BULL (The Buck Boys Heroes Book 1) Page 7

  Five fucking courses.

  I had to sit through five fucking courses staring at Trina while she savored the meal.

  The food was fine, but the experience of watching my assistant eat was sensual. She closed her eyes after several bites, moaned her approval, and kept running her fingertip over her bottom lip.

  I suspect that was designed to catch any wayward crumbs, but my dick didn’t get that memo.

  It took it upon itself to get hard and stay hard as I watched my wife eat her way through five dishes that I can barely remember at this point.

  Bette cleared the table ten minutes ago, and now, she’s peering at us from around the corner.

  She may be a great cook, but her skills in being stealthy are sorely lacking.

  Trina leans her forearms on the table to close the distance between us.

  The movement results in an unexpected gift for me. My wife’s breasts are pushed together, giving me a clear view of the top of them.

  I reach for my wine glass, finish what’s left, and then for good measure, I finish Trina’s wine too.

  She shoots me a frown, I think.

  I only catch the briefest glimpse of it as I tear my gaze away from her tits.

  “Graham,” she whispers my name, and Jesus Christ, I’m ready to crawl over the table, bend her over and take her right here and now.

  I’ve always found solace in the soft sound of her everyday speaking voice, but this is next level.

  “Yes?” I try to mimic her tone, but my voice comes out sounding strangled.

  Her blonde brows perk. “Are you all right?”

  That depends. Are we speaking in general terms, or is the question rooted in my body’s desperate need for her?

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Do you think Bette is spying on us?”

  Leave it to my trusting wife to deduce that two hours into this dinner. I sense she always gives people the benefit of the doubt. Her first impression of Bette was that of an experienced private chef. Mine was more cynical. I knew that Lloyd had an ulterior motive for this dinner.

  Bette has likely been texting him updates throughout the evening. I’ve caught her with her gaze locked on her phone’s screen a few times.

  “I’d bet everything I own on it,” I say with confidence.

  “Even the pelican statue?”

  “What the fuck?” I whisper shout. “What are you talking about?”

  I’m wealthy to a point well past obscenity, but I have never sunk a dime into a pelican statue. That much I know.

  I glance in Bette’s direction to catch her fingers flying over her phone’s screen.

  Fuck.

  She’s likely mistaking this for an argument.

  I cover by grabbing hold of my wife’s hands, her very soft, perfect hands.

  That draws her gaze to my face.

  “I don’t own a pelican statue,” I point out, although to be fair, if Trina asked me to commission one from the greatest sculptor alive, I’d give it serious consideration.

  I blame that thought on the wine.

  It’s never my drink of choice. When I indulge in too much wine, my mind wanders and gets trapped in places too emotional for my liking.

  “You do,” she counters.

  Pasting a smile on my face for Bette’s benefit, I grit out three words, “I don’t, dear.”

  Trina’s lips curve up into a grin. “Oh, but you do, darling.”

  I squeeze her hands, not hard, but enough to keep her attention trained on my face. “You’re mistaken.”

  “No, you are.” A sugary sweet smile accompanies those words.

  I want to kiss that off her face.

  “I’ll bet you that you have one,” she says, tilting her head.

  “What do I get when I win that bet?” I ask, even though I know I’m already victorious.

  She studies me, likely contemplating what the hell she can wager that I would want.

  Her.

  The answer is that simple.

  I want to kiss her again, so I take the initiative. I lower my voice. “I don’t own a pelican statue, Trina. I know I’m right. If I win this bet, you’ll have a drink with me at the bar across the street.”

  “You have alcohol here.”

  I lean even closer to her. “Bette is here.”

  She drops her chin in a subtle nod. “Understood.”

  “And if you win?” I question. “If I own a pelican statue…” I chuckle my way through that statement. “What do I have to do?”

  “Dishes for a month.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Graham

  “For the record, I have a dishwasher, and I would have hired someone to put the dishes in it.”

  Trina peers at me over the top of the glass that’s perched at her lips. “It’s called loading it, Graham, and I’m pretty sure you could have handled it on your own.”

  “I’ll never know.” I tip my glass of smooth scotch at her before I savor a sip.

  I won our bet with ease.

  When pressed, I asked my wife to show me the so-called pelican statue. She got up, marched toward the hallway that leads to the east wing, and then turned and sat back down.

  That’s when she told me that she’d like a martini, dry with two olives.

  It’s currently still in her hand as she watches me.

  I wait until she takes her first sip before I respond to her comment. “I know how to load a dishwasher.”

