CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I don’t have the kinda control you think I do.”
THIS WEEK HAS BEEN our busiest. Probably because we’re on the verge of completion. By midweek, the place is buzzing with less than half the workers than the week before. Trent gave me the green light for renaming to BAREFOOT RUNAWAY B&B, so there’s been a lot of running around on my part getting the new name registered and commissioning new signs.
Maggie and I work amazingly together, and I don’t know if I would have gotten this far so fast without her. We agree more than disagree on decisions, and when we do disagree, we agree to disagree and work out a compromise.
It’s tiring work, but the high I get from the output is unmatched.
Trent texts me at least twice each day but I never respond. I’ve been actively avoiding communicating with him unless it’s regarding something critical to the project.
That doesn’t stop him from sending me lunch every day, though. Before last Sunday, I assumed the reason he sent me lunch daily was because he knew I was broke. Now I know it’s just his way of taking care of what he wants to be his.
This knowledge sort of changes things. It makes the lunches special to me, so much that I don’t even want to share with Maggie anymore.
Like now, as I’m plating some of my lobster scampi pasta for her while she waits impatiently with a fork, I’m doing so begrudgingly. Which is petty and possessive as hell, because it’s not like I’m able to eat it all myself.
“Jesus, you’re taking forever,” she carps, then pokes a piece of lobster with her fork and stuffs it into her mouth.
To get it over with, I scoop a big portion from the food container onto her plate then cross the room to sit on the couch.
“Ohmygod, this is so good,” she says around a mouthful of food.
It is, though I don’t respond. I love her, but I no longer want to share this sweet gesture from Trent with her. It means something to me now.
Maggie’s phone screeches with one of those headache-inducing heavy-metal ring tones. Every time her phone rings it’s like a stab to the skull.
“Hey, boo thang,” she answers.
At that, I narrow my attention to where she’s seated by the kitchen peninsula, because the only person she calls “boo thang” is Trent.
Why on earth is he calling her?
“Yeah, I’m good. You?” She pauses, listens, then glances over at me. “Uh huh.” … “No, she hasn’t. Why?” … “You did?” … “Okay.” … “Okay.” … “Okay, I will.” … “Yeah, I can. Now is a good time actually.” … “All right, cool. See ya.”
Setting her phone down, she looks at me with intent. “That was Trent.”
“Oh? What did he want?”
I tried for nonchalance, but I don’t think I succeeded.
She picks up her plate and comes over to where I am, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. “So, you remember when we hooked up a few years ago and I told you that I’d had a huge crush on you in school?”
“Yeah?”
“Well…” She forks a piece of lobster in her mouth. “It wasn’t just me.”
“Okay…?”
“So, see, Trent was nuts about you, but he knew you didn’t feel the same and he was afraid that if he told you how he felt it would ruin the dynamic. He was aware of how I felt about you as well, so we sort of confided in each other about how we felt.”
Her pace picks up with each word. “Anyway, when Torin came into the picture and you two got together, neither of us was happy about it. One night he invited me over and he was so angry about everything that he wouldn’t shut up about it. I guess, I dunno, I guess I was tired of his tirade and wanted him to shut up, so I kissed him.
“And that’s when you and True walked in. You all just assumed we were dating after that and we never bothered to correct you. We went along with it. All that to say: Trent and I were never a thing. And we’ve never had sex. Of any kind. Ever.”
A rush of breath explodes from her at the end of her word vomit. “Phew. Feels good to finally get that out.”
Food forgotten, I just stare at her. “Trent had a crush on me?”
“Yup. Huge. Boy had it bad.”
“This whole time…” I murmur low, more to myself than her. “And I dated his brother. Right in his face. All that time. Jesus. How does he not resent me?”
“Considering you had no idea how he felt, I think it would be childish of him if he did,” she points out. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s nothing even remotely ‘childish’ about that man. He’s pure alpha. A man in every sense of the word.”
“Girls used to throw themselves at him and True,” I remind her.
