Page 23 of The Tryst

I tense. Isn’t this what we said we’d avoid last night? Why is he creating expectations then? Hypothetical ones, but still. “You would?” I ask cautiously.

“Yes. Does that bother you? What I just said?”

I pause to assess what I’m feeling. Is he suggesting closeness? Emotional intimacy? Not really. So I’m safe. “No, but you said no expectations,” I point out.

“And yet I want to take you out to your favorite restaurant, order a decadent dessert, then dance with you again.”

Code for fuck.

But code for fuck sends a burst of tingles down my belly, headed straight for my core. I let out a murmur, unbidden.

He tugs me closer. “Kiss you again. Taste you again. Introduce you to so many other ways to fuck,” he says.

Hello, teacher. I wriggle against him. “Color me intrigued.”

“Would you like that, Lola?”

Is this a real offer, or fantasy pillow talk? I don’t even know what game we’re playing. But I’m a good enough actress. I’ve learned how to put on a face. “You could take me to my favorite club in Manhattan,” I say, since what the hell? I’ll go along with him.

“Pull you into a dark corner,” he says, brushing my hair away from my neck. Making me shiver.

“Touch me there. In public,” I say, playing sexy mad libs.

“Get you all worked up. Then bring you back to my hotel and bend you over the bed.”

Yes, this is the fantasy pillow talk portion of our one-night stand. I can handle this, even though his mouth cruises across my shoulder, drifting closer to my ink.

I tense briefly when he leans in to dust a kiss across the flower on my shoulder. But he either doesn’t notice my reaction or he reads me instantly, since he doesn’t stay there or ask me about it. Not that I’d tell him. I don’t feel a need to tell anyone what my tattoo means.

“And then I’d take you to breakfast in the morning,” he says softly, continuing laying out his agenda for this make-believe date.

Is a morning-after breakfast too much? But it’s a fantasy date so it doesn’t really matter. Besides, I like breakfast, and him so far. “Sounds nice.”

He exhales again, like he’s letting go of the tale just as he lets go of his hold on me.

Nick flops to his back, parking his hands behind his head. He’s staring at the ceiling. Maybe lost in thought. “There’s this great wine bar I’ve been wanting to try. It’s on Seventy-Third and Amsterdam. Hugo’s. It opened a year ago,” he says.

And the fantasy isn’t over. It’s getting awfully specific.

The sun is rising higher now, and the early light of dawn illuminates his handsome face. “I’ve heard about Hugo’s. My friend Ethan is always searching out new restaurants, and he’s been talking up that one, and my—”

I cut myself off before I say my mom loves to have her lawyer snag me reservations at the hottest joints.

I don’t want to mention her again. It makes me sound younger.My mommy gets me good rezzies.

I quickly course correct with, “My friend has great taste.”

“Then we’d go there tonight,” he says, and that has to be the end. We’ve played our fantasy date to its logical conclusion.

My suspicions are confirmed when he swings his legs out of bed. “I should get ready. International check-in and all.” With a yawn, Nick drags a hand through his hair. The signals are crystal clear. It’s time to go. The night is over.

Last night was the true fantasy.

I try to zoom in on reality. I need to head to my room, pack quickly, order a Lyft. I slide out of bed and hunt for my clothes while he grabs boxer briefs. As I find my dress by the couch, his phone rings.

My back is turned so I can’t see him grab it, but after a beat, he says, “Just a sec. That’s my—” But then he must hit ignore, since he says to me, “I’ll call him back later.”

My radar beeps. A horrible thought lodges in my brain, shame and anger chasing it. Quickly, I tug on my useless panties then my bra, covering myself up and grabbing my rings before I spit out: “Are you married?”

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