Lag (The Boys of RDA Book 2) Read online

  I ruffle through the bag and take a deep breath before answering. “Simone speaking.”

  The bull terrier begins to rattle off questions about my lunch meeting today with a new client. It’s all information he could have gathered from me at the office, or better yet read the email I sent him with the outline. No, the asshole decides he needs to call and ask me tonight. Right now.

  I stand with the phone in my hand as Trey falls back on the couch and sighs loudly. He stares up at the ceiling in defeat and his head turns to mine while I plead with my eyes that he’ll understand. He jerks his head in a move to call me back to him. I don’t need the distraction of Trey, but I can’t refuse. As I reach him he stands. Both hands fit underneath my arms and he pulls my bra back together clasping it again with slower movements than he used to take it off. He sighs again then sweeps his hands down my shirt to work out the wrinkles.

  “You need to come back and get these taken care of tonight, Simone. I don’t know how you did it in New York, but here employees don’t leave until paperwork is done."

  “Wh… what?” I sputter after catching some of what he’s said. Wrapped up in Trey again, I missed his earlier complaints.

  His voice rises a few octaves. “You need to come in and finish approving the loan documents for the Low family. They need to present financing tomorrow morning when they meet with builders.”

  There wasn’t any documentation for me to sign when I left today. I met with the Low family for lunch this week and no one mentioned paperwork. Still, my pride won’t let me admit I may have made a mistake to my boss, so I agree to meet him in the office within the hour.

  Trey listens to my end of the conversation. He looks resigned to what I’m going to say before I have the call turned off.

  “I have to go back to work.” I shrug when I say it so as not give away how upset I am.

  “I heard.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Roger pulls his little red convertible into the half circle driveway in front of the white exterior of The Flood Mansion and we pause in the line of cars to wait our turn with the valet. So far he hasn’t spewed comments about my attire so I'm hoping tonight’s dress meets his standards. It’s still a little black dress, but the satin material falls to the floor and the fabric shimmers in the light — more of an iridescent black. The fabric swoops at the top across the shoulders and gives the entire piece a fancier feel over what I wore to our last event.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks from the driver’s seat.

  The house is an actual mansion, not just in name. The long white building looks to be made from marble or some other stark white material. Details around the windows and roof match the formal entryway with its detailed columns and simple yet still grand front steps.

  “I didn’t realize San Francisco had this type of architecture. I thought it was all Queen Anne.”

  “The Flood Mansion is an Italian Renaissance design. You’ll find all kinds of homes in the area.” In a moment of non-assholeness, the bull terrier and I share a polite conversation while waiting for the valet stationed in front of the home. “I’m glad you were able to pull this outfit together in such short notice. I was worried we’d have a repeat of last week.”

  And that fast his assholeness is back.

  I conceal my eye roll by feigning more interest in the mansion until a valet opens my door and helps me out. Roger meets me at the curb and takes my arm as we walk through the large marble entryway.

  “Remember, the Koch’s are new clients and this autism fundraiser is important to them. Try not to hit on any men tonight.”

  I trip on one of the stone steps, but Roger grips my arm harder while flashing me a tight disapproving face. Last week he accused me of hitting on Trey and his friends to score an account. It was an hour-long talk about how Lowry, Lowry, and Fink doesn’t use prostitution to gain new clients. In other words, mortifying. I’m not sure why the man hates me so much, but he’s made it clear he thinks I’m the biggest screw up he’s ever worked with.

  I was stunned speechless when he asked me to be his date for tonight’s event. Of course he asked at 4:30 p.m. so I assume I’m a last resort. Regardless, I’m here now and the food will be better than the leftover takeout I planned to eat. I’ll support any charity Roger needs me to with a big happy face as I drink free champagne and eat expensive food. The job comes with some perks.

  We cross the threshold together and Roger leads me to the right of a large foyer area. People mill about the space with tiled floors and large windows. A line has formed at the small black bar area set up in the back of the room. If Jay were my date for the night, we’d already be headed toward the refreshments, but I bet Roger’s a water man. And heaven forbid I mention it. Tomorrow he’d schedule an AA intervention.

