Page 33 of The Tryst

I peer down at my get-up and tap out another message.

DistractibleGuy: Charcoal slacks, a dark green shirt, a light blue tie.

Lola: Mmm. I do like a sharp-dressed man.

DistractibleGuy: Lola. There seem to be a few typos in your last DM.

Lola: Well, I don’t know if I’d like you sharp-dressed, Nick. I didn’t see you in clothes very much.

She makes an excellent point. And I’m not sure I want to rectify that no-clothes situation with her.

* * *

A few weeks later, as I’m boarding a flight to Vienna to meet with a former colleague of mine who I often trade ideas with—ascratch my back, I’ll scratch yoursdeal—my phone pings with a very welcome notification.

Lola: I’m leaving Krav Maga, wearing pink workout pants and a sports bra.

Damn, that’s sexy, taking a bad-ass self-defense class. And wearing pink while you land punches.

I focus on the pink, though, not the punches. The way the fabric hugs her curves…I’m already assembling an image. Savoring it. Planning to use it later.

Lola likes to play.

I do, too, and write back:

DistractibleGuy: I don’t believe you.

Lola: Why would I lie?

DistractibleGuy: Maybe you’re home wearing nothing.

Lola: I’m walking past construction workers. I’m definitely not wearing nothing.

DistractibleGuy: Prove it.

The proof arrives one minute later. A photo lands of men in hard hats. I laugh, then I reply in kind.

DistractibleGuy: I’m on the plane, sitting in first class, wearing a tailored suit.

Lola: Pics or it didn’t happen.

I give her a shot of the galley, then put the phone away, my smile a little wistful. Lola is addictive. Such a damn shame about the whole “Atlantic Ocean between us” thing.

* * *

We flirt across the ocean for the next month. In July I catch up with Finn while he’s in town. We’re having dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant when my phone pings with the chime I’ve assigned to Lola. My dick jumps like the fucker’s been trained. Pavlov’s dick.

I hit ignore so I can give my brother my entire focus. “Have you thought any more about my proposal?” he asks, just as I take a bite of the eggplant bharta.

He has to wait while I chew. Finally, I answer, “I have.”

“And?”

Setting down the fork, I take a beat, exhale. “It’s tempting.”

He grins. It’s a precursor-type smile, one that says he likes where this is going. “It’s always been your goal, Nick.”

“It has.” His proposal aligns with my big plans. Not much holds me back, but I like to do my research.

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