Between them they split two bottles of wine, but Greg thinks he drank more than his fair share. By the time they rise to leave, he wobbles unsteadily on his legs and Trey slips an arm around his waist to help him. His closeness is more intoxicating than all the glasses of Cabernet Greg downed. Greg leans heavily on his old friend and lets himself be steered toward the bank of elevators off to one side in the lobby. There the two men are alone; after Trey presses the UP button to call a car, he wraps both arms around Greg and pulls him near. “I’m on the seventh floor,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Greg’s neck.
“I’m on the second,” Greg answers, but he doesn’t know why he bothered—these public elevators don’t stop at the staff’s quarters. That lift is off limits to guests. They could
