Page 48 of The Tryst

“I’m so glad it’s to your taste, Nick,” she says, and my name sounds awfully personal.

But I try not to read into the way she lingers on one syllable. Maybe she’s just being friendly. Or friendlier, since she’s been a little touchy all along, with her hand on my arm a few times, lots of laughter, and anoh, that’s so funny.

“Everything is great, Ginny