She licked her lips. “Good morning.”
He kissed her, just like the night before . . . slowly, sweetly. The taste of coffee on his lips and the scent of the soap he used was a lethal combination.
“Goooood morning,” she said again, slowly.
“I could get used to that,” he said, only inches from her face.
That made two of them.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please.”
He crossed the kitchen and poured her a cup. “Anything in it?”
“Black is fine.” She took a sip. “When does this party get started?”
“The caterers will be here in an hour, food goes on the grill by noon, and people will start showing up anytime.”
“Am I dressed okay?” She opened her arms and invited his comments.
“You show those curves off any more and I might have to fight off a few of my friends.”
She took that as a yes. “You’ll have to point out the people I should know but probably don’t.”
“The only one you should know is me. I’ll introduce you to the rest. Ike and Jeb, you’ve already met, and they are the men to go to if you can’t find me and feel overwhelmed. Not that I plan on leaving your side.”
“It’s a party. I do know how to mingle.”
“I have no doubt you’ll hold your own, but people can be a bit possessive and downright nosy. Possessive about me and my time and nosy about you.”
“You mean us,” she said.
“Probably,” he agreed. “I don’t expect anyone to step out of line, but if they do, come right to me, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Like the ex?”
He frowned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she takes one look at us and leaves.”
Trina could hope. “I’ve been warned.”
He set his empty cup aside and slid a little closer. “How do you feel about public displays of affection?”
She blushed. Damn if he didn’t notice and brush the back of his hand against her cheek. “As long as the people displaying their affection don’t look like they need a room . . .”
He slid the hand from her cheek to her shoulder. “Darlin’, every time I look at you, I feel the need for a room.”
Okay, yeah . . . the heat factor leveled up with the sparkle in his blue eyes.
They stared, Trina with heat tingling up her spine and Wade emitting some kind of pheromone, willing her to step closer.
“There you are!” Vicki’s words broke the spell.
Trina stepped back.
Wade chuckled.
“Mornin’, Mama.”
Vicki bounced in, wearing a black midcalf western skirt, a tank top that barely covered her breasts, and a fringed light jacket. She ended the ensemble with blinged out cowboy boots. Trina was fairly certain a hat would adorn the woman’s head by the time the guests arrived.
Wade greeted his mother with a kiss to the cheek.
“So good to have you home.” Vicki turned to Trina. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you.”
Vicki’s smile matched Wade’s. “I don’t think we got off to the right start, and I wanted to apologize if I came off as standoffish. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting Wade to bring a friend.”
An apology with a but was never sincere. I’m sorry, but I have a reason.
“I didn’t take offense.”
“Any friend of Wade’s is a friend of mine.”
That sounded a little better.
“Thank you, Vicki.”
“I would love to know how you two met.”
“Hotel bar, actually.” The minute the words came out of her mouth, Trina knew they sounded seedy. “Which isn’t as bad as that sounds.”
Vicki held her smile.
Wade stepped closer, placed his hand on the counter behind Trina’s back. “It was midnight and we had both missed dinner. Trina had ordered a meal fit for a small village, and the kitchen had closed before I could order a beer.”
“It wasn’t that much food,” Trina defended herself.
“Yes, it was.”
Trina pushed against his chest to shut him up. “It wasn’t. Okay, it was more than I was going to eat, which turned out well for your son.”
Vicki’s gaze bounced between the two of them.
“Then after I told her who I was she said the craziest thing I ever heard,” Wade told his mom while looking at Trina.
“What’s that?” Vicki asked.
“She said, ‘Am I supposed to know that name?’ At first I thought she was pulling my chain.”
Trina watched Wade’s expression when he told his mother the story.
“I wasn’t interested in pulling a chain, I was hungry.”
Wade laughed.
They were lost in the memory and smiling at each other when Vicki said, “Well, that’s nice. I suppose it’s good for you.”
“It sucked for my ego,” he said. “Here I was, trying to impress her, and nothin’.”
“Yet here we are,” Trina said.
Wade inched his hand on her waist in the slightest touch.
“That’s sweet.” Vicki broke the spell. “So what is it that you do?”
Trina held her breath. Revealing who she was sparked an entire conversation she’d just as soon avoid.
“Trina is—”
“A flight attendant,” she interrupted Wade, placing a hand on his arm, hoping he’d get the hint. “Was . . . I’m in the process of building a business around attendants for private charters.”
“That sounds very ambitious. Are you looking for investors for this start-up company?”
“No. I have that figured out.” Which was true if she actually went through with it.
“Uh-huh.” Vicki glanced at her son, doubt on her face flashing for only a second before her smile returned.
That’s when Trina realized the fuel behind Vicki’s fire.
“So you’re technically unemployed right now.”
“I have a pretty good savings,” Trina told her.
Wade laughed under his breath.
“Well, good for you. There needs to be more women in business. Depending upon a man can often be disappointing.”
“Mama.”
“Present company excluded, of course.”