  A laugh carries across the room and my ears perk up. For a minute I think it’s Trey, but he didn’t mention a commitment tonight and he wouldn’t have a reason to be at tonight's charity for autism. Roger talks to a couple a few years older than me who both laugh at everything he says. He doesn’t take the time to introduce me, but they both seem friendly enough. Any other time I’d be offended at his callousness, but I can’t find the strength to care tonight. I’m still reliving my evening with Trey and wondering when I get to see him again. I’m here for the free food and to be arm candy —— minimal thought required.

  There it is again. This time my head flies around to look behind me from reflex. The sound is deep and rich. One I memorized from the few times I heard it last night. With Trey. I make a quick glance around the room, but don’t spot a tall, impossibly handsome man in the area.

  “What do you think of San Francisco so far, Simone?” the wife of the pair Roger has cornered asks. I guess introducing me wasn’t as important as telling everyone here I'm new.

  I suppress a sigh. It’s not her fault after all.

  “I’ve only been here a few weeks so I haven’t had much time to see the sights yet.”

  I don’t mention my trip down Lombard Street last night in L.D. with Trey. It’s sure to make Roger asks more questions and I don’t want him to ruin the specialness of the night more than he already did after making me come in the office to sign a single sheet of paper.

  “Roger,” the woman clutches her floor length dark green dress and lifts one side, “you must help her get out and see all the wonderful things we have to offer."

  Roger gives a polite but dismissive head nod in her direction. “Of course, Gloria,” and he then resumes his conversation with her husband without another glance in our direction.

  “Come with me, dear. Let’s get some champagne.”

  Gloria is the perfect person to help me make a beeline away from Roger, if only for a few minutes. Plus, she offered champagne. She detangles her arm from her husband and, with a portion of her dress still raised in one hand, leads me toward the back of the room.

  The line for the bar stretches to the side and we take our place at the end of it before she picks up the conversation again. “I’ve always wanted to live in New York, but the closest I’ve gotten was a few long weeks here and there. Do you miss it?”

  I think about my answer for longer than I’m comfortable with. The truth is I do miss New York and my family. But there’s a part of San Francisco that calls to me. The city is beautiful and the views spectacular. The weather is better than Buffalo for sure. Yet, if I'm honest there is one person in particular swaying my judgement of the city. New York doesn’t have Trey Good.

  I shuffle through my emotions and then give her the expected answer. “I do miss it, but I’m looking forward to a fresh start here.”

  I wait for her to give me a polite head nod at my answer, but instead I’m met with a scowl. “Oh no, dear. Don’t say you're looking for a fresh start. It makes you sound like you escaped prison. Compliment us on the weather or beauty of the city. Northern Californians are ridiculously proud of the features we have no control over.” She smiles and it makes me comfortable
enough to laugh at her advice.

  My head snaps to the right as I swear to God Trey’s laugh passes by us again. Closer this time.

  “In this room, the acoustics are horrible. You can hear everything. All the marble, I assume. Although, I suppose the Flood family wasn’t planning on it being an event hall when they built it.” She obviously noticed my loss of attention.

  I give her a polite, “Hmm. Yes, I suppose you’re right,” and then we allow the conversation to continue, but my eyes don't stop the search for Trey. My mind refuses to believe he isn’t here even though I remind myself he didn’t mention any plans during our messages today.

  As the line inches forward, I reposition myself to the other side to see more of the room. To my left, beside a pole, in a position I couldn’t see before stands a tall dark-haired man. His backside is visible, but isn’t enough to tell me if it's Trey or not.

  I stare at the mysterious back as a woman with red hair comes to stand at his side. Her blue dress wraps tightly around her body, hugging her hips and ending right above her knees. She wraps her arm around his back and he reciprocates the move so they’re wrapped up in each other. I let out the breath I’d been holding. It can’t be Trey if he’s here with someone. I’m turning myself into a stalker over nothing. Tomorrow I'll tell him about it and we’ll laugh together.

