Love in Lingerie(9)

He rubs the back of his neck. “According to the police, it’s somewhere in San Diego right now. They’re tracking it down.” He glances at me. “I was robbed.”

“In your bathrobe?”

He laughs, and it’s a nice one. Deep and strong, the kind you want vibrating against your skin. “I was naked, actually. The bathrobe was a bit of kindness on their part.”

Their part. A robber duo. Or trio? I try to figure out how Trey Marks was robbed while naked at the Ritz Carlton, and come up completely blank. It’s like those damn Mensa puzzles. I have all the pieces; they just won’t fit together. “I need more information,” I say finally, admitting defeat as I bring the car to a stop at a red light.

“I was meeting someone for sex. I left a key at the front desk. They came in when I was in the shower and robbed me.” He shrugs off the explanation, as if is a commonplace response, and one that makes perfect sense.

I was meeting someone for sex. I left a key at the front desk. It takes a few seconds for any possibility to come to mind. “Like a prostitute? You were meeting a prostitute?” I feel a burst of excitement, the term for this popping to mind. Rolled. He was a john and got rolled. I mentally high-five my super cool trendy self.

He shifts, the vinyl seat squeaking in response. “Sure. If that’s how you want to think about it.”

“That’s a bullshit answer. Either she was a prostitute or she wasn’t.”

“She wasn’t a prostitute.” He turns a little in his seat to face me. I successfully resist the urge to check how his new position affects my chance of a penis sighting. He’s not wearing underwear. He all but said that. Meaning that there is only a thin bit of terrycloth between us. If I reach over and nudge the fabric, he’ll be right there, fully exposed. I focus on keeping the car very precisely spaced in the center of the lane. She wasn’t a prostitute. Another maddeningly odd puzzle piece.

He clears his throat. “Do I seem like I’d need to pay for sex?”

“No.” I could have shouted it through stadium speakers and it wouldn’t have been more emphatic. Women probably pay him for sex, for the opportunity to sample that mouth and body. I straighten a little in my seat. Maybe that’s the answer. “Are you a prostitute?”

“God, you’re terrible at this game.” He looks out the window, eyeing the buildings that pass. “I’m not a prostitute, Kate.” He sounds disappointed. “I don’t want to talk about it. I fucked up and got burned.”

“I can’t believe the hotel wouldn’t give you any clothes.” I also can’t believe he didn’t pack any clothes. I guess whatever he had planned with this non-prostitute visitor—he hadn’t planned to spend the night. I guess he just waltzed in with his condom and dick—nothing else needed.

“The gift shop was closed. And the employees were unwilling to part with their own.”

I turn off the street and into my apartment’s garage, driving to my assigned spot. I shift into park, my hand brushing against his knee, and he moves away from the contact. I turn off the engine, and he unlocks his seatbelt, the sound unnaturally loud.





My couch is a sectional, one that doesn’t fold out, and I tuck a sheet under the cushions, moving with quick precision as Trey wanders around the living room, picking up and moving anything that he finds interesting. Craig was the complete opposite the first time he came into my home. He’d hovered by the front door, his eyes darting to me, needing the verbal authorization before he’d felt comfortable enough to fully step inside. Second, he didn’t touch my stuff. He still asks before picking up a frame, or opening a drawer. I like that, that even now, two years into our relationship, he has respect for my space, for my things. When we move in together, he won’t invade, but rather carefully ease in, all the while confirming and diplomatically discussing boundary items like dirty laundry and personal time.

I hear Trey open my bedroom’s closet door and I pause, mid-fluff, of a pillow. “What are you doing?” I call out, setting down the pillow and moving into the room.

“Looking for clothes. Where does your fiancé keep his stuff?”

He crouches, moving aside the bottom of an old prom dress, then stands, turning to me, as if he isn’t being the rudest person on earth. “Huh?”

“Huh, what?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

“Where does your fiancé keep his clothes?” He raises an eyebrow and damn, he is beautiful. His robe is open at the chest, showcasing muscles that hug either side of his neck. His chest is bare and tan, the muscles strong and well-developed. He swallows, and I yank my eyes back to his face.

“He doesn’t keep clothes here. He packs a bag when he comes.” I suddenly think of something. I snap my fingers in excitement and run for my keys. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab something out of the trunk.”

I am at the front door when his hand wraps around my forearm. “Wait.” I pause, my hand on the door, and look up into his face. “Let me get it. It’s too late for you to go out there alone.”

I snort. “I just went out there alone when I went to pick you up. You weren’t too concerned about me then.”

“Selfish necessity. And I didn’t realize the setting. It’s too dark of a garage. Too many places that someone could hide and wait for you. Just tell me what to look for.”