let me see you.
*Dress your body in the finest lingerie on Earth.
*Your body is art. Dress it that way. Let it shine. sparkle.
“What are you doing?” His hand rests on the desk, and he leans forward, looking at the page. I watch his hand, the flex of minute muscles, the strong and beautiful lines of his fingers. The bare ring finger, the odd look of his wrist without a watch.
I look back to the page, the idea still gaining momentum in my mind. “I don’t know yet. I think I have an idea for a new ad strategy.”
“We don’t have the money for ads.” He pushes off the table, the words clipped, and I can feel the disappointment radiating off him.
I turn in my chair and watch him walk away. It’s not that difficult of an activity, not when he’s in just underwear, his ass displayed to perfection, the lines of his back lean and strong. He needs to put on more clothes. If Craig’s don’t fit him, he can put the bathrobe back on. Or get under the sheets. I can’t possibly come up with a winning strategy while he saunters around practically naked. “We’ll find the money.”
He doesn’t turn. “You’ve seen the balance sheets. We’re barely making payroll.”
“Borrow it.”
I watch as his hands clench into fists, then relax. “I’m leveraged as much as I can be.”
“Then we’ll wait until we have some profitable quarters. We will be profitable.” I believe the words, and if he can’t hear that in my voice, he’s an idiot. “Don’t worry,” I add. The poor man. Talk about a rough day. I think of Craig, who is most definitely in bed right now, his noise machine on, the sound of crashing waves floating through his seventy-one-degree bedroom.
“I know advertising isn’t my department, but I can design a line around this concept. If—”
“We can discuss it Monday.” There is a clip in his tone that I have heard before, the subject closed, and, for a moment, I don’t see his bare body or the tight fit of the underwear. For a moment, I only see defeat.
I threaten Trey with eviction, and he finally puts on the robe, balking at the idea of lying down in the makeshift bed. “I’m not having you tuck me in,” he complains. “I’m a grown man.” He sits at the other end of the couch, stretching his legs out, his bare feet against the rug.
“I’m not tucking you in,” I argue. “I’m just trying to get you to be comfortable.”
“I’m not going to be comfortable lying down, covered in blankets, while you do laundry. It feels awkward.”
I pause, mid-fold. Maybe now isn’t the time to fold my towels. Maybe now is the time to excuse myself and let the man sleep. He is right. This should be awkward, only it doesn’t feel that way to me. It feels, for the first time since I’ve met him, natural and relaxed. “I don’t feel awkward,” I say, completing the trifold action and neatly stacking the towel into the basket. “Hasn’t anyone ever taken care of you? Just think of me as—”
“STOP.” He holds up a hand. “You’re about to ruin all of my future fantasies about you.”
“Ha.” I roll my eyes. “Little chance of that.” I frown at him. “Besides, you aren’t supposed to have fantasies about me, or anyone else at Marks. In case you missed the memo, the CEO is a real dick about fraternization.” I smirk at the thought of his last all-company email, one that spanned three pages, all devoted to ensuring that our hands are kept to ourselves, and our minds are clear of the gutter. Which had been humorous, in a way, since the company is all about sex and seduction.
“You’re confusing the rules. I’m allowed to have fantasies; I’m just not allowed to act on them.” He crosses his arms over his chest and rests his head against the back of the couch, his eyes closing, as if he hasn’t just delivered a baby of ridiculous proportions.
That’s the problem with beautiful men. They don’t know their impact; they don’t realize how a casually tossed out thought can be devoured, obsessed over, life-changing. He’s lucky that I’ve known men like him before, I’ve friended them, I understand the careless way they wield their looks, their flirtatious comments that mean nothing. He is on the verge of sleep, and there was less stock in that statement than there is energy in his body.
“Are you happy, Kate?” The question is mumbled, his eyes still closed.
I consider my answer, doing a quiet self-assessment of the key factors (love, health, quality of life = all acceptable). Acceptable. Does acceptability equal happiness? I think it does. I think, for a woman in her mid-thirties, happiness is more about the lack of negatives. And right now, my list of negatives is pretty short. “I am. Are you?”
He doesn’t say anything. A full minute passes, then his hand falls limply from the couch arm, and the muscles in his face go slack.
I finish folding the laundry in silence, my mind still stuck on his question.
Am I happy?