  With a small shake of my head and a slight chuckle at my own crazies, I refocus on the conversation and answer the question Gloria’s asked. “I have no idea what Roger drinks, I think he likes to stick with water.”

  “That’s too bad for you. I hope one day the man will lighten up. He’s a bit uptight if you ask me.”

  I laugh at her assessment of Roger. Hell, my seventy-year-old boss in New York let loose more than he seems to. Even though it’s not Trey, my head raises at the laugh again and I look in the direction I last saw the couple. They’re still embraced, but now the woman has leaned forward, deep in conversation to the group they’re with. She turns her body further into the tall guy, and when his head moves to meet hers, I’m faced with the side of Trey’s amused face. Trimmed stubble and all.

  Except it can’t be Trey. It can’t be. My breath stalls even as I repeat, “It’s not Trey,” over and over in my head. The line in front of us edges forward again and it’s our turn to approach the bar. I order two waters and stand to the side to wait for the bottles of water..

  I try to bring the can’t-be-Trey couple back into my line of sight, but people have moved in front of them. As Gloria approaches me with two flutes of champagne I stumble against a small table as the pictures of Trey from my Internet search flash in my memory. It was over a month ago, from a computer in the Atlantis Resort, but the woman he was featured in photograph after photograph with was a redhead. Could it be a coincidence?

  I plan to take two steps toward the couple to try and confirm my suspicions when the Trey look alike turns around completely. My stomach twists and I worry I might vomit. Thankfully, Gloria grabs my arm before the-man-who-is-most-definitely Trey sees me. It’s with her help that I make it back to the area we left Roger and her husband.

  My breathing is shallow, but my heart beats rapidly as I race to work through my thoughts. Trey is here and with the girl from all the pictures. The girl who definitely isn’t his sister or some other family member. Have I been played this whole time? Is she a girlfriend and I’ve been made the other woman?

  Gloria comes to my rescue again when she pulls me to the side and forces me to move my head from Trey. “Are you all right, Simone? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I turn to Roger and hope my face looks regular sick not vengeful lover rampage sick. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m going to make a quick visit to the ladies' room.” I hand Roger my water and turn behind me to cross the room before anyone can question me more.

  I’ve never been in this situation before and I have no idea what to do. I’m a rational person, even now, so I recognize my first ideas are bad ones. Roger would flip out at the scene I’d cause if I walked over there and demanded to know who the slutty redhead is. Throwing my drink at them is out of the question as well.

  This feels like one of those scenes from a movie where the girl freaks out over a coincidence and causes a big issue over nothing. I refuse to become the crazy girl. What I will do is walk in a calm fashion to the bathroom, take a few minutes to get myself together, and then walk back into the room like I haven’t seen Trey with another woman.

  Talking through it as I walk to the bathroom makes me feel better and calms a few nerves. What I’ll do once I’m home is up in the air, but it won’t be good. But first I must get through this event without a scene. My steps pick up as the bathroom door looms ahead, a shiny beacon of safety.

  “Simone?” his voice is close, but I refuse to flinch or stop, too focused on my destination.

  A few feet separate me from freedom. I’ll make it.

  “Simone.” A hand grabs on to my upper arm, but he doesn’t pull me back or stop walking. There are mere seconds to make a decision. Do I pull out of his grip and run for the bathroom or stop and pretend I’m fine? At the risk of my job, I stop and have a huge smile plastered on my face by the time I turn around.

  He looks magnificent in a black tux and it pisses me off. My mouth falls open ready to greet him, but I stall as the full effect of Trey hits me. His tan skin contrasts with the white shirt and black tux in a perfect combination. His jacket is unbuttoned and open to the white shirt and fabric wrapped around his trim waist. My eyes lower and I spot the light blue bowtie he’s wearing. One that matches the redhead’s dress, like they planned to be all matchy-match. Will she be at his house in a few hours enjoying the view I had last night?

