Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

  I feel her stir and I glance down, watching her eyes open, the slow movement of them as they search the dark and find my face. She smiles, and my arms tighten around her. “I’m heavy,” she whispers.

  “Nah.”

  “How long have you been just standing here, staring at me?”

  I can’t stop the grin that stretches over my face. “It’s creepy, right?”

  “Totally creepy.” She shifts, curling tighter against me, her hand fisting against my chest. Her eyes drop to the bare skin, then dart back to my face. “You’re naked.” She says the word with evil pride, as if she is a small child who has just caught an adult misbehaving and can’t wait to tell someone.

  I shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m wearing pants. I just couldn’t find my shirt.” I narrow my eyes at her, then pointedly drop the glare down to the shirt.

  Her eyes roam over my shoulders, and she smiles. “I would apologize, but I’m enjoying the repercussions of my crime.” She pats my chest. “How long are you planning on holding me up?”

  I look down at the bed. “Not much longer.” I bend over and extend her over the bed, smiling as she burrows into my neck, her deep inhale not much different than my own had been. I gently set her onto the mattress, and straighten, my arms sliding through hers, when her grip clamps down on my forearm, her eyes going from sleepy to sharp.

  “Trey?” My stomach clenches at the accusatory way she says my name. “Why do you smell like Mira’s perfume?”

  I meet her eyes, and in that connection, she knows. She doesn’t know everything, but she knows I fucked her, and that is enough.

  * * *

  Kate pushes out of my arms, sliding across the bed, to the other side. “Kate,” I plea. This is bad. This is fucking bad, made worse because I can’t explain it to her.

  “Shut up,” she snaps, her hands pulling at the sheet, covering herself as if she is naked. “I—” She looks away. “I literally have nothing to say to you.”

  “It didn’t mean anything.” I press the fingers of my hand into my forehead, rubbing at the stress points there. Why didn’t I take a fucking shower? But the answer to that is easy: Kate Martin was in my bed.

  “That makes it even worse!” Her eyes widen, and in them, I see her hurt. “What if Edward finds out?”

  Edward reaches down, gripping her chin and lifting it, her eyes meeting his, the rock of her body not stopping their eye contact. “Tell me,” he orders. “Do you like how he fucks you?”

  “Yes sir,” she gasps, and he smiles, pulling down the zipper of his pants.

  “Edward isn’t going to find out.” Edward knows, I want to scream. Stop worrying about work, or our precious order. Everything there is fine. I have a brief moment of insanity, one where I want to tell her everything, to try and explain it all. But I don’t, I can’t. This isn’t my secret to tell. There are other lives involved, other reputations at stake. Would Mira care? Probably not. But that’s not my call to make. And even if it were, could I tell Kate? Could I really tell her that Edward and I took turns with Mira? That he held back her hair and told her to suck my cock?

  I can’t. There is no way. Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and I feel a piece of me break. “God dammit, Kate,” I say softly. “Just forget it. Please.”

  She rolls over on the bed, her back to me. “Go away, Trey. Just let me sleep.”

  Leaving her is the last thing I want to do. We need to discuss this, to talk this through, to get back to us. But it’s hard to talk through it when I can’t explain my actions, my motivations. I have nothing to say, no defense to give. I move back a step, then another. I wait for a long moment in the doorway, considering what this will do to our relationship, what this will mean. She doesn’t turn, and I pull the adjoining door closed, the act feeling almost ceremonial in its division of us.

  Maybe this is it, the death of our possibilities. Maybe I need this reminder of the differences between her and me, of all of the ways that—even without the company dividing us—we would never work. Maybe I should use this excuse, this opportunity, to mentally push away.

  She won’t ever accept what happened between Mira, Edward, and me. I swallow that reality and head to the shower, anxious to wash away everything.

  If this evening was lingerie, it’d be expensive, the kind that seems worth the price tag but isn’t, the kind that leaves your wallet empty and your mind fucked.

  Chapter 23

  HER

  It’s official. The man’s penis only knows stupid mistakes. First that crazy mugger woman, and now this—a married woman. I bet Edward wasn’t even out of the hotel before Trey was knocking on her door. Had I even been a thought? You’d think if the man was going to destroy everything, he might have at least glanced my way, at least considered me before risking the wrath of our client by sleeping with his wife.

  I lay in the dark room, gripping a pillow against my chest, and listen to the click of the air conditioner as it comes on. My heart gallops against my chest, my arms tighten around the pillow, and I want to scream, but instead, I only growl. I tell myself that it’s not jealousy, but it is. It’s jealousy, and regret, and months of sexual frustration. Why her? Why not a Vegas hooker, or a horny tourist? Why risk this account, one that we need, all to fuck an ex-girlfriend? If he’s so cavalier about the risk to the company, then why not date me?

