Page 39 of The Tryst

It breaks my anti-daydream.

I don’t remember unlatching the door, but Harlow’s inside the cramped cubicle, setting a hand on my arm. “You okay?”

My throat squeezes. Too tight. A noose.

Breathe, Layla. Just breathe.

And I do. I breathe, and I breathe, and I breathe like Carla taught me in the countless therapy sessions I attended in high school, then in college too. Soon, the images recede.

“It’s been a while,” I whisper.

“I know,” Harlow says gently. “Do you need anything? Water? Want to sit down? Listen to music?”

I tip my forehead to the door. “Does Jules think I’m a freak?”

Harlow shakes her head. “No. I told her I was going to check on the shirt, and she said she had to answer an email anyway.”

Jules’s professional voice floats from somewhere outside the door. “Thank you so much for the information on the foreign rights. Full stop. We’ll review this shortly. Full stop.”

I smile at the normalcy, the sheer Jules normalcy. “She’s dictating emails.”

“She never stops working,” Harlow says.

I take another breath then turn to my friend, worry digging into my bones once more. “What if it comes up tomorrow night? The hostess at Patricia’s Hole in the Wall gave me theOMG it’s youface today.”

Harlow rubs my shoulder sympathetically. “You’ll deal with it with grace or humor or pain. Whatever feeling you feel.” A squeeze of my arm now. “And remember, you don’t have to tell him. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”

One more big inhale.

Jules’s voice carries once again, the cool, modulated response to another note calming me. As she dictates, I’m struck by a realization. My new friend has never poked for details or prodded for insight. She hasn’t asked about my dad, or my mom.

That’s been one of the best parts of this blooming friendship. Maybe it can be that easy with Nick, too. He’s in London. Surely, he doesn’t know.

I take Harlow’s hand and exit the dressing room, leaving the persistent worries behind.

It’s time to get ready for my date.

I pose in front of my friends. “Yes or no?” I do a spin, awaiting a verdict, letting myself enjoy this pre-date ritual. Dating is like Christmas. You don’t just put up your tree the night before Santa comes down the chimney. You do it earlier, so you can enjoy the twinkling lights with anticipation.

Jules fixes me with a serious stare, studying the blouse like it’s a script she’s evaluating for Bridger’s production company, maybe something that needs an edit or a revision. “What if you did this?” She undoes the top black button, then the next one. “What if you wear a black corset? Do you have one?”

I shake my head. I haven’t ventured beyond pretty bra and panty sets.

Jules smiles authoritatively. “Go to You Look Pretty Today. You’ll want the Valentina corset. I’ll call the owner and tell her to put one aside in your size.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

Jules brooks no argument. “Then pair it with a skirt, jeans, whatever you want. But a corset is a statement if you wear it under the pink and black polka dots. It’s a hint and a headline at the same time. And you need a statement top when a hot older man who flies first class, dines at Hugo’s, orders town cars, and eats you out like you’re his main course comes to town.”

Harlow’s mouth parts in an O of disbelief that Jules said that. I kind of can’t believe it, either, and I laugh in surprise.

“Jules,” Harlow asks curiously, “where wasthisJules when we worked together once upon a time?”

The stylish brunette just tosses a sly smile Harlow’s way, then she fingers the pearl button on her own white sweater. “She is right there underneath the twin set.”

But before I seduce Nick, I’ll at least tell him my real name. I’ll tell him where I come from. The kind of home I was raised in. That’s all I can plan for now, but it feels right to share that much.

He’s earned it.

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