She glanced out the kitchen window, toward the back of the house. “Looks like some of the help have arrived, I should get to work.”
“Can I do anything?” Trina offered.
“Oh, no. I’ve got it, hon. You take care of you. Take all the time you need to change before the party.”
Oh, God . . . I’m not wearing the right outfit. “I didn’t bring . . .”
Vicki backpedaled. “You’re fine.”
“I came from New York.”
Vicki narrowed her eyes. “You live in New York?” She made the state sound like a disease.
“No. I live close to Houston . . . where I have the right outfit, but I didn’t have time to stop by—”
Wade squeezed her waist with his hand.
“Darlin’, you’re fine. Don’t think another thing about it. You’ll blend right in. Don’t worry.”
Sure.
Right.
Don’t worry.
Chapter Sixteen
There should be a special license one needed to drive on the streets of Manhattan. One Avery never wanted to obtain. She ditched the car at the first available parking garage and shouldered her oversize mom bag. New York was one of the safest cities in the world, in her opinion. It might not feel that safe if she announced the fact her purse was loaded with some pretty pricey stuff. But to the average person watching her walk by, she was just another smartly dressed woman on a mission.
Outside the garage, she checked her phone for the direction of the building she needed and started to walk. Fall was sneaking into the air but not strong enough for big coats or fur-lined hats. With a brisk pace, she traveled several blocks through a crush of New Yorkers and tourists alike.<
br />
She found the address and ducked inside the building through glass doors. Braum Auctions specialized in items many of the larger houses didn’t. Since Avery liked the idea of finding the perfect platform to sell the different mediums of collectables, she was willing to do the legwork.
Avery marched up to the reception area as she removed her designer sunglasses from her face. The perfectly polished woman behind the desk greeted her with a painted-on smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, I’m here to see Mr. Levin, I’m Avery Grant.”
“Miss Grant, welcome. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Avery decided to look at the art on the walls instead of sitting. Offices like this one reminded her of her father’s. Whenever she had been summoned to his office, he kept her waiting in the lobby for hours as a form of intimidation. By the age of thirteen, the time spent in high-rise lobbies no longer brought sweaty palms and itchy anxiety. No, she recognized her father’s tactics and didn’t show up for her monthly meetings until the very end of his day. Her antics frustrated him even more than whatever offense he was mad at her for to begin with. Her rebellion started at thirteen and didn’t end until after she married Bernie. Needless to say, her father was frustrated for a good many years.
“Miss Grant?”
Avery turned to find exactly what she expected, a balding, middle-aged, five-foot-seven man in a three-piece suit and a smile. She reached out her hand. “Mr. Levin?”
Men looked at her. It was something she’d grown used to the minute she put on a bra. Mr. Levin wasn’t any different. She pretended not to notice.
“Come on in.” He turned and walked them past the reception desk. “How was your drive into the city?”
“Excruciating, as always,” she teased.
“Traffic is a fact of life no matter where we live, eh?” His corner office had plenty of sunlight, but no real view since they were only on the fifth floor of the building. Still, the office was large enough to tell Avery that Braum Auctions wasn’t a basement operation where the merchandise she brought in was at risk of disappearing.
“Sit,” he offered. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, water?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
He took his seat behind his desk. “When you described the pen you found, I couldn’t wait to see it for myself.”
Avery lifted her purse, careful not to show him all the other trinkets she had inside.
Mr. Levin removed a black cloth from inside his desk and a jeweler’s eye loupe, along with a pair of white gloves.
“Here are the first few pens I found.” She handed him a small box with three designer examples of Fedor’s taste.
Mr. Levin picked each of them up, one at a time, and inspected them slowly and silently. “Very nice.”
“I wasn’t able to find these exact pens anywhere online.”
“That’s because they are limited editions . . . well, these two, in any event.” He lifted the third one with gold trim and some kind of black onyx strips adorning the length of it. “I’ll have to research this one,” he told her.
From her purse, she removed a jewelry box she’d found in Trina’s room to place the blinged out pen in. “Here is the one I told you about.”
Mr. Levin blew out a whistle.
Avery leaned back while he studied the pen for what felt like ten minutes. “This is spectacular.”
She actually thought it was gaudy. “Any idea how spectacular?”
He kept spinning it around in his gloved fingers. “High quality diamonds, and the rubies are exceptional . . .” For the next fifteen minutes he explained who the designer of the pen was and how few of this type of pen were in existence. No two were exactly the same. Blah, blah, blah . . . finally, the dollar amount trickled out of Mr. Levin’s lips, and Avery felt her fingers buzz. She knew the watches in her purse were worth some serious money, but a pen?
“That much?”
“At auction, it could go for even more. Collectors will line up.”
“For a pen?”
He smiled. “For a pen.”
Avery had considered taking the pens to more than one auction house to see if the appraisals would differ, but the thought of walking around Manhattan with those in her purse had perspiration welling on the back of her neck.
She glanced around his office. “I assume you have security for these kinds of items?”
