Page 42 of The Tryst

Or come.

On that sexy but sobering thought, I wrench away. He darts his gaze to the entrance then back to me as if weighing something, he asks in a dark whisper, “What are you doing later?”

Feeling bold and daring, I answer, “I believe the question is—whoare you doing later?”

Another groan, then he says, “Come over. I’ll text you. I want to see you tonight and tomorrow.”

Forget silver and gold. I’m diamonds and platinum. I’ve never felt so wanted. I’ve never known how good it would feel to be wanted like this. I’ve never understood why people would climb proverbial mountains for a lover, but at this moment, I get it.

I want to clear my whole damn schedule for this man and his desire—a desire that’s taken hold of me, too, and won’t let go. “I’ll be there,” I say. “Just name the time.”

Then he breathes out hard, rough. He jerks his gaze to the door again, assessing something. I’m not sure what though.

I peer outside, looking for David. He’s still pacing, his back to us. He looks caught up in his call. I should say goodbye to Nick, though, so I can give David my attention when he’s done with Cynthia.

But when I look back at Nick to tell him I’m busy with a friend right now, that sexy, sultry glimmer in his eyes is long gone. He looks like…a hard-ass negotiator.

Hmm. I gird myself for whatever’s coming next.

“Lola,” he says, then scratches the back of his neck. “I need to go. I’m meeting someone here.”

My senses tingle but not in a good way. “Why would you need to go if you’re meeting that person here?”

My heart gallops, powered by fear and worry. Did he lie, after all, about not being married?

He shakes his head, swallows, then runs a hand through his hair like he’s rearranging his thoughts. “I’m…meeting…my—”

But he stops when footsteps interrupt—the familiar clomp of Vans. Then, a warm, bright voice says, “Dad!”

What?

I freeze, thoroughly confused.

But David’s not at all thrown off by the powerful older man standing next to me. He beams, and the hair on my arms stands on end.

“Oh, man,” David groans, “I wanted to introduce the two of you.” But he sounds less disappointed and more delighted, which makes zero sense. “But I see you’ve already met my friend Layla. Layla, this is my dad.”

I can’t breathe.

I can’t catch air.

I can’t even move.

I’m a horrible actress after all. Because my face is numb with the shock of this news.

Somehow, I swallow down the bitter taste in my throat and then point to the man next to me. The man I bought the corset for. The man David teased me about cheating on him with.

I gulp out the horrible truth: “He’s…Daddy Bancroft?”

15

NO COINCIDENCES

Nick

Way back in high school statistics class, I learned that in a room of at least twenty-three people, there’s a little more than a fifty percent chance that two of them will have the same birthday.

It’s not entirely a coincidence. It’s a mathematical law that says life is random, the world is unpredictable, and when shit happens, it’s rarely fate. It’s probability, statistics, even inevitability.

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