Page 56 of Trashy Foreplay

And that fucking elevator decides now is the time to climb all thirty-eight floors before reaching me. Flicking my gaze toward the conference room, I find Kaden watching me. The door is wide open now, and I spy Monica standing behind him, eyes downcast. The strong, commanding woman I equate with Cash’s wife is absent. Folding herself in her arms, she gnaws on her lower lip.

The ding of the lift saves me, and I rush inside and jab the button for the atrium level. My heart thumps hard against my chest the whole way down, refusing to calm until I’m out the doors of Mont Center and on my way to the restaurant.

I can’t help but look over my shoulder at least once every block as I stride down the sidewalk. Part of me is certain Kaden will come after me and demand to know why I was listening to what was obviously a private conversation. Even though I didn’t catch a word of it, the tension in the air was palpable.

And odd.

Still processing what just happened in the dregs of my mind, I find Lesley waiting at our favorite table. Sure enough, she’s tapping her black-painted nails on the wood surface.

“He’s working you too much,” she says, grumbling.

I slide into the seat across from her. “He’s out of town this week, so things are especially busy.” Picking up the menu, I eye her over the top. “Is something wrong? You seem cranky.”

“Just band stuff. Tensions are fucking high right now. All Zan and Garen seem to do lately is argue.” She brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “Actually, forget arguing. They’re playing tug-of-war like two toddlers in diapers.”

“Aren’t they best friends?”

“They’ll go back to being best buds after the gig, I’m sure. There’s just too much pressure right now to get our sound out there.”

My cell dings, and I fish it from my purse as Les peruses her menu, even though she always orders the French dip.

Cash: I miss you like hell. What are you up to?

I bite back a sad smile. He hasn’t texted me once since he left. Any correspondence we’ve had has been related to business. I’m not sure how to feel about his text.

Me: I’m having dinner with Les.

Cash: Your friend in the band?

Me: Yeah.

Cash: Can I text you later?

Frowning, I hover my thumbs over the screen, remembering the last time we exchanged texts. The last time we spoke over the phone, when I came with his voice ringing through my ears.

Me: I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can’t keep doing this.

A full minute passes, but he doesn’t text back. I despise myself for the flood of disappointment rushing through me. Putting an end to this—whateverthisis—is for the best. I lift my head and find Lesley watching me.

“You been holding out on me?” Her question lifts her dark brows.

My cell dings again, and I’m dying to glance down and read his message, but I don’t—not with Les giving me the eye the way she is.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean who’s the guy?”

The urge is too strong, and I lower my head and take in his words.

Cash: I know we shouldn’t be doing this.

And it’s as simple as that. He knows it, and I know it, yet here we are, continuously playing with fire. We might as well douse ourselves with lighter fluid at this rate.

“All right, Jules. Spill.”

Shit. She’s not going to let this drop. As I slip my cell into my purse, I consider confiding in her. It’s not that I don’t trust her. She’ll listen without judgment, and she won’t tell a soul. The problem is I’m ashamed of myself for being so weak. For jumping back onto the same dangerous ride I just got off of in Oklahoma.

The waitress stops at our table to take our orders, and I don’t know whether to thank her, or curse her timing. I order shrimp scampi, and Les goes for her usual.

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