“And he didn’t give them the time of day. He knew what he wanted.” She forks pasta into her mouth and talks while she chews. “And from where I’m standing, he still does. Don’t think I didn’t notice how he was with you last Saturday. I mean, damn. Boy. Held. On.”
I roll my eyes at her. “What do I even do with this information, Maggie?”
“He said he told you to ask me but he knew you wouldn’t. So he called to check.” She cocks a brow at me. “Why didn’t you ask me?”
With a miserable sigh, I gaze down at my food. “Probably because I was afraid it would be something like this. Something that would push me toward him instead of away from him.”
“Why would you want to be pushed away?”
“Because he’s Trent,” I say with dramatic emphasis. “It’s weird enough that I can’t stop thinking about doing the nasty with him. But, I mean…it’s Trent, Maggie. Trent.”
“Yeah,” she drags with a hint of sarcasm. “And Trent is more than ‘just Trent.’ He’s a human being with feelings and emotions. A lot of which appears to be channeled toward you and only you. Instead of sexually objectifying him or looking him over as ‘just Trent,’ why don’t you try to get in there and see him. Stop blocking him out and grasping for bullshit reasons, because if he’s still the same person I knew back then and his feelings are still the same, then I guarantee you there’s no other man out there who will worship you like that man will. Trust me.”
I feel overwhelmed. Brimmed and confused. I’m both famished and repleted at the same time. I don’t know what to do, say, or feel, so I set my food aside and walk out of the house without a word.
I march right back to the guesthouse where it’s buzzing with noise and activity, and I throw myself into work.
No thinking. No feeling. Just working.
I’ve always been better at ignoring the inevitable anyway.
~
IT’S NOT UNTIL the text message comes through that I realize I’ve been waiting for it all day.
Trent: Pick you up in two hours.
An involuntary smile tugs at my lips as I read it, and the fluttering sigh that flows from me is pathetic. He had told me last week that he would come for me this weekend, though I hadn’t known at the time just what that meant.
When Friday coasted in on the rising sun yesterday, I both anticipated and dreaded hearing from him. Then when I didn’t, I was both relieved and disappointed all at once.
“Is that Trent?” Maggie asks from the kitchen. She’s stirring powdered iced tea in a glass.
I bite my lip and nod. “How do you know?”
She points the spoon at me in a circular motion, droplets of liquid plopping on the counter. “That goofy ass smile you got when you picked up the phone. Deny it all you want, but you’re so into him.”
“Mind your own business, bitch,” I tell her and she laughs.
Me: Where are we going?
Trent: Out
Me: Tell me where, so I know how to dress.
Trent: Doesn’t matter. Never seen you look anything less than hot as fuck, so do you.
Me: Flattering. But still not helpful.
Trent: Burlap
Ugh. So damn frustrating.
“Going out?” Maggie asks when I jump up from the couch and dart for the stairs.
“Yup. But you can’t come this time, sorry.”
She guffaws at me. “Well, of course not.”
~
I WANT SEX tonight, so I dress for it.
It’s been a while for me. A while. And, shocker of all shockers, Trenton Garza is the one I want to break that dry spell with.
In a short, flirty, mauve dress that shows far too much skin and accentuates my boobs with a deep cleavage cut, I’m damn near begging for it. Easy access.
Trent arrives exactly two hours later. He comes to collect me from the apartment this time, and even opens the car door for me. So chivalrous all of a sudden.
His face is shadowed with the ghost of a beard tonight, but I like it. He would wet panties if he ever grew a full beard. Although he always looks and smells amazing, tonight everything feels heightened, amplified. Probably because I’m noticing now, paying attention to what I didn’t before.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks of the small duffel I dump onto the back seat.
“Overnight stuff.” Isn’t it obvious? “I’m sleeping at your place tonight.”
“Says who?”
This asshole. I’m convinced he exists to drive me mad. I don’t answer. Makes no sense wasting time arguing over something that is going to happen.
