Page 3 of The Tryst

“You’ll be away from New York,” Harlow chimes in.

“No interference from Mama,” Ethan adds.

“Lots of men who tick all your boxes,” Harlow says, then grins. “Like, theolderbox.”

In case I didn’t know my type. Still, I manage a protest of sorts. “That’s not always true. I liked David Bancroft in college.”

“You liked him as a friend,” she corrects.

“But I dated him for a couple months.”

“It was practically platonic,” Ethan adds.

To be fair, my relationship with David wasn’t platonic, but it ended amicably and I’m still good friends with him.

But even so, I don’t want to mix business and pleasure. I only have a few years to make my app go big. “I should focus while I’m there, guys.” But I can feel my resolve weakening as I picture…men in suits.

“You can focus by day,” Ethan whispers in one ear.

“Have fun at night,” Harlow seconds in the other. “Just imagine men who don’t tell you how much money they make.”

“Because they’re confident in who they are,” Ethan adds.

“Since they’re self-made,” Harlow adds.

A whoosh travels down my belly. They make such good points. “You’re making this hard,” I grumble.

“And there’s one more thing,Lola Jones…” Ethan emphasizes the name I use professionally for my app and my brand of online makeup tutorials. I registered for the conference under Lola Jones, as well. I don’t like to traffic in the cachet of the Mayweather last name, especially when it comes to my burgeoning makeup dreams.

Ethan pauses dramatically, takes a drink of his mojito, and sets down the glass with panache. “Imagine a man your mother doesn’t set you up with.”

That does sound like my type.

But I’m not traveling to Miami to find a man. I don’t need a man. I don’t want to rely on someone. I never want to experience again the pain of losing someone I love. Felt it. Some days, I still do.

Only, I sure wouldn’t mind going on a date where I didn’t have to report back to anyone except my friends.

Just in case, when I’m packing for the conference later that night, I include a red, cap-sleeve dress with white polka dots.

Well, it does make me look like a good girl.

* * *

I spend the first day of the Miami conference in sessions from morning to night, as focused as a high-end Nikon. The next day, I meet with platform partners and marketers, showing them the growth I’ve achieved on my own with the makeup app I started a year ago. With “The Makeover,” you upload a photo of your bare face, and it offers color and style suggestions paired with how-to tutorials from yours truly—AKA Lola Jones. I’ve been creating those videos and building a solid following online for more than five years. My little app has been chugging along all on its own, but we want to go big. After those meetings, I send a report to my partner, Geeta, back in Brooklyn.

When the sessions end for the day, I stop in my room for a quick change into beach gear so I can join some business school friends for volleyball. Once I put on a red bikini, I hit the sand, playing against MBA-ers from another school as the sun dips lower in the sky. I’m poised at the back of the net, waiting for our opponents to serve, when I spot a tall, broad, well-built man walking through the sand.

Hello.

Light blue swim trunks hug his hips, showing off his golden skin and his V cut. My eyes travel up his strong body. Just the right amount of chest hair covers firm pecs. He’s maybe in his late thirties, and he’s heading toward the surf with purpose. I only catch a glimpse of his chiseled profile. A trim beard lines his square jaw, and crinkles form at the corner of his eyes. He looks just my type.

“Heads up!”

I jerk my gaze away just in time to dodge a volleyball to the face. That would have served me right for gawking.

* * *

Volleyball victory still burns in my thighs the next morning as I stroll across the hotel mezzanine, on my way to my next session. I’m checking the conference app on my phone when my skin tingles. I look up and glimpse another echo of yesterday—that same, strong, sturdy man from the beach.

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