  I roll onto my back and force my arms to relax, to flop back on the mattress. My mind relaxes slightly. Maybe it’s because, despite all of his flirting, and our latent chemistry—I’m not his type. Maybe all of my sexual tension is one-sided, and he’s operating in a purely platonic world where he flirts for the sheer fun of it, and is oblivious to the delusional fantasies of my starved sex drive. I consider knocking on his door and just asking him, flat out, to explain himself, but abandon the thought. My nerves are too frayed to have that conversation face-to-face, in an environment where all of my reactions and emotions will be seen. No way to play the cool, aloof girl in that scenario. I roll over, pick up my phone, and compose a text.

  Are you attracted to me?

  Women aren’t supposed to ask questions like that. We should be pursued; we should always know our power. But I don’t. And I need to know. He’s my best friend, and we shouldn’t have to tiptoe around our feelings. We should be able to have a rational and open discussion about this ridiculously huge thing that has been dominating my spare thought processes for the last … hell … even before Craig and I ended.

  My phone beeps, and I pick it up off the bedspread.

  — Devastatingly so.

  I stare at the response, my heart pulled between elation and fear, a flood of new questions arising. I mull them over and wait for him to ask me the same question, but the phone stays dark. Should I tell him that I feel the same way? No. I can’t. I roll onto my back and hesitantly type out the next question, reading over it several times before I press send.

  Then why aren’t we together?

  I lay the phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling. Part of me regrets bringing this up. What if he wants to start a relationship? Do I even want that? I’ve known him for fourteen months, and he hasn’t had a steady girlfriend that entire time. Would he be good boyfriend material? Can he be loyal? Is he romantic? Too many questions and no answers. I pick up my phone and double-check that my text was delivered. It shouldn’t take this long to respond, to provide a simple answer to such an important question. I close my eyes and attempt to relax, focusing on my feet and slowly moving up my body, relaxing one muscle group at a time, my arms loose and rubbery by the time my phone finally dings. I slowly roll to my side and lift my phone, reading his response.

  — too much at risk

  The brevity of it irritates me, as if he didn’t have the energy to go into greater detail. But in those four words, I understand his stance. It’s the same logic I’ve told myself a hundred times. He went down this road with Vicka, and his company had tanked as a result. Dating Trey could ruin Marks Li
ngerie’s forward progress, not to mention our friendship. In some ways our bond seems unflappable. In other ways, we seem as fragile as glass. No one else can hurt me like this. No one else’s opinion is as important. No one else can break my heart as easily as he could mend it.

  If he thinks there is too much at risk, then fine. I can cross Trey Marks off my list of prospects and dive back into the world of dating. I can find someone else, someone better for me, someone without consequences. I can find a relationship that, if it ends, won’t destroy every other part of our lives.

  I don’t need Trey in my bed, as my boyfriend. I can be happy having him everywhere else.

  I don’t know if it’s a lie or not, and in this moment, I don’t care. I wrap my hand around my phone, slide it under the pillow, and close my eyes.

  * * *

  I wake to a note from Mira, one slipped under my door, her handwriting big and flowery. In it, she cancels our lunch, full of apologies and promises to find me on a future trip. The note is attached to a purchase order, one that Trey must have prepared, the unit count enough to make our quarter, if not our year. I roll my eyes and toss it onto the bed.

  There is a knock on the adjoining door and I open it, giving Trey a tight smile and returning to my suitcase, the zipper difficult. He pushes down on the lid and I work it closed. “Thanks.”

  “Certainly.” He is in khakis and a polo, the bright blue cotton setting off his tan. This is country-club Trey, the preppy look that used to get me hot, the clean-cut exterior so easily twisted with just one smoldering eye-fuck. Used to get me hot. Today I am a new woman, one perfectly content in my Best Friend and Creative Director roles, one who doesn’t wonder what he looks like naked, or what that delicious mouth is capable of.

  He strolls over to the bed, reaching forward and picking up the items from Mira. “What’s this?” He flips over the top page, his head dropping as he reads over it. “I thought she was sending this to me.”

  “Did you see the note?” I say brightly. “She cancelled our lunch.”

  “Yeah. I told her to.” He glances at me. “I figured you wouldn’t want to eat with her after…” He grimaces. “You know.”

  “Oh yes.” I smile again, and his eyes narrow. “I know.” I step forward and pluck the pages back. “I would have been fine having lunch with her. I don’t need you running around and rearranging my schedule.”

  “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds unsettled, which makes me ridiculously happy. I can do this. I can be the cool girl, the friend who doesn’t care that her friend, her boss, is devastatingly attracted to her. I can roll my eyes at his slutty antics and go off and marry a different Prince Charming. We can build this company, be friends, and I can have smoking hot sex and babies who have nothing to do with Trey Marks.

  I can have it all. I can. I will.

  He looks at me and I look at him, and if he kisses me right now, I would fall apart under his touch.

  He holds the gaze, and I look away, afraid of what my eyes might show.