As he drives out, I ask, “So, where are we going?”
“Dinner and comedy.”
“Comedy?” I ask on a choked laugh. “You? Trent Garza doesn’t ‘laugh.’”
“I laugh if I find something funny. Which is how laughter works, right?”
“So, basically you find no one funny, then.”
“You used to make me laugh,” he says.
“You used to laugh at me, not with me,” I remind him. “Like when I walked into the sliding door because Monica had just cleaned it and it looked like it was open. Or when I failed my driving test before I even left the parking lot. Or when you and True tricked me with a fake foam cake covered in real icing.”
“See? I find something hilarious, I laugh.” And then he laughs.
“You’re a jerk,” I mumble.
“And you’re fucking gorgeous.”
~
DINNER AND comedy are at an underground speakeasy on someone’s mansion property.
We enter through a vaulted door, and it’s one of the classiest speakeasies I’ve ever been to. Red, velveted booth seats, mini chandeliers twinkling from the ceiling, crystal glassware, dim lighting, and an all-male staff serving in tuxedos.
Small, intimate, cozy.
It’s perfect.
As we’re shown to one of the plush booths with Trent’s hand at the small of my back, I glance around and notice that almost all of the patrons are coupled up. The only solo customers I see are two older men by the bar, one seated on a stool on one end, and the other standing slouched on the opposite end.
Once we’re settled in and given menus, I lean in and ask Trent, “So, I’m noticing it’s all lovers here. Is this where married men bring their mistresses?”
“Maybe,” he says, his eyes all over my face. “It’s owned by a friend. Open twice a week and is meant for couples only. Membership only.”
“Hmm. You have a membership to a couples’ speakeasy,” I muse. “I’m guessing this is where you bring all your women to seduce them? Wine and dine. You must be popular around here.”
His lip twitches. “This is the second time I’ve been here. The first time was for an important meeting with the owner, Tor, and myself. Business related. After a job well done, he gave us free memberships.”
“Oh,” I say quietly, though not ashamed of my assumptions.
Leaning in, he presses the pad of his thumb to my chin and drags it slightly so my lower lip separates from the upper. “That was almost two years ago, and I’ve never used my membership until now because I was waiting to bring you here.” He drops his hand. “In fact, I’ve never taken anyone on a date anywhere. I’ve been waiting on you, Lexi.”
I don’t believe him. “What about that night in Vegas, at Nine-8 Bar & Grill. You—”
“Met her for a quick drink and a hook up. Except that once I saw you, it was over before it could start. Had a drink with her out of courtesy then sent her home. And I’ve thought of nothing but you since.”
It’s pathetic how hard my heart is pounding right now.
“We—” My words snag on a hitch. I clear my throat. “But we are not a couple.”
“We’re something.”
I hold his gaze as he holds mine, and tentatively, I agree, “We’re something.”
The server interrupts us with fresh garlic bread, butter, cubed cheese, and water, then asks what we would like to order. The menu is strictly fine dining, but the only thing I’m really hungry for right now is sex, so I close my menu and tell Trent, “Order for me.”
One eyebrow kicks up at this, as though the request took him by surprise. Nonetheless, he obliges. Soup Du Jour for appetizer, and for the main, Grilled Rack of Lamb for himself and Pan Seared Citrus Scallops for me.
I’m a seafood junkie and he knows it.
“Anything to drink?” the tuxedoed server asks.
“Gin and tonic for her, an IPA for me.”
After the server leaves, I look him over for several lingering beats, as if seeing him for the first time, then, softly, I say, “I’m sorry.”
He’d been taking a sip of water but pauses to slide me a glance. “For?”
“Torin,” I clarify. “I didn’t know…”
His gaze flicks away, and he resumes taking a sip of water, and then another before setting the glass down and bringing his attention back to me. “And if you’d known?”
“I…” My shoulders lift then fall jerkily. “I don’t know.”
