Page 59 of Tips and Trysts

But he lied to me.

A clatter next door interrupts my glowering. A moan follows—and another. Valeria and Lander are clearly going at it, which is no surprise because Lander can’t go more than two hours in the same room as Valeria without trying to seduce her.

After the next moan, I decide I need ice cream.

I grab my keys and earbuds and head out, envisioning a massive, intimidating, and delicious concoction—only to find a massive, intimidating, and delicious man standing a few feet away.

“Dalton?” I pull out my earbuds. “What are you doing here?”

Dalton Cavendish sways in his spot outside Valeria and Lander’s door. “Oh,” he mutters, running his big hand over his hair. When he steps closer to me, I notice the faintest dusting of shadow on his chin. “I was in the neighborhood for happy hour.”

“Don’t most happy hours end at six?”

He nods, not denying it, swaying on his feet once again.

“Well, it’s past eleven,” I comment, meeting him midway. “Have you been drinking all night?”

Dalton looks around the empty hallway. “I’m just here to see Lander.”

“He’s busy. It’s Tuesday, so naturally, he’s worshipping Valeria. Loudly.”

“It’s Monday.”

“It’s very much Tuesday, Dalton.”

Eyebrows high, Dalton lets out a groan. “Shit,” he mutters. “I’ll call Everett.” He turns and begins to walk down the hall.

“Wait,” I call after him. “Hold on.”

Dalton rotates and faces me—bleary eyed, clearly wasted, and clearly not in the best phase of his life.

I know a lot about estrangement. Dalton’s father is an asshole, and we all know he and his mother are better off. But there’s no easy way to deal with a family falling apart.

I cock my head in the direction of my condo. “Do you want to hang out?”

Dalton’s wide shoulders relax. “Depends,” he replies. “Are you going to let me smoke weed in your condo, or are you going to be all uptight about it like Lander, who’s convinced I’m going to hotbox that damn puppy?”

***

“You would have been a great therapist,” Dalton mentions while shoving his hand into the bag of tortilla chips. He puts three in his mouth at once. “Top notch.”

“Hey, thanks,” I say, taking the bag for myself.

“Did you plan on becoming one?” he asks, and I’m not surprised he remembered I was a psych post-grad. Dalton remembers everything he hears, which is why he’s such a good conversationalist.

“A writer, actually. I wanted to turn my research into a book, but therapy was on the table if the book didn’t pan out.”

“That’s bad ass,” Dalton murmurs before he sinks lower in the metal patio chair he’s occupying on my balcony. “Hey.” He looks at me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How long are you going to torture Everett?”

“I’ll answer if you tell me how long you’re going to torture Essie.” I take another chip. “I don’t understand you two at all. You’re both clearly down to fuck and you spend an inordinate amount of time togetheralone, but you’re not fucking.”

“How do you know we’re not?”

“She’d tell me. Plus…she’d be walking funny, right?”

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