  Chapter 24

  HER

  Four months later, I find my prince in a coffee shop downtown. Or rather, he finds me.

  “Kate?” I look up and swallow the sip of coffee, my eyes darting over all of the details.

  Soft brown hair, void of product.

  Pale green eyes, the kind that smile. He wears glasses, and I unconsciously touch my own, glad that I’d skipped the contacts today.

  His features are as advertised, a classic profile set off by straight, perfect teeth and an adorably crooked nose.

  A blue sweater, the fabric snug around a manly build, his height tall enough that I can wear heels and still be shorter.

  I rise, and extend a hand. “Hi. You must be Stephen.” We shake hands, and it is a good handshake, firm but not businesslike, his hands soft and warm, everything about him reassuringly conservative. “Please, sit down.”

  He pulls out the opposite seat and settles into it, and there is a moment of awkward silence, one where I sip my coffee and he straightens his glasses, and I can’t, for the life of me, think of a single thing to say. Our eyes meet, he smiles, and I laugh despite myself.

  “This is my fifth blind date,” he admits. “You’d think I would have learned something aside from my name by now.”

  “My eighth.” I smile. “You look like you recently bathed, so you don’t really have to say anything. You’re already ahead of the rest.” It’s a lie, and he knows it, but he leans forward and conversation begins to flow.

  * * *

  “So you work in retail?” He tucks his hands into his pockets as we walk, his head down, ear cocked to me.

  “Sort of. I work for an undergarments company. We supply to retail shops and some high-end chains.”

  “Undergarments. Like underwear, hosiery?”

  I nod, pulling back my hair into a low ponytail. “Yes. Less hosiery and more of the delicate items. Bras, panties, garters, babydolls. The sexier stuff. Our lines are fairly provocative.”

  Trey would have made a sly comment, worked a compliment in, but Stephen only nods, his face a mask of concentration. “And what do you do for the company?”

  “I model.”

  The joke falls flat, and he only nods, as if I am serious, as if there is any chance of my frame on a cover. “I’m joking,” I hurry. “I’m the Creative Director; I’m responsible for the overall vision and the execution of it.” I feel the burst of pride that comes whenever I say my title.

  “That’s nice.” We take the path into the park, a canopy of trees providing a break from the sun. His arm brushes mine, a reminder of where I am and who I am with. Not Trey, who is accustomed to my long stretches of silence, but this man, who probably thinks I’m odd. I am trying to think of something to say when he speaks. “How long have you been there?”

  I relax a bit. “A year and a half.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “I do,” I say honestly. “Trey is very good to work for. We get along well.”

  “That’s nice.”

  I ask him what he does, and learn that he is an oral surgeon. A fancy dentist, as he says. He travels two days a week, has a rescued dog, and a mother in Chula Vista. We both love sushi and hate Star Wars. We are both Words With Friends enthusiasts, and—unless I am misreading the look in his eye—we both want to see each other again.

  We end our walk at the parking lot. Ahead of us, my bright red Mercedes convertible sits, a gift from Trey when we hit last year’s sales goal. He reaches into his pocket and a new Volvo SUV beeps. “That’s me.”

  He turns to me and smiles. It’s a nice smile, one warm and friendly. He steps forward and my heart speeds up. A kiss. My first kiss since Craig. Would I remember how to do it properly?

  He extends a hand. “Thank you for meeting me. And for not being a serial killer.”

  I laugh, and take his hand. “Agreed. I was actually planning on being a serial killer but decided against it. My day is kind of full. Meetings.” I smile and I think he can tell I’m joking.

  He steps back and waves. “I’ll call you. If that is okay.”

  “It is.” I return the wave, and wait for him to turn, to walk away before I dig into my pockets for my keys.

  * * *

  “You told him you were a serial killer?” The wind ruffles the papers in Trey’s hand, and I glance toward them worriedly.

  “Can we step inside?” I ask. “You’re going to lose something.”

  He pushes the door open with his foot, holding it in place as he waves me through. “Is that what you wore?”

  “No, I went home and changed,” I say tartly. “Yes, this is what I wore. It’s nice.” The questionable outfit—a Jones New York skirt suit, one I had paired with a sweetheart top. Not the most casual of first date attire, but I’d met Stephen in the middle of a work day. A mini-dress hadn’t exactly seemed appropriate.

  “Yes,” he agrees, pulling the door closed, the wind quieting, the sound of sports coming
from another room. “It’s nice. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

  I pull off my suit’s jacket and hang it over his stairway banister, pulling the hair away from my neck and following him to the kitchen, where he straddles a stool and flips over the first page of the contract. “You don’t want to dress nice when you go on a date, Kate.”

  “Sorry,” I respond tartly. “We can’t all work from home during the playoffs.” I open his fridge, reaching down to the bottom drawer, where he keeps my Diet Coke. I grab one and push the drawer closed with my foot, elbowing the door shut before turning to him. His eyes flick up to my face. “Grab me one?”