  She sets the glass on the wooden table that separates us. It’s small and in the corner of the bar that we came to ten minutes ago.

  “Prove it,” she challenges.

  “No need.”

  “No need?” she parrots my words. “Or no knowledge? I bet you’re one of those people who load it improperly. You probably put the bowls in wrong, so when the cycle is done, they’ve flipped and are filled with murky water.”

  I disregard everything she just said, save for one thing. “Another bet? What’s the wager this time around?”

  Her gaze shifts from my face to something behind me.

  In any normal circumstance, I’d ignore that, but curiosity turns my head to the side. I catch a glimpse of a guy in a suit. He’s around my age, but his taste in clothing isn’t as refined as mine. Neither is his demeanor. The not-so-subtle wave of his hand is directed at my wife.

  “A friend of yours?” I ask as I turn back to face Trina.

  I catch her hand falling to her lap.

  Apparently, the greeting was mutual.

  “No,” she answers curtly. “He’s not my friend.”

  I should find that amusing, but I don’t. She’s here with me. Fake married or not, I’m her date for the evening.

  I turn my entire body to face the guy and give him a hearty wave. It’s not a fist or open-handed. Instead, it’s a front handed motion meant to send a clear message that I’m wearing a wedding ring.

  In an attempt to drive home that point, I call out to him. “Your first drink is on me… and my wife.”

  “Graham!”

  The shock in Trina’s voice turns me back toward her. “Yes, dear?”

  That’s enough to get a smile out of her. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  My attempt to play dumb doesn’t sit well with my wife. She narrows her eyes. “I don’t see the problem with acknowledging a stranger’s attempt to be friendly. It would have been rude to ignore him.”

  “Not rude,” I disagree with a shake of my head. “Expected. This is Manhattan, Trina. Do you know how many times a day a guy like that gets shot down when he tries to make a move on a woman?”

  Her arms cross her chest. “He wasn’t making a move, Graham.”

  “He was.”

  She takes a sip from her drink. “Since you’re the self-proclaimed expert on this, tell me how many times a day do you get shot down when you make a move on a woman.”

  I chuckle. “Never.”

  “Never?” She laughs. “Be honest, Graham. How
many times?”

  I push my drink aside so I can reach over and snatch my wife’s hand in mine. My touch is much less gentle than it was at the penthouse. I want her attention. I want all of it.

  Staring directly into her eyes, I clear my throat. “I’ve never had the unfortunate experience of being turned down by a woman, Trina.”

  Her gaze travels over my face before her eyes lock on mine. “I’d turn you down.”

  “Liar,” I accuse.

  That sets her head back in a roar of laughter. “I’m not lying. You’re not my type.”

  That stings more than it should.

  Naturally, my ego won’t let it slide, so I press, “I’m not your type?”

  “No,” she answers swiftly.

  “What’s your type?” I question, skeptical of whether or not she’s being truthful.

  “He is.” She tilts her chin toward the bar.

  She has to be referring to the guy in the cheap suit. I want to get out of my chair and haul him out of here so she can’t steal another glance at him, but I stay seated because I have no claim to her. She may be my wife, but that’s temporary and in name only.

  “He’s successful,” she points out. “But not too successful.”

  “That’s a thing?” I hold in a laugh.

  She looks beyond my shoulder again. “His suit didn’t cost a small fortune, and his phone isn’t in his hand. To me, that means that he values other things more than his image, and in his world, work can wait.”

  In other words, the guy at the bar is the polar opposite of me.

  Her gaze gets stuck on him again, but the smile on her face tells me something is happening. I see the way her hand reaches up to skim over her hair.

  Goddammit.

  My wife’s not-so-secret admirer must be on the move.

  “Thanks for the drink,” a voice says from behind me. “It’s not often that anyone in this city does something like that. I appreciate it.”

  I don’t wait for Trina to respond. Instead, I turn and look up at the guy who has his eyes pinned to my wife. “No problem. Enjoy your night.”

  “You look familiar.” He points a finger at Trina. “Have we met?”

  You have to be fucking kidding me.

  I’m sitting right here. She has a diamond on her finger the size of Saturn.

  Trina smiles. “I don’t think so.”

  He studies her carefully. “I swear I know you. I’m going to go sit back down and figure out when we first met.”

  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 k
eep 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.

  She said she’s always known she had sugar running through her veins because managing the bakery makes her happier than anything else.

  I look to where Aurora is busily making a drink that is topped with what looks like whipped cream and cinnamon.

  I may have to break out of my routine and go for one of those today.