Love in Lingerie(43)

“You know you guys can’t go back to being friends now.” Jess digs out a bit of baby food and holds it out to Skylar, who clamps her mouth shut and looks away.

I sprinkle glitter over a line of glue and say nothing. “Wanting to fuck you has never been the problem.” Had I actually said that? Had I told Trey that I wanted to fuck him? My mind hurts just thinking about the repercussions. I turn the cardboard page on its side and tap the excess glitter off, Jenna squealing with pleasure at the shimmery result. “He’s in New York,” I say. “So at least I don’t have to see him this week.”

“But you’ve talked to him.”

“Yes.” Of course we’ve talked. It’s habit to call him on my morning drive in. Fifteen decisions a day go smoother when discussed with him. There is no “running of Marks Lingerie” without both of us, hand-in-hand, pushing it forward. “But on the phone … I don’t know. It’s different. It’s easier.”

“Because you can’t rip each other’s clothes off?” She gets up and moves to the fridge.

I eye Jenna’s face, who blinks at me in the innocent way of a child. “Let’s talk about it later.”

Jess snorts. “Jenna, go upstairs and play.” Jenna’s chair squeaks against the tile and she is gone, her bright blue cowboy boots thudding across the kitchen and up the stairs with the thundering sound of a grown man. I watch Jess settle back in her chair, pulling the high chair closer.

“He flies back from New York on Tuesday afternoon,” I say. “He wants me to come over for dinner, to catch up on everything he’s missed.”

Jess turns, her eyes wide. “Tell me you’re going to finally do it. This is it! This is the moment!” She wipes off her hands and reaches for the house phone. “I’m going to call Mom.”

“Stop.” I grab the cordless handset off the table, tucking it in between my legs. “I’m not having sex with him. I’ll be in Stage 9 period territory on Tuesday.”

“Ugh.” She gives up on her reach of the phone and turns back to Skylar. “Hey, maybe it’s a good thing.”

“It’s a great thing.” It’s the only reason I agreed to come over. Nothing like a giant maxi pad to guarantee my virtue. “But it doesn’t matter. He won’t make a move.” I don’t mean for the words to come out glum, but they do. Every part of me, from my libido to my voice, is confused. Should I be happy? Mad? Worried? I pick up a colored pencil and draw a face on the page. Skinny nose. Cartoon eyes. Long lashes. I pick up a red pencil and hover above the blank space where a mouth should go. Finally, I draw a flat line, sketching lips around it that press together in a … I pull back the pencil and examine the sketch. A constipated expression. I sigh, and attempt to correct the lips into a smile, the ending result clownish.

“What makes you think he won’t make a move?”

“He’s had time to think about it. I think the Stephen conversation was a gut reaction for him, something he wasn’t expecting and instinctively responded to. And then Stephen told me, and I came to him, and it sort of snowballed from there.” I add a neck and jaw, then pick up a new pencil and add thick black hair. “When he comes back into town, he’ll be back to normal. Under control.” I say flatly.

“Which is … a good thing?” Jess asks. “I’m so confused by what you want.”

“Yeah.” I stare at the artwork critically. “Me too.”





His Tuesday night flight is delayed, nixing our dinner plans. Wednesday, I suffer through two morning meetings, and finally connect with him in the conference room.

“You know, I did you a favor.” Trey taps the model on the elbow. “Turn around please.”

“Did me a favor?” I look up from the silk fabric in my hands, watching as he draws a careful line across the model’s back, sketching out the lines of a bustier that he wants us to design. It’s Wishful Wednesday, a monthly tradition on the second Wednesday of each month. We bring in a dozen models and all of the designers, giving everyone free reign with washable markers and a couple hundred material swatches. “With what?”

“Stephen. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sampling wedding cake right now and picking up his dry cleaning.”

“I would not.” I step beside him and eye the model. “That’s too low. It won’t stay up.”

“But it looks sexy.”

“It’s not going to be functional.”

“Tricia,” he drawls. “Will you please get Kate in line? She’s ruining all of my fun.”

Tricia, the model I was working on, giggles. I glare at her. “Don’t. You’ll encourage him.” I toss the robe to her. “Put that on for me.”

“God, you’re bossy.” He looks up at the busty blonde before him. “No wonder they all request me.”

“No one requests anyone,” I gripe, wincing as he draws a criss-cross of straps that no woman will be able to get into without help. Tricia clicks her tongue at me and I try to refocus, grabbing a handful of straight pins and moving toward her.

“She was going to marry a boring asshole,” he stage-whispers, and I smile despite myself, grateful that we are back to normal, as normal as the two of us can be.