan? My body tenses at the idea that Kate may somehow be involved, that she might be in some danger as a result of his incapability to manage money. “Get to the point.” I grit out the words, barely able to stop myself from reaching forward and yanking the damn message from his throat.

“Oh.” He collects himself, then looks up. “Ah … I.” He pauses, then starts over. “Tomorrow night, I’m planning to propose. There’s an office party I am hosting—I’m going to do it afterward. Since her father is no longer living, I thought I would ask for your blessing. I mean, I know it’s a bit outdated, but you’re like a brother to her.”

Like a brother to her

The rage ripples out, taking my thoughts and spewing them out, my words terse and deadly, barbs of truth that stab across the space. “I’m not like a brother to her. A brother wouldn’t think about bending her over my desk every time she walks into my office. A brother wouldn’t check out the curves of her ass every time she turns away.”

The smile drops from his face. What an idiot. Does he not know her impact? The weight of her smile, her laugh, her challenge? Doesn’t he understand that it’s impossible to know her and not love her? His hands, those patty-cake-palms, clench into fists, and I hope to God he is about to swing at me.

“What the fuck did you just say?” The man steps forward, and I push off the doorway, coming to my full height and meeting his glare full-on.

“You heard me. Now get the fuck off my property before I embarrass you.”

She will be mad. Hell, she’ll be furious. But I’ll be damned if anyone thinks I’m like a brother to her. A brother. My muscles tighten, and I come off the stoop and toward Stephen, pushing my shirt sleeves up, enjoying the rush of blood in my veins. A fight, that’s what we need, the ability to take this back to caveman days and finish it. I clench my fists, and he steps back, his hands raising, his slick dress shoes moving down one step, then a second. He turns toward his Audi, his eyes warily staying on me. “I’m marrying her,” he promises me, and the headlights of his car flash as he unlocks the doors.

“You’re not marrying her,” I disagree, and I stop, watching him nearly scurry around the hood of the car. “You won’t even be engaged to her.”

The words roll out confidently, but they aren’t mine to give. I watch him peel out of my circular drive, his window coming down, one cowardly middle finger raised in my direction, and panic sweeps through me.





All Sunday, I wait for her call, for her car to screech through my driveway, for her scream to echo through my home. By Sunday night, I’m convinced he hasn’t told her. By Monday afternoon, I’m almost at ease, my mind halfway through a clusterfuck of a marketing plan when my office door slams open, the handle punching a hole in the plaster, the artwork clattering against the wall.