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“I don’t want to Ty, but clearly he doesn't want me here.”
“Gina, please?” I begged. “Just do this. Go to your room and get your stuff packed and ready. I've a feeling I’m about to be banished back to my cottage. That's if I still have a job. You know I can’t stay in that cottage by myself. Please, you can’t leave until I know where I’m going.”
“Calm down, okay? You’ve got it. I’ll start packing my shit. You come get me when you know what you’re going to do, okay?”
I nodded, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks Gina.” I finished folding everything on the bed, and was arranging it in my suitcase when there was another knock on my door. Showtime, I thought as I went to open it. But it wasn't Trey, it was Thatcher.
“Ms. Preston,” Thatcher addressed me warmly. “Mr. Sinclair's requesting you join him in his suite now if it meets with your convenience?”
I swallowed nervously. “Sure thing, would you please tell him I'll be there in just a moment?”
“Of course,” Thatcher answered kindly, almost as if he knew what was coming.
CHAPTER 18
I'd have to finish my packing after our “discussion.” I'd removed the ball cap, and brushed my hair up into a neat ponytail; I recalled Trey saying that he liked me in a ponytail, so perhaps this would lessen the rage. Even a tiny bit would help. I walked down the hall, my flip-flops making the trip none too quietly. I heard a “pssst” from behind me. Gina was peeking around the corner. I turned and hurried back to where she stood.
“His majesty has summoned me to his quarters,” I said. “Here goes nothing.”
“I got your back, Ty, don’t worry. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but you never can tell with rich, spoiled guys.”
“Thanks, Gina.” I turned back and continued my walk of shame, flip-flopping down the carpeted hallway to Trey’s suite. I tapped lightly on his door. I could hear his stereo playing classical music on low volume. I knocked harder this time.
“It’s open,” smooth and silky said over the music.
I turned the knob and went in, shutting the door softly behind me. He wasn’t in the bedroom part, which still bore the remnants of my previous night’s sleep there. What was with this staff? Any other time the room would have been clean and sanitized before I'd reached the bottom step. Great, now I'd probably be yelled at in addition to everything else for leaving his room like a pigsty.
“I’m in here, Tylar,” Trey called out from the bathroom.
I walked to the doorway.
“Come in,” he invited. He'd evidently just showered, having a large bath towel wrapped around his lower half. I was curious as to why he hadn’t put his blue robe on. It was still lying across his bed where I'd left it.
“Please have a seat,” he instructed, the only one being the toilet next to the double vanity where he was lathering up his beautiful face with warmed shaving cream. It appeared as if he hadn’t shaved today. I was curious as to why he hadn’t, particularly if he'd given oral arguments this morning in chambers.
I hesitantly took my seat on his commode, turning to give him my full attention as he turned back to the mirror and started shaving. He must have a routine on how he shaved, I thought. I watched as he took the razor and pulled his cheek a bit with his left hand, while his razor cleared a path on the right side of his check, just below his natural sideburns. He dipped the razor in the warm soapy water in his sink, shaking the shaving cream off of it. He raised it back up, preparing to shave the dimple on his chin.
That part was probably tricky, I thought. I watched his reflection in the mirror as he forced a wide grin on his face that helped to smooth out the dimple making the area more accessible for his razor. He stopped suddenly, half-stroke.
“Son of a bitch!” he hollered, setting his razor down quickly, grabbing a tissue from the box and pressing it firmly against his now slightly bleeding dimpled chin. “I just put a new blade in this the morning I left for Atlanta.”
Uh, oh. Should I fess up or not? How much angrier could be possibly get.
“I’m sorry, Trey,” I said softly, “that’s my fault. I used your razor a couple of times to shave my legs.”
“I should have figured you were capable of drawing blood,” he lashed out in an extremely irritated tone. “I know I packed your razor with the rest of your things from the cottage. Why did you need to use mine?”
“I used your shower and forgot to bring mine in.”
White lie only.
“I meant to put a new blade in it before you got home.”
He eyed me warily as if he wasn’t sure he believed me. Like I'd lie about using his razor? I mean, it made more sense that a person would lie and say theydidn’tuse it as opposed to being forthright and admitting that they had. He grabbed a new blade out of the medicine cabinet, ejecting the old blade into the trash. He resumed shaving with no further incidents. I was starting to wonder when our discussion was going to begin.
He leaned over the sink and rinsed his smooth face with water, patting it dry with a clean hand towel. He applied some of his aftershave lotion, careful to avoid the razor cut. He stuck a small piece of toilet paper on it for the time being. I hoped his dimple didn’t scar because of me.
“So,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “do you want to explain to me what the hell happened last night?” His eyes were once again blazing at me. His hair was damp and tousled, totally distracting me from answering his question. “I’m waiting,” he said, growing impatient. He walked out of the bathroom still only dressed in his towel. I followed and sat down on the unmade bed while he disappeared into his closet. I heard drawers slamming, mumbled curses under his breath.
