Page 34 of The Tryst

“So? What do you think?” he prompts, picking up his fork to snag a bite of chana masala.

My phone pings again before I can answer.

Finn arches a brow, glancing at the device. “That’s definitely a hookup.”

I do my best to keep a straight face as I silence my alerts. “It’s nothing.”

He snorts. “Bullshit.”

But I don’t want to give him an opening into the topic of Lola. Not now. Not when the ammunition is too good—me unable to stop thinking about a woman I saw once.

Ha. You’re doing more than thinking. You’re texting with her. A LOT.

“It’s nothing,” I say crisply, shutting him down with the tone our dad used to end a conversation when we were kids. The one my brother and I both use in business now.

Finn acquiesces with a nod. “Fair enough. We’ll stick to the proposal.”

I focus on a particularly appealing aspect. “I think I could convince my son to work with us,” I say. “I’ve been talking to him about doing some marketing for the firm.”

Finn’s green eyes spark with intrigue. “Oh yeah? What does he say?”

I scratch my jaw, hopeful but cautious. “He seems…open to it.”

With a gregarious grin—that’s Finn’s go-to smile—he leans back in the chair and stretches out his arms wide as if embracing the idea. “Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Let me think about it tonight,” I say, as if my answer wasn’t always going to be yes.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

I enjoy his frustration and finish my eggplant bharta.

We finish dinner and say goodnight. Back at my flat, I jump on my texts as soon as the door swings closed. We switched from DM to text recently, and I’m dying to know what Lola’s double pings were about.

Lola: I know you’ve been wanting to see my exercise clothes. Thought you’d enjoy.

There’s a shot of her folded laundry stacked on her bed next to pillows in silver, gold, and sapphire blue. I’m dying for a shot of her, but I haven’t asked. The delayed gratification game is too fun.

Nick: Nice pillows.

Lola: You like my pillows?

Nick: I really do.

Lola: The color?

I unknot my tie as I type with one thumb. It’s hot in here now. Tropical levels.

Nick: No, Lola. Not the color.

Lola: Then what, Nick?

Nick: I like imagining you lying on them tonight. How your hair would look spilled out across them. How your face would look blissed out.

Lola: Is that something you want to see?

Nick: Very much.

I set the phone on my bare coffee table, trading it for my laptop. I take the computer out to the balcony and park my ass at the little table overlooking the hustle and bustle of Knightsbridge six floors below.

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