Page 61 of The Tryst

He clasps my palm in a friendly gesture. But I don’t think friends shake this long, since he doesn’t let go immediately. He curls his fingers around my palm, then runs the pad of his finger along my skin, tracing me, touching me. Like he did early that morning in Miami.

He’s a thief.

But I’m not going to turn him in as he stretches the definition of friendship and curls my toes with one risqué touch.

“Friends,” he says, but I hear five words in that one. I hearI want you so much.More so, Ifeelit.

So I don’t let go.

But then, I do, missing the sensual connection once it’s broken.

“Friends,” I echo, as I brush my palms along my slacks, like that’ll erase the moment.

A few minutes later, David returns.

I still feel awkward as we recap our work on the auction, but I feel less awkward than I did when I arrived.

If I can be friends with the son, perhaps I can be friends with the father. Besides, it’s safer that way.

* * *

A few days later, I’m putting the finishing touches on a smoky eye for the former fashionista in her new shop. The event came together quickly, courtesy of Storm.

I didn’t even have enough time to be nervous. I met the fashion icon moments ago, and she told me to call her Mia.

Now that I’m here, swiping mascara over her lashes, I don’t feel anxious. I only feel confident and strong. I’m in my element as Lola Jones, creating a new look like I once created a new me.

“And after you put on powder, then finally, you apply the mascara. That way you don’t get beige powder all over your beautiful black eyelashes,” I tell the crowd as I finish Mia’s face.

“And you know mascara is sacred,” Mia says, in her warm, honeyed tone, a contrast to her jet-black hair, cascading in finger curls down her back. When I step away to show her off, the icon turns to the assembled crowd packed into her little shop. “Especially when you’re a woman of a certain age,” she stage-whispers, gesturing to her own face, with laugh lines and crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “We forty-something gals need our daily doses of mascara.”

I laugh. “Don’t you mean mascara is for everyone?”

Mia makes an oopsy face then points to me. “What Lola said. A mascara in every purse, makeup bag, medicine cabinet, and home in the world!”

Storm claps from the counter. “Our new rallying cry. Long live mascara.”

Then I answer questions from customers and take turns showing them some of my techniques.

“Thanks, Lola,” a dark-haired teen says, adding in a quiet voice, “Thanks to that video you did a while back, I learned how to cover up some red spots on my face.”

“You are gorgeous,” I tell her.

An older woman chimes in with, “Love your app, Lola. It helped me prep for a job interview. And I got it.”

“I’m so happy for you,” I say.

Lola, Lola, Lola.

It’s so nice to only hear that name. To only hear questions about the present, not the past.

When the event winds down, it’s just Storm, Mia, and me in the store. Mia’s waggling her phone, cooing at the social posts as she rattles off comments, then she stares at me intensely. “This is everyone’s new favorite thing in New York. Say you’ll do more, Lola. Say it. Say it now.”

Storm chuckles. “Give a girl a second to think, Mia.”

Mia taps a watch she doesn’t wear. “There. One second.”

But she had me at hello. “Name the time and place.”

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