Page 126 of The Tryst

She blows a cherry-red kiss to the camera, and I growl in appreciation for my Layla, my Lola, and her private moment just for me.

I close out of her app, grab my wallet, head out of my building, and get into the town car waiting for me at the curb. After I tell the driver where to go, I raise the partition.

On the ride uptown, I catch up on work emails, but when the vehicle swings onto Central Park West, I tuck my phone away so I have a few minutes to get out of the work zone completely.

And get into the first-night-out zone.

I’m almost giddy at the prospect of taking her out with no secrets.

At Layla’s building, I tell the driver I’ll be right back. When I head into the lobby to pick her up at her apartment, the elevator doors whoosh open.

The breath is knocked out of my lungs at the sight of her.

The woman in blue.

A silky sapphire dress clings to her gorgeous frame, hugging her hips, showing off her legs, and proudly displaying her glorious ink.

Her signature.

Her presence.

Her life.

Gratitude washes over me, along with joy. I can’t stop looking at her. And I don’t have to. I don’t have to hide a goddamn thing anymore.

Confidently, with a wonderful kind of certainty, I walk over to her, curl a hand over the daisy on her left shoulder, then brush a kiss to her soft cheek as I rub my thumb along the petals. “You are maddeningly gorgeous and all mine.”

She leans into my hand, seeking me out. Like she always has. She’s been so bold all along, and I’m so damn grateful for who she is andhowshe is.

After a few seconds we separate, and she says, “I am yours, so take me out.”

“Always,” I say, then set a hand on her back and leave the building with her, like we did months ago in Miami, like we’ll do now here in New York.

I can picture it perfectly. And I wonder if all my theories about coincidence are wrong.

* * *

I take her to a new restaurant in the Village. Finn told me about The Standards on Christopher Street, but there’s nothing standard about the menu. The meal is sumptuous, a butternut squash ravioli with white wine sauce for her and Chilean sea bass for me.

Old standards play overhead. Yeah, I like them. Nobody has a thing on Frank and Ella, or Harry Connick Jr. for that matter.

As we dine and drink, our conversation meanders through friends and moments, then she tells me about her business partner, Geeta, how she met her in a thrift shop when they both reached for the same purple blouse.

“It’s odd because we don’t have the same taste. She’s more punk rock,” Layla explains, then runs a hand down her hair, her rings glinting in the soft candlelight as she goes. “She has this magenta streak in her hair, and a lip piercing.”

“What’s your style then?” I ask, eyeing her dress, her skull rings, her ink. She’s a lovely hodgepodge all her own.

Layla gives a coquettish shrug. “Sometimes I’m pinup, sometimes I’m nighttime, sometimes I’m super-casual girl. And sometimes I’m whatever I want.”

“You know yourself well,” I say.

“I guess I had to figure some things out,” she says, and that makes all the sense in the world.

“So, who got the top? The purple one?” I ask.

“She did,” Layla says with a smile. “I could tell she wanted it, so I told her to take it. I grabbed something else.”

And I fall a little harder. “That’s so you.”

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