“That’s why it’s not worth talking about.” His tone is dismissive, with a mild hint of irritation. “The truth about Maggie and me was meant to assuage whatever ‘girl code’ guilt you might’ve been feeling. Nothing else.”
“But I—”
“Lexi, you and Tor dated, it happened, I don’t give a fuck,” he cuts me off. “I knew it wasn’t gonna last. Knew you’d be mine no matter how long it took. So no, none of that other shit matters.”
He knew it wasn’t going to last? That I would be his? How presumptuous. How utterly arrogant. “But I’m not yours, though,” I point out.
His gaze singes with steely determination as he repeats, “No matter how long it takes.”
I don’t have a comeback because the conviction in that promise is palpable. If I believe nothing else he’s ever said, I believe this.
Our drinks arrive.
Then our appetizers.
Later, our main course.
There are live solo performances from soft, soothing piano melodies to chill saxophone solos.
After our dishes from the main course are cleared, the comedian takes the stage. Since I’ve never heard of him before, I settle in with low expectations.
But I shouldn’t have underestimated him. He has me in stitches within the first five minutes, and we aren’t even allowed to laugh above low snickers. He, unbelievably quietly, leads the audience through forty-five minutes of stifled hilarity.
Trent’s lips twitched once or twice, but that’s about it. By the end of the show, I’ve somehow ended up pressed tightly to his side in the booth, his arm around me in a manner of claim and possession. And the reality of it all almost leaves me pulseless. I’m on a date with Trenton Garza.
A date.
It all feels so insane. Unreal.
As the audience softly applauds the comedian, I ask, “Who thought it was a good idea to have stand-up at a speakeasy with rules?”
He smiles down at me. “Yet you’ve clearly enjoyed it.”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t laugh as hard as I wanted to,” I say. “Laughter should never, ever be stifled.”
“Hmm.” He sweeps his thumb across the tip of my nose. “You want dessert?”
With a shake of my head, I press my hand to my stomach. “I’ve already eaten too much.” And sex on a full stomach is never fun.
He signals for the check.
“Thank you for bringing me here tonight.” I rest a hand on his thigh and begin drifting it upward. “It’s…different.”
He grabs my hand just before it reaches his crotch. “Unless you wanna get fucked in a bathroom stall, stop,” he growls low. “I don’t have the kinda control you think I do.”
“Liar,” I hiss back. “You wanted to fuck me last week. I felt it. You held back.”
“I—”
“Here you go, sir.” The waiter interrupts us with the check and Trent slides in his credit card and picks up the complimentary mints, handing me one.
With a narrowed glare, I take it from him, unwrap it and pop it in my mouth. I swear to God if he doesn’t give me what I want tonight I’m going to remind him why he nicknamed me Hellcat.
“Stop pouting,” he chides. So smug. So amused. “It only makes me want you more.”
In that case, I pout harder, and he breaks into a chuckle.
And oh, what a magnificent sight it is when he laughs.
We stay for one last performance before we leave. It’s the nicest, most elegant date I’ve ever been on—not that I’ve been on many—and I can’t believe how much I enjoy being with Trent in this way. Usually when I was around him, I’d watch with one eye to see what kind of asshole shit he was going to do to me.
But this…being with him not as “the boy I grew up with,” but as a man who I’m wholly attracted to in every sense of the word…it’s so different. So new. More preferable.
“So, back to Pasadena…” he drawls as we’re driving off the property.
I flip the visor down and check my makeup in the mirror. “Do you like your balls, Trent?”
“Very much, Hellcat,” he replies, amusement in his voice.
“Then quit fucking with me.”
“Now I’m confused. I thought that’s what you wanted me to do.”
“I swear to God…” I mutter under my breath, and again, he laughs at me.
Asshole.
Like he did the last time, he controls the stereo from the steering wheel, skipping through songs until he finds the one he wants, then ups the volume until “Let Me” by Zayn whispers all over my skin in seductive waves.
I melt into a puddle.