Page 111 of The Tryst

He doesn’t finish though. And there’s no need to. It’s best not to make comparisons about our omissions.

I smile faintly, then say goodbye and hop in the car. I swing by Nick’s friend’s home and pick him up so we can drive together

He holds my hand some of the time as I drive. But he lets go when David texts him as we arrive in Manhattan. When he’s done writing to his son, we’re near my garage. “He’s going to come over this afternoon. For coffee. I’ll talk to him then,” Nick says, his voice calm and capable.

But I can’t even imagine how that conversation will go. “And then you want me to talk to him tomorrow or whenever he can? I want him to know where I was coming from too.”

“Of course,” he says, and he seems so strong, so tough. But would he let on if he was worried? That’s not his style, but I wonder if it will be? As we move forward, will he let me in when the world isn’t going his way?

I go quiet as we grab our bags, and he walks me to my building then into my apartment. Once I shut the door and set down my luggage and phone, he tilts his head to the side, studying me with obvious concern.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

“Layla, I can be patient on a lot of things, but on this I’m going to push. What’s wrong? Let me help.”

That’s always his first instinct. Or maybe it’s his love language—helping. He speaks it quite well, since I’m opening up. “I was just wondering. If you had a bad day, would you tell me? Would you turn to me?”

He takes a beat, as if he’s mulling this over. “I think I would.”

“You think?”

“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t had a bad day yet since I came to New York,” he says wryly, then pulls me into his arms. “But I want all of you. I want your heart, mind, and body. And I hope you want all of me. Even if I’m a surly jackass.”

I laugh, looping my arms around his waist. “I doubt you could be a surly jackass.”

He arches a brow playfully, but then he’s dead serious as he asks, “But would you want me if I were one?”

I press a kiss to his lips. A firm, declarative one. “I want to see all of you. Not just sexy, dominant, possessive, Nick.”

“Don’t forget obsessive,” he adds.

“Obsessive, possessive Nick,” I say, liking the sound of that on my tongue.

“You’re my obsession,” he says, in a low, smoky voice. His kiss on my throat tells me how much he likes this obsession.

His growl says he wants to act on it.

But he needs to focus on his son.

I set a hand on his chest. Gently push him away. “Go home. You need to get in the zone. Call me later, okay?”

“Invite me over,” he instructs.

“So bossy.”

“Yes. I want what I want.You. Invite me over tonight,” he says, repeating his demand.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m not going to tell my son I fell head over heels for his friend and thennotsee you,” he says dryly.

Head over heels—that’s how my insides feel right now. “Come over tonight.”

Another kiss on my neck. One more on my earlobe. A final one on my lips, chased with a sexy murmur. “I will.”

He leaves, and I lock the door, sighing happily.

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