Page 11 of The Tryst

I stand, weave through the tables in the bar and push past them, making sure they see me heading straight for the woman in red. When I reach her, she swings her gaze slowly toward me, excitement flaring in her gorgeous, bright blue eyes.

“Hi, Lola. You look incredible,” I say. Then I set a hand on her arm—possessively and obviously. I dip my face closer to hers, brushing a kiss across her soft cheek, savoring the way her breath catches.

But it’s not just a kiss I’m leaving—it’s a claim, letting everyone here tonight know she’s with me and only with me.

I inhale some kind of jasmine scent on her neck, or maybe in her hair, and it is intoxicating, like everything else about her.

When I pull back, she looks a little woozy.

“Hi, Nick.” She’s breathless and it’s beautiful to see.

“I got us seats at the bar. Come with me.”

“I’m there,” she says.

Yeah, same here.

I set a hand on her back, my eyes only on her as we return to the silver counter, passing the table full of dudes who wanted the woman by my side.You don’t get to call dibs, fuckers. She already called them.

Ladies choice, and all.

At the bar, I ask her, “What can I get for you?”

She’s decisive as she holds my gaze and says, “Normally I’m a mojito gal, but I think I’ll do a French 75…with you.”

Those last two words linger seductively—with you. She’s making an exception and I want to ask more about that. But first, a drink. I turn to the bartender, lift a finger, catch his eye, and then say, “A French 75 for the lady.”

“Will do,” the baby-faced man says, then grabs the bottle of champagne. As he pours, I return all my focus to Lola.

“A mojito’s your favorite?”

“Most of the time.”

“Then why not get it tonight?”

“That’s what I get with my friends,” she says, coy, like a cat.

I like where this is going, and I like to play too. “You don’t feel friendly with me?”

“Not really, Nick.”

The way she says Nick—I want her to say it in other ways. Late at night. “You weren’t very friendly during my keynote either.”

“I wasn’t?” she asks in mock surprise, then she flicks the ends of her blonde hair, just like she did this afternoon when I was onstage.

That move is just one of many that made today’s speech the toughest ever. I’d gritted my teeth, white knuckling my way through my outline, hoping I wouldn’t sport wood onstage. “You were having a good time in the front row, weren’t you?”

“Did I seem like I was having a good time?”

“The best time. Is there a reason you were trying to distract me?”

She doesn’t answer me directly. Instead, she crosses her legs, drawing my attention to them. Then she nibbles on the corner of her lips, bringing my eyes right back to that gorgeous mouth of hers. “It worked, didn’t it?” she asks.

“How do you know it worked earlier?” I counter.

She gives a coy shrug, then gestures to me, her fingers dangerously, distractingly close to my chest before she sets them in her lap. “Well, you’re here.”

I growl and it turns into a sigh of longing and lust. The bartender returns with a distraction and our drinks—a fresh whiskey for me as well as her drink. I peel off a few more crisp bills, and tell him to keep the change.

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