Page 1 of The Tryst

1

JUST SO YOU KNOW

Layla

I only have to last thirty more minutes. Half an hour is a good faith effort, right? I’m trying, really. It’s not like I’m sitting in this bar across from Bryce Fancypants the Third for my health.

“So, yeah, when Topher came to me about a top-shelf, members-only distillery in Manhattan, I said,I am so in and here’s the check,” Bryce says, while rotating his tumbler in quarter circles every thirty seconds. I recognize the tactic from a post last week onThe Gentleman’s Guide To Dating—do this if you want to communicate power on a date.

Because, of course, that’s exactly how a man should communicate power—by reading articles about how to do so.

“What a great friend,” I say, like I’m reading from a script.

“Topher has been planning this since we went to Princeton together a few years ago,” Bryce adds, no doubt in case I didn’t hear the other three times when he told me he went to the Ivy.

“How fascinating,” I say with a smile. You never know who Bryce might report back to. Like his mother at the tennis club, who’ll tell my mother at the tennis club. Since this date, like all my dates, was her idea.

But dating is like makeup. I know how to put on a good face to make it through the day. I sit nice and straight and say all the right things to whatever Bryce blathers on about for the next thirty minutes, from the money he and Topher invested in the liquor, to the money they’re making hand over fist, to the way they cater to old money, since old money’s the only thing you can trust, right?

When the clock behind the bar strikes eight-thirty, I can taste my freedom. Bryce is paying the tab, and fine, I’ll give him points for that. But after he signs the bill, he slides his credit card back in his billfold ostentatiously, giving me a chance to see that it’s black.

“Soooo,” he begins, running his fingers over his slicked-back blond hair, his gaze lasered in on my breasts. “This was great, Layla. I’d love to see you again. But just so you know, I’m really busy at work.”

He’sjust so you knowing me? Does he think I don’t know that’s code for he only wants to fuck me?

I purse my lips to hold back a flurry of put-him-in-his-place zingers. Instead, I keep the stakes in mind and fasten on my best Park Avenue smile. “I love my job, too, and I’m super busy, as well. Text me.”

“Sa-weet,” he says, and he can’t mask theI’m going to score next timesmile.

He can think what he wants, but I have a get-out-of-a-second-date-free card, and I’m ready to play it.

We leave the whiskey bar, and when we reach the curb, Bryce clears his throat. “So, I’ll text you, and we can do this again?”

“Sure!” I say brightly. “I’m just going to take off now and head home.”

This is the real test. I have a feeling this barely twenty-six-year-old banker will fail to do the one thing my mother values more than any other—protect her daughter.

Holding my breath, I turn toward Park Avenue. Will he follow or go on his merry way?

“I’ll text you, Layla,” he calls out as he heads off.

Virtual fist pump.

Bryce doesn’t offer to call me a cab, walk me home, or wait till my Lyft arrives. When my mother finds out, she won’t hassle me to see him again.

His fail is my win.

Once I turn the corner, I order the fastest Lyft possible and wait at the curb. My fingers fly as I text my friends to confirm they’re still at Gin Joint. They immediately answer.

Harlow: Get your ass here and give us a report on Chad. Or Thad. Or was it Brad?

Ethan: We’re placing bets.

Of course they are.

My ride pulls up a minute later, I hop into the black SUV, headed to our favorite speakeasy in Chelsea. There, I find my true loves waiting faithfully for me on a velvet chaise longue.

Harlow looks elegant and artsy with her brown hair clipped back in a silver barrette. Ethan’s the ever-cool hipster rocker in his skinny jeans and a thrift store button-down, his hair a wild mess.

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