Between Vicka and Mira, I’ve seen the women Trey has histories with. They are strong, confident women, nothing like sweet, meek Chelsea. “What kind of history?” I ask carefully. “You dated?”
“No. Just a one-time thing.” He nods toward one of his chairs. “Sit down. You’re freaking me out, looming over me like this.”
“You had a one-night stand with her?” I laugh uncertainly. “Really? Are you sure?”
“It wasn’t exactly a one-night stand, and yes, I’m quite sure of who I have fucked, Kate.” The emphasis he gives the word sends a dark tingle down my spine.
“So … you don’t want me to hire her?” I have so many questions, all inappropriate for this moment.
“I think I’ve made my opinion on interoffice fraternization clear.”
I meet his eyes, and something thicker than tension passes between us. Yes, his position on that is clear. Crystal clear.
I nod slowly. “Okay. I’ll find someone else.”
“Thank you, Kate.”
Just the way he says my name hurts.
Her
The restaurant is one of those places that takes farm-to-table a little too seriously, the waiter launching into an extended monologue as soon as we sit down. He delivers us each mini-plates with something from the chef designed to “awaken our palates,” something we should think of as a “delightful journey for the tongue.” I automatically glance at Trey, ready for his dirty take on the phrase, but he isn’t looking at me. The smirk is there, but it’s directed at his date—Chelsea—who blushes, her hand nervously playing with the end of her braid. I move to Stephen, who dubiously lifts the cracker and dips it into the gooey caramel-colored sauce. I look down at my own sampling, and the knot in my stomach fully forms.
The wine is delivered, along with a second monologue about the appetizer options, one Trey fully ignores, his mouth at the blonde’s ear, his arm draped over her chair, the edge of those fingers playing with her bare shoulder. When he finally looks up, the speech is over, and the wine is poured. I reach for my glass and Trey stands, stilling my action.
“A toast,” he says, lifting his glass. “It’s been three months for the two of you, correct?” He glances from Stephen to me and smiles warmly.
“That’s correct.” Stephen extends his glass and half-rises in his seat.
“To three months, and many more.” Trey lifts his glass, and we toast, my eyes meeting his as our glasses touch. I narrow my eyes slightly but he only smiles. “Congrats, Kate.”
“It’s three months,” I say as sweetly as I can manage. “Not exactly toast-worthy.” We all return to our seats and I watch Chelsea cup both sides of her wine glass as if it’s a warm mug of coffee. I don’t need to ask how long they have been dating. I can tell you that with psychotic clarity. Two and a half months. Two weeks after Stephen and I became official, she showed up at the office, a Kate Spade slung over her shoulder, yoga pants and a midriff-baring tank top on. She had waved a cheery hello at me and bounced into Trey’s office, his door quickly shut, blinds drawn. Apparently Trey hadn’t wanted to hire her, yet had wanted to rekindle their past. I had stared at an inventory report and tried to think of anything other than what was happening in there. It had been the longest twenty-two minutes of my life. And that afternoon, after he’d taken a ninety-minute-lunch with her, when I had asked him about it? He had only shrugged. She’s fun, he had said. When I’d asked him if he liked her, he had cocked an eyebrow at me and questioned if we were all still in high school. Since then, I’ve kept my Chelsea questions to myself.