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“Make that two.”
After the conversation with Lowell left me defeated, and now I’m accused of dating a Frenchman I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, I bend to open the wine fridge and pull out a new bottle since I finished off the last one. Holding it up, he shakes his head, answering without me having to ask the question. I take a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and then grab two glasses, thinking I might need something stronger for this conversation, too.
Rad hangs up his keys and then slips into our bedroom. When I have the two glasses poured, mine over rocks, his neat, I take a sip.
“Is it that bad?” he asks. Discarding his suit in the room, I don’t mind the replacement he’s chosen. Who knew sweatpants could be so sexy? I grin, appreciating the way the sleeves of the black T-shirt cling to his biceps. It may be a plain cotton shirt, but he sure does know how to wear it.
“Terrible,” I say, trying to keep the fire from consuming my throat. I take another gulp this time to prepare for the unknown direction of this conversation. “I have to hand it to you, Welly. For someone who was told his girlfriend is taking another guy on a date to a wedding, you’re fairly calm. Whoever taught you to control your emotions in law school did a stellar job.”
He tilts the glass back and empties the liquid, swallowing it down. Okay, maybe he’s not so calm. But I appreciate the initial effort.
He says, “They don’t teach patience or any other techniques for controlling your temper. I guess you just lucked out with me.”
“I sure did.” Using my legs, I surround him and encourage him closer with my feet rubbing his great ass until he’s in grasp’s reach. I tug him closer by the front of the shirt, pulling him between my legs so I can wrap my arms around his neck.
He tilts his head like he’s not falling for my antics. Little does he know, he already has. Just like I’ve fallen for him. I tilt my head to match him, a solid guesstimate at thirty-seven degrees to the right. I smile, and then he mimics me by smiling right back. “What are you doing, Tealey?”
“Lovin’ up my man.” I slide my hand underneath his T-shirt, and his muscles dance under my fingertips.
“Your hands are cold.” He rubs my hips, the heat of his hands felt through my compression leggings.
I’m reminded of the cocktail beside me and pick it up to rattle the ice. “The drink is cold. Hence, cold hands.” His eyes never leave mine when I tip it back.
Waiting until I swallow, he licks his lips and then asks, “I take it Jean-Luc is Marlow’s idea?”
“Yes, Counselor.” My trick doesn’t work. Just using the term usually gets me thrown over his shoulder and taken to bed.
His brows pull together instead. “And why, exactly, did you agree to this date?”
“Since we’re speaking in exacts, I never did.”
I don’t think he’s in the mood to play my word games. “We could cut to the chase and get to the good part if you stop making me guess.”
“We could . . .” I shrug, feeling the whiskey in my veins. “But what’s the fun in that?”
“Trust me,” he starts, using his bossy voice. Fortunately, there’s a playfulness to his eyes, or I’d be worried. “There’s more fun once I figure out why my girlfriend is cheating on me.”
Throwing my hands up, I jerk my head back. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. That escalated quickly.”
“Imagine how I felt when she dropped that tidbit on me at work today,” he says, exasperated.
“I can imagine it was pretty traumatizing. Why didn’t you just call me? This could have been settled hours ago.”
“I did but was sent straight to voicemail.”
I push him away and hop off the counter to retrieve my phone. “You did? That’s odd. What time? My phone died around—”
“Five. Five thirty.”
“Oh,” I say, the wind knocked from my sails. I return to the kitchen. “That was the same time. I’m sorry.”
“If you’re not dating Jean-Luc, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m not dating Jean-Luc. I’ve not even met him.” Throwing my arms up, I say, “I didn’t even know his name before my boyfriend told me.”
But I am feeling sorry, sorry for bringing more problems into our little bubble of bliss. Little, if you define a large apartment with a rooftop deck as little.
What happened with Lowell will ruin everything Rad and I have been building together. I’m finally settled, and it feels like home.
Feeling unsteady is an understatement compared to when I left for work this morning. So much has changed, but I’m not sure my transfer to Poughkeepsie needs to be discussed before it’s a thing.
With the wedding next week, what I want most is for us to be just how we have been. Once I mention a transfer or moving to Poughkeepsie, I’m not sure we’ll be able to get back to where we are now with things left unsettled.
