Page 67 of The Tryst

I nearly rip the handle off the pot.

* * *

I can barely concentrate as I head into the office on Friday. When I reach the corner suite, Kyle springs up from his desk, says hello, and updates me on calls and research reports he’s compiled for me, and I just grunt out a thanks then shut the door to my office. I’m heads-down most of the morning, buried in research, a pen in my hand as I take written notes, but I swear I have read the same sentence twelve million and ten fucking times.

Who the hell is this Kip Jackass?

I won’t google her. I won’t go down that dangerous minefield. I won’t violate her privacy.

But fuck it.

I need to know who the hell she’s dating.

Kip Cranston.

The second his photo appears, I hate him with the rage of a thousand black tar suns. I flip the pen in my hand back and forth as I study this asshole. He’s a frat guy. A fifth generation Yale legacy. Just like Rose. He likes classic sports cars.

Oh, that’s original.

I bet he expects women to bend over backwards for him.

I bet he thinks he’s great in bed because he has family money.

I bet he doesn’t listen to what women want.

I bet…

There’s a cracking noise. What the fuck?

Ink leaks all over my hand. I just broke a pen.

I stare slack-jawed at the black splotch on my hand. “What is wrong with you, man?” I mutter.

I head to the restroom. At the sink, I scrub, and I scrub, and I scrub.

The ink is still there ten minutes later when Finn strides in and glances at my palm. “You broke a pen again.”

“Yes,” I mutter.

“You haven’t broken a pen since Millie wanted to know if you’d join the country club with her. And she flipped a lid when you said no.”

I seethe over the painful memory. “I hate country clubs,” I grumble.

“I know that, buddy,” Finn says, then meets my gaze in the mirror. “Is this about a woman?”

No point lying. He’s been onto me from the start. “Yeah. Someone I can’t have,” I say, then I leave.

* * *

Early that evening, Layla arrives at my place right as David’s leaving.

“Always taking off,” she says playfully as he grabs his phone from the table by the door.

“Fingers crossed. I’m checking out a sublet. Then popping over to a shelter in the Bronx and picking up the golf clubs from Kip’s. We can all meet back for food and maybe come up with a plan for picking up the rest of the items?”

“Sounds good,” she says, then he waves goodbye to her and to me before he rushes off.

“He’s less frazzled,” she remarks as she sets down a canvas bag, then follows me to the kitchen.

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