I turn to look up at him. “You do that.”
He ignores me because my wife is so fucking beautiful he can’t tear his eyes away from her. “I’ll be back when I figure it out.”
Trina’s gaze trails him as he walks away.
I finish what’s left of my drink in one gulp. “We’re done. It’s time to go home.”
Chapter Eighteen
Trina
If pressed, I’d give myself an eight out of ten when it comes to reading people. I credit that to the fact that I grew up in a small house with fourteen other family members. Not everyone was direct, so I developed a sixth sense when reading between the lines of what someone says and finding the hidden clues in their demeanor.
If I’m not mistaken, my husband was jealous when the guy at the bar came over to talk to us.
It was another instance of someone recognizing me from my family’s bakery. I know that for a fact because I worked the counter one Saturday afternoon a few months ago to help out, and he ordered a birthday cake for his sister.
We flirted, he left without asking for my number, and I waited for him to call the bakery to ask someone there how to reach me.
That never happened.
I could have confessed all of that at the bar, but I decided to keep it to myself since I was having a drink with my husband.
I glance over at Graham as we ride the elevator up to his penthouse.
He hasn’t said one word to me since we left the bar.
This is as pissy a p.m. as I’ve ever seen, but I don’t point that out because I’m still clinging to the very slim hope that after this charade is over, I’ll still have a job at Abdons.
It may not be as an assistant to the CEO, but there are plenty of executives who could use someone with my expertise.
The elevator slows as it nears our destination.
Graham finally turns to look at me. “I’m sure Lloyd is asleep. I’m going to call it a night.”
Relief flows through me.
I’m looking forward to a hot shower and an episode or two of the show I’ve been trying to binge-watch since back when I was single a few days ago.
“Me too,” I respond with a smile. “By the way, thanks for the martini.”
It was one of the best martinis I’ve had.
I prefer to sip a cocktail, but since my husband turned into a major grouch after that guy at the bar spoke to us, I had to down the delicious concoction in one gulp before we raced out of the place.
I suspect I’ll be fast asleep within the hour.
“Not a problem,” he says in that non-romantic way he has.
My smile droops because why waste it on a man who is looking at me with a scowl?
The ding of the elevator draws both of our gazes forward.
As the doors slide open, I feel Graham’s hand wrap around mine. I glance down in disbelief. I thought I was done playing Mrs. Locke for the night.
“The lovebirds are home!”
I look up again to find Mr. Abdon standing in the foyer, dressed in a red robe over black silk pajamas. He’s holding a glass of something in his hand. My guess is that it’s scotch.
Graham draws my hand up to his mouth to lightly graze his lips over my knuckles.
That shouldn’t make me weak in the knees, but it does. I could blame it on the martini, but why lie to myself?
I like when my husband’s lips brush against my skin. It makes me wonder what it would feel like in places he can’t see.
I shake off that thought and delve back into the role of a lifetime.
“Lloyd,” I say his name as Graham leads me off the elevator. “It’s late. Why are you still up?”
I trust that doesn’t sound accusatory. I didn’t expect to see him. I was counting on making a dash for Mr. Locke’s bedroom as soon as the elevator’s doors opened.
“How could I not stay up to say goodnight to two of my favorite people?” He asks. “Was dinner to your liking? Bette said you left. Am I right to assume you went dancing?”
Hope swims in his eyes, so I drop my gaze to the floor as I tug my hand free from Graham’s. The lies are weighing heavier on me as each moment passes. I hope Graham takes my silence as a hint so he can answer Lloyd.
“Dinner was delicious,” Graham says. “We snuck out to get a drink at a special spot.”
Special?
The only thing special about it is that it’s a hop, skip, and jump from the lobby doors of this building.
“Sela and I would go to a bar in Greenwich Village every Friday night after work,” he begins before he takes a breath. “It was called Lawtons back then. Now, it’s Tin Anchor. So much has changed.”
Sorrow edges his words, so I glance at him.
“Time has a way of changing things,” Graham offers.
“That’s the truth,” Lloyd punctuates his words with a nod of his chin. “Some changes are for the better, right, Bull?”
Bull?
My head snaps in Graham’s direction because what the hell? Bull? Is that a nickname?
In some abstract way, it fits.
Mr. Locke is bull-headed. He doesn’t take bullshit from anyone. I bet he’s like a bull in bed.
Wait. What?
I shake off any thought of what my boss is like between the sheets.
“Some changes are for the better,” Graham agrees without a glance in my direction. “Why don’t I see you to your room, Lloyd?”
“I am getting tired.” Lloyd turns to me. “I promise I won’t keep him for too long, Trina. He’ll be beside you in bed before you know it.”
I ignore that last remark because I’ll be alone in bed before I know it and for the foreseeable future.
“Sweet dreams, Lloyd.” I move to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You can count on that.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Goodnight, Trina.”
Graham reaches for Lloyd’s forearm as he leads the older man down the hallway toward the guestroom without a single glance back.
Chapter Nineteen
Trina
I pocket my wedding rings just as I swing open the door to the café that Aurora works at.
I had brunch with Lloyd and Graham before my husband announced that he would be meeting with a watch designer who is only in Manhattan for a day. Lloyd scoffed at the idea of hiring yet another new designer, so he insisted on tagging along to the meeting with Graham.
Given that it’s Saturday, I was surprised but grateful to have a few hours away from my make-believe life.
Stopping in here to see Aurora helps me two-fold. I get to see her beautiful face, and I can pick up a cup of Clara’s favorite coffee to take to Brooklyn with me.
My sister never complains that the coffee is lukewarm by the time I hand it to her. She always pops off the lid, shoves it into the microwave, and sixty seconds later, she’s enjoying her first sip.
Bringing her a coffee a few times a month is the least I can do.
Clara gave up her job as an accountant and stepped in to run the bakery after my folks retired. They both still show up to work in the kitchen or behind the counter for a few hours each week when they’re in New York, but it’s Clara who handles everything from hiring staff to ordering flour and sugar.