Page 27 of The Tryst

“It’s our cousins,” I say brightly, using the nickname we gave Jules and Camden.

Harlow turns and waves at Jules Marley. The brunette works with Harlow’s boyfriend, Bridger. She’s become his right-hand woman helping him run his new TV production company, and she’s sharp as an eagle. Next, Harlow waves to Camden, Jules’s friend.

More than a year ago, the three of us ran into Jules and Camden at a dance club, and Harlow pulled them into our spot on the dance floor, where we grooved the night away to pulsing music in a big group of arms and limbs and drinks.

So we annexed them into our group. I also convinced Jules and Camden to take Krav Maga with me, so they join me occasionally at the gym.

While the three of us—Ethan, Harlow, and me—will probably always be like long-lost siblings, Jules and Camden feel like cousins we just discovered.

When Jules, decked out in jeans and a shiny black spaghetti-strap top that shows off her creamy skin, curves, and strong arms, joins us, she asks, “Did we miss all the good stuff? If so, will you recap the juiciest deets?”

Yeah, she’s definitely become part of our family. “Layla had an excellent—wink, wink—time in Miami,” Harlow offers.

I just shrug impishly, owning the fuck out of my time there.

Jules’s eyes twinkle. Camden’s green eyes brighten in obvious curiosity as she asks, “I’m gonna need more.Howexcellent, exactly?”

Ethan clears his throat. “A quartet of excellent.”

“Damn, Layla,” Jules says, impressed.

“Lucky bitch,” Camden chimes in.

We all crack up, then I tell the story again, and I don’t mind sharing the details of a night I’ll never regret.

Because that’s what it was—one wonderful night under the sultry Miami sky.

Later, as my friends and I head to Rebel Beat to rock out to Ethan’s music from the front row, I do my best to put those details in the past and move forward into my future here in New York.

* * *

My mother is sweating.

It’s a rare sight, but the woman plays like an absolute beast on the tennis court.

On the other side of the net, I’m tempted to shout, “Go, Anna,” but she’d deliver a withering smile and tell me to focus on the match.

But we’ve been playing for too many points, too many games, just far too long, so even though I was raised to be a tennis beast too, when she serves the next ball I maybe, possibly, deliberately stretch my arm too far and miss it.

Oops.

It rolls with a thud to the edge of the court.

“Damn,” I mutter, dropping my shoulders. Like this is the worst fate ever.

She arches a doubtful brow. Yes, from several feet away and across the net, I can read her dubious stare. “Darling, did you let me win?”

“Please. I’d never do that. I’m so competitive.”

In business. Not in sports. I couldn’t wait to hang up my tennis racket when I was in high school. Just like I can’t wait to pack it into a bag today.

Mom grabs a towel from a bench and wipes her brow. “Up for a rematch this afternoon?”

Where does she get her energy from? She’s been like this for the last few years.Busy. I don’t know if it’s real or a new survival strategy. A distraction from pain tactic.

“I would, but I have to prep for seeing Geeta tomorrow,” I say.

“Where are you meeting her? In public?”

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