I expected as much. I’ve asked a great deal of Miss Shaw the past few days, but she is being generously compensated, so I expect her to at least make an appearance before the night is over.
“I brought a bottle of wine,” the chef announces as she peers around the corner yet again. “Should I open that now, or would you rather I wait for your wife to join us?”
I’d rather it was a bottle of aged scotch, but liars can’t be choosers.
“I’m sorry that took so long,” Trina apologizes as she approaches from behind the chef. “I wanted to change before dinner.”
I didn’t bother to swap out my suit pants and button-down shirt. I can’t say the same for my wife.
Her skirt and blouse have been replaced with a red dress that’s cinched at her waist with a thin belt. The shoes on her feet are strappy with low heels.
She’s braided her hair to one side.
I not only feel underdressed, but I feel unworthy of this.
She’s fucking breathtaking.
“Do I look all right?” she asks before she spins in a circle.
“You’re beautiful,” the chef whispers. “Wow.”
I wholeheartedly agree with her assessment, so I chime in. “You look lovely, Trina.”
She smiles before her attention falls on the face of the chef. “I’m Trina. It’s really nice to meet you.”
That sets the gray-haired woman back a step. She skims a palm over the front of her white chef’s jacket before she offers her hand to my wife. “I’m Bette.”
They exchange a soft handshake as Trina closes her eyes briefly. “Whatever you’re cooking smells like heaven. Can I help you with anything?”
Bette lets out a light-hearted chuckle. “That’s not necessary, but thank you.”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Trina smiles.
The chef glances in my direction. “Should I open the wine now, Mr. Locke?”
“Please.” I nod. “You can serve dinner as soon as it’s ready.”
“You can’t rush perfection,” Trina chimes in. “Don’t feel the need to hurry, Bette. Graham and I want you to take all the time you need.”
I don’t want that.
I want to strip that dress from my wife’s body and take her to bed, but since that’s not an option, I want to eat dinner and race out of here with an excuse about needing to take care of a work issue.
Surely, Lloyd won’t question that when he receives his surveillance report from Bette.
As soon as the chef is out of view, Trina turns to me. “I didn’t want her to feel pressured. I know what it’s like when you want something done right now, sir.”
The fact that ‘sir’ keeps popping out from between her bee-stung lips is a problem, but I’m not going to correct her this time.
It’s rousing something within me.
Something dangerous and completely out of the realm of possibility.
I can’t fuck my wife.
I chant that to myself while she studies my face waiting for me to respond.
I’m saved by the reappearance of Bette with a bottle of Merlot in one hand and two wine glasses in the other.
She’s not only bothersome, but she’s also laser fast.
I wait while she pours a splash of wine in one of the glasses and offers it to me for my approval. I skip past the expected sniff and small taste and instead gulp down every last drop.
“I take that as a sign it’s good to go,” Bette mutters under her breath.
She half-fills the other glass for my wife before she does the same with mine.
As Bette heads back to the kitchen, Trina turns to me and raises her glass in the air. “To red wine.”
“To red wine and red dresses.” I follow that with a slow sip as I rake my gaze over my wife.
Leave it to me to marry the most stunning woman on the planet. She just also happens to be the woman who wants nothing to do with me outside of the office and our temporary arrangement.
Five fucking courses.
I had to sit through five fucking courses staring at Trina while she savored the meal.
The food was fine, but the experience of watching my assistant eat was sensual. She closed her eyes after several bites, moaned her approval, and kept running her fingertip over her bottom lip.
I suspect that was designed to catch any wayward crumbs, but my dick didn’t get that memo.
It took it upon itself to get hard and stay hard as I watched my wife eat her way through five dishes that I can barely remember at this point.
Bette cleared the table ten minutes ago, and now, she’s peering at us from around the corner.
She may be a great cook, but her skills in being stealthy are sorely lacking.
Trina leans her forearms on the table to close the distance between us.
The movement results in an unexpected gift for me. My wife’s breasts are pushed together, giving me a clear view of the top of them.
I reach for my wine glass, finish what’s left, and then for good measure, I finish Trina’s wine too.
She shoots me a frown, I think.
I only catch the briefest glimpse of it as I tear my gaze away from her tits.
“Graham,” she whispers my name, and Jesus Christ, I’m ready to crawl over the table, bend her over and take her right here and now.
I’ve always found solace in the soft sound of her everyday speaking voice, but this is next level.
“Yes?” I try to mimic her tone, but my voice comes out sounding strangled.
Her blonde brows perk. “Are you all right?”
That depends. Are we speaking in general terms, or is the question rooted in my body’s desperate need for her?
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Do you think Bette is spying on us?”
Leave it to my trusting wife to deduce that two hours into this dinner. I sense she always gives people the benefit of the doubt. Her first impression of Bette was that of an experienced private chef. Mine was more cynical. I knew that Lloyd had an ulterior motive for this dinner.
Bette has likely been texting him updates throughout the evening. I’ve caught her with her gaze locked on her phone’s screen a few times.
“I’d bet everything I own on it,” I say with confidence.
“Even the pelican statue?”
“What the fuck?” I whisper shout. “What are you talking about?”
I’m wealthy to a point well past obscenity, but I have never sunk a dime into a pelican statue. That much I know.
I glance in Bette’s direction to catch her fingers flying over her phone’s screen.
Fuck.
She’s likely mistaking this for an argument.
I cover by grabbing hold of my wife’s hands, her very soft, perfect hands.
That draws her gaze to my face.
“I don’t own a pelican statue,” I point out, although to be fair, if Trina asked me to commission one from the greatest sculptor alive, I’d give it serious consideration.
I blame that thought on the wine.
It’s never my drink of choice. When I indulge in too much wine, my mind wanders and gets trapped in places too emotional for my liking.
“You do,” she counters.
Pasting a smile on my face for Bette’s benefit, I grit out three words, “I don’t, dear.”