“Of course. We have not lost any of our consignments, nor ever had any stolen.”
“I’d like to leave this with you, then, and when my friend is back in town, I’ll have her come in and determine if she really wants to sell.”
After an inch of paperwork and an hour of her day, Avery was back on the street and walking toward Park Avenue.
The desire to find a safe place for the watches sitting in the bottom of her mom bag burned in her head.
As Wade had predicted, guests started showing up before Trina finished her second cup of coffee. There were friends of Vicki’s who didn’t linger after Wade introduced her to them. Gus was part of Wade’s band and one of the first members that he toured with after he cut his first album. Then there was Jerry. The only man at the party not wearing denim or boots. Jerry had a couple of inches on Trina, was probably in his early forties, and still had all his dark brown hair. He was an attractive man, and from the way he looked around the room at other people, and especially her, he knew it.
“Who do we have here?” Jerry asked as he nudged Wade and peered at Trina.
Wade placed a possessive arm over Trina’s shoulders as he made his introductions. “Watch this one, Trina, he’ll try and turn you into one of my backup singers.”
She laughed. “Good luck with that, I only sing in the shower.”
Wade lifted a flirty eyebrow. “This, I wanna see.”
“Uhm, hello?”
“Sorry, Jerry.” Wade wasn’t sorry. “This is Trina. Jerry is my agent.”
Jerry shook Trina’s hand with a telling squeeze. Trina kept a smile on her face even though she wanted to pull her hand away as soon as she could and wipe it on her jeans.
“How come I’ve never heard of this beautiful creature?”
“You’re hearing about her now,” Wade explained.
“A pleasure,” she lied.
“Smooth and slightly exotic voice, are you sure you’re not a singer?”
Wade nudged her. “Told you.” His gaze went over the top of Trina’s head and his smile waned.
She followed his gaze.
Vicki was across the lawn, talking to a tall, leggy, stunning blonde. Big hair, huge smile, and boobs that would do Dolly Parton proud. She wore the boots, the hat, and the short denim skirt that not many women pulled off well. And she was staring directly at Wade.
Jordyn.
He placed his lips next to Trina’s ear. “I should talk to her first, before I introduce you.”
“Go. I’m fine here.” Trina didn’t turn when she felt eyes burning into the back of her skull.
“You sure?”
“I’m a big girl.”
He kissed the side of her head and left her with Jerry.
“You know what the best part about country music is?” he asked as he took a giant step closer.
“What is that?”
“Songs about love triangles always race up the charts.”
She tried not to look toward Wade and failed. He’d approached Jordyn, and she’d leaned in for a hug.
Trina looked away, not wanting to watch.
She found Jerry staring at her.
“I think you’re going to be good for our Wade.”
“‘Our’?” He made Wade sound like a possession.
“For his musical muse. Perfect timing, too.”
Trina wasn’t following him. “How is that?”
“Between albums, between tours. Soak up a little love, a little heartache.”
Trina stopped pretending to smile. “
You want his heart to ache?”
Jerry seemed to catch himself, and he shook his head. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
Yeah, she did. Wade Thomas was a meal ticket to someone like Jerry, and the man didn’t even try to hide it. Trina didn’t want to spend another minute at the man’s side.
“There is something I need to do,” she said as she took a step back.
“Nice meeting you,” he said.
She just smiled and walked away. “Asshole.”
Avery could finally breathe. She’d dumped the six-figure watch along with several of its five-figure brothers with an auction house on Madison Avenue and searched out lunch with a view of Central Park. The crisp morning blossomed into a balmy afternoon. The temptation to stay in Manhattan the entire afternoon and spend some money tickled her shopping bone. Then she remembered her last credit card bill and the amount of money she’d spent on things that were sitting in her LA condominium, collecting dust.
She sat at the top of Bergdorf Goodman, sipping her chardonnay, playing with her salad, and considered it a compromise. Eating in one of the most expensive and famous department stores would have to do. Maybe when she returned to collect the money after the sale of Fedor’s trinkets, she would indulge. But for now, she would try her hand at a budget. Her parents had tried to teach her money management since she was in college . . . well, her father attempted, her mother told her to marry a rich man. Her thirty-first birthday had passed the month before, so maybe a new leaf was in order.
The waiter returned to her table. Early twenties, tall, camera ready . . . he was yummy in all the right places. “Another wine?”
“I shouldn’t.” She was driving.
“How about some fresh bread to go with the second glass?” He flirted with his smile.
“If you insist.”
She checked out his ass as he walked away.
He returned a couple of minutes later and poured from an open bottle. “I’m sorry about the cork.”
She glanced at the glass. “What cork?”
He winked. “The cork that accidentally managed to slip into your drink. I’ll have to comp this for you.”
“Ah, that’s very nice . . .” She glanced at his name tag. “Norman . . .” She tried not to laugh. “Your name is Norman?”
“Blame my parents.”
Half Empty (First Wives Series Book 2) Page 13
