Page 61 of The Right Garza
“Huh? Oh, nothing,” she says quickly. “Forgive my wandering mind. I’m a little addled from all the sex and rest.”
It almost feels as if she’s hiding something, but I don’t push. For the same reason I won’t “ask her to tell me” like Trent demanded I do.
Whatever it is, I have a strong feeling it would only add fuel to my desire for Trent. And I prefer to stack up on reasons why Trent and Ishouldn’tbe a thing, rather than reasons on why we should.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
“I don’t have the kinda control you think I do.”
Lexi
This week has beenour busiest. Probably because we’re on the verge of completion. By mid-week, the place is buzzing with less than half the workers than the week before. Trent gave me the green light for renaming toBarefoot 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 wedodisagree, 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 issogood,” 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 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 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.”