  I maintain my smile, but my eyes tighten a fraction. “Hello, Trey.”

  “What are you doing here?” he questions me with his lips in a solid line and his eyebrows tight. He’s apparently not as good as an actor as I am.

  Not letting go of my arm, he draws me down the hallway, but we continue on past the bathrooms. Once we’re far enough out of sight I don’t have to worry we’ll be seen I rip my arm from his hand.

  “I’m here with my boss.” I spin on him and answer at the same time.

  He leans in closer. “You didn’t mention a date with your boss.”

  “You didn’t mention a date either. My invite was last minute and for work. You’ve obviously planned tonight.” I point to his tie, but I don’t think he makes the connection.

  “Is it normal to come to these types of functions with your boss?”

  His question and the damn quirky eyebrow send me over the edge and I lose the cool façade I’ve tried to hold on to so well. With my back ram rod straight I lean toward him invading his space. “Is it normal for you to see two different girls on two different nights?"

  “It isn’t what it looks like, Simone,” his hand goes to the wall behind me.

  I cock my head to the side to show how unbelievable I find his statement. “Oh really, what is it then, Trey?”

  I can’t wait to hear what typical male response he comes up with. She’s a friend. I’m doing her a favor. I didn't know she’d be here.

  He breaks eye contact as his eyes fall to the floor. “She’s kind of my girlfriend.”

  I’m ready to strike out at any of the possible answers I’d planned for him to think of, but I have nothing for this one. Girlfriend? Girlfriend!

  I try to keep my voice quiet so not to draw attention to our hidden corner, but it becomes a little screechy against my best efforts. “Your girlfriend!?” All the water in my stomach drops and the room spins for a moment. Do I want an explanation for this?

  “It’s complicated.” Trey’s eyes stay on the floor, but he sweeps his hands through his hair in agitation. As if I’m the issue in this hallway.

  “It’s complicated?” I can’t believe this man. I seriously can't believe him. “This isn’t fucking Facebook, Trey.”

  At my use of the F word, Trey’s head
pops up to meet mine again. “Mari and I have an agreement.”

  He has an agreement with Mari? How fucking super-duper sweet is that? My heart thumps against my chest and the need to throw up is present again. I look past him back to the party and realize for the first time I’m exhausted. The girlfriend revelation has sucked not only the oxygen from the room, but my strength as well. I can’t handle more.

  I certainly don’t want to hear him give me some crap about his agreement with Mari. I’ve dealt with enough mistresses to know sometimes the wives don’t know and other times there's an agreement. I wish guys had warning labels so you wouldn’t waste any time on the ones that turn out to be assholes.

  The sigh I let out isn’t voluntary, but with it I release all my dreams of having more with Trey. “Let me uncomplicate it for you. We’re done." My voice is hard as ice and I step to the side of Trey and walk past him back to the party.

  With my heart dead for the night, I’ll work on building up all the walls I’ll need to get me through this event without an issue. Trey Good is dead to me. At least until this weekend when I’ll take him out of his little box and deal with him through a pint or two of ice cream.

  By the time I’m back to Roger’s side, I wear my best perky smile. He’s moved on to a new couple and hands back my bottled water without introducing me again.

  When there is a lull in the conversation he turns to me. “Is everything okay?” Roger actually sounds concerned.

  Before I answer Trey interrupts, “Simone, we weren’t done talking.”

  Roger’s eyes widen at the comment and I involuntarily flinch before we both turn to a stony faced Trey.

  “Oh, Mr. Good. Meet my boss, Roger Walters. I assure you any questions you have about starting an account with Lowry, Lowry, and Fink should go through him.” I smile at Roger and make sure to avoid eye contact with Trey.

  Trey’s eyes narrow at me. “So it was about the account then?”

  I make sure to match my tone to the hard one he asked with, “It’s always about the account, Mr. Good.”