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Typing in the link to Gordon Hewitt’s Boston Eats blog tightened every nerve she had.
You don’t have to read his review, she told herself, finger hovering over the ENTER key. She knew Hewitt’s experience might have been colored by having Neil Montana at his table. Moreover, Hewitt was a single set of taste buds in a world of them. People usually, mostly, almost always liked her food. The Lounge’s opening had some hiccups, but overall Monday’s service had been solid.
“Oh God,” she moaned and clicked onto the site.
“Do Bad Boys Do It Better?” asked the anxiety-inducing headline.
“Shit,” she said and forced herself to read on.
Before she’d finished the first paragraph she was grinning. Bad Boys did it awesome, apparently. Hewitt mentioned the problem with the lobster—but only in conjunction with it being fixed quickly. Her servers were praised for their knowledge and aplomb. Her clam chowder was declared sublime, her Boston beans on toast less aesthetic but still tasty. The words “creative” and “playful” were thrown around more than once. Trey earned kudos for an atmosphere as warm and glowing as fine whiskey.
Hewitt saved his most fulsome praise for the end.
“It is the dessert, however, the simple, satisfying genius of toothsome apple tart topped by handcrafted cinnamon ice cream, that deserves to become this establishment’s signature creation. The blend of flavors and textures fill one with an actual sense of love. Chef Eilert cooks with both heart and skill, making for an experience that this sometimes-jaded reviewer confesses to being eager to repeat. A Highly Recommended for The Bad Boys Lounge from me.”
“Oh my God,” Rebecca breathed, both hands pressed tight against her mouth. Gordon Hewitt, Boston’s most persnickety and respected food critic, highly recommended her. Almost unnoticed, a tear of relief spilled from her right eye.
She had to email Raoul, though he’d probably seen the blog already. Still, her head chef would be excited. This triumph was as much his as hers. She wondered if the booking service was getting many reservations for next week. Trey’s people needed to highlight Hewitt’s rating on the Lounge’s website, maybe pull out a few good quotes.
Adrenaline flooded her, her body wanting to do everything at once. Stop, she thought. Take a breath and calm down. When she did, she knew who she most wanted to share her excitement with. She also knew the partiality meant something.
~
Zane and Trey had a private office down the hall from their bedroom suite. When they had guests, this allowed them to get work done without disturbing their company. Because they’d decided to play hooky with Rebecca on short notice, there was work to see to. As efficiently as he could, Zane checked in on a few situations he couldn’t ignore. Though the office had two desks, and he’d left the door open, Trey made his calls from the sitting room.
Zane had just wrapped things up when Trey came in.
“You done too?” Zane asked, stretching back satisfyingly in his chair.
Normally, this would make Trey admire his muscles—a reaction Zane probably took for granted. This afternoon, Trey wasn’t biting. He sat on the corner of Zane’s desk, folded his arms, and rubbed his lower lip with one finger.
“I just got off the phone with Elaine,” he said.
“Oh?” Zane prompted, unsure what emotion he was facing.
“She took a message. From Constance Sharp’s grown son and daughter. They’re under the impression their mother is in Boston and want to know if I’ve seen her. Evidently, they’re worried. Elaine seemed to think you know something about that.”
“Uh,” Zane said. He recognized Trey’s mood now: it was controlled anger. “Your aunt kind of broke into our offices Friday night. I got her out before she did any damage.”
“You got her out.”
“I had security escort her back to her hotel. I gave the guards strict instructions not to let her back in the building. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I went on that weekend with Missy, and Rebecca’s big do was when I came back. Then we convinced her to join us here. I didn’t want to throw a damper over our nice time.”
Trey’s rubbing of his lower lip turned into a pinch. “So she’s here in Boston.”
“I guess so. Her kids wouldn’t be calling if she’d gone home. I couldn’t force her to leave the city. I talked to Evan. He doesn’t think we have grounds for a court order.”
“You thought her showing up was important enough to consult a lawyer, but not to inform me?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t like seeing you upset about this.”
“Fuck.” Trey got up to pace, both hands shoveling through his dark hair. He really wasn’t himself when it came to his aunt, which tended to knock Zane equally off kilter.
“Look,” he said, hoping Trey wouldn’t jump down his throat for what he was about to say. “It’s totally your call, and you know I’ll back your play, but are you sure avoiding her is the best solution?”
“There’s no point seeing her!” Trey exclaimed. “The only thing that will satisfy her is denying my father was abused. I can’t give her that—even if she’s just a crazy old lady who’s afraid of her own guilt. The truth is the truth. My father paid for it. I paid for it. And maybe she could have done something to stop the abuse. She was eight years older than my dad. I wasn’t there. I don’t know what the fuck happened in that house.”
Zane came around the desk to sit on its other corner. He touched Trey’s arm lightly. “You don’t really blame her.”
“I don’t know whether I do or not. Kids don’t always speak up, even when they could. You and I both know that.”
“We do know that,” Zane agreed, keeping his hand where it was. Trey was the least judgmental person he knew. Zane didn’t want to see that change.
“Fine.” Trey looked away and scowled at the wall. “I made your point for you. But even if I went along with her, even if I said, ‘Yes, this lie you’re telling yourself is true. Your father didn’t abuse mine, and my dad never claimed differently to me,’ do you think once would be enough? On some level, my aunt knows what happened. She’d need me to keep shoring up the lie. I’d never be done with it. Fuck,” he finished and covered his face.
Zane moved his hand to Trey’s shoulder, which was trembling. “Trey,” he said. “Sweetheart.”
Trey choked out a sound that let Zane know he was crying.
Zane immediately pulled him against him. “Sh,” he said against Trey’s hair. Trey clung to him as he rubbed his back. “I’d offer to beat up your aunt, if it weren’t for that little old lady thing.”
Trey laughed raggedly, forehead rolling against Zane’s shoulder. “God, I love you.”
Zane held him tighter and closed his eyes. When he opened them, heartbeats later, Rebecca was in the open door.
~
Rebecca shouldn’t have stood there listening as long as she did. Now that she’d been discovered, the polite thing would be to excuse herself. If a person walked in on a grown man crying, and his best friend was comforting him, it wasn’t right to intrude on that. She especially shouldn’t intrude considering the tenderness with which Zane was holding him. This was third wheel territory, without question.
The only person who might claim differently was Trey.
She looked at Zane. His eyes weren’t telling her to come or go. He’d stiffened, probably with embarrassment. Then again, despite her catching him being less than macho, he wasn’t letting Trey go. The caution in his expression suggested he was waiting to see what she’d do. Was she having a fling with them—which meant she ought to stay out of this—or did she actually, maybe accept Trey’s idea that they were destined to be together? Was she willing to be serious about them both?
Decide, she thought.
Not sure she had, but unable to do nothing, she walked in without speaking and put her hand on Trey’s back.
Startled, he turned and wiped his face. “Shit. Sorry.”
She shook her head. “You’re not doing anything you need to be sorry for.”
“You heard?”
“Yes.” She dried a streak he’d missed on his cheek. “Sometimes you can’t lie even to be nice. It would be too big a self betrayal.”
Trey’s wet eyes were the green of grass. “I just want her to go away.”
“Who wouldn’t?” she said, understanding he thought this was wrong of him. She glanced at Zane. The men were sitting side by side now, with Zane’s arm braced on the desk behind Trey’s back. “So, um, maybe it’s not my business, but have you talked to the kids? Are they reasonable people? Could they help control their mom?”
“I don’t know.” This time Trey wiped his face wearily. “They’re strangers to me. I hadn’t met my dad’s relatives before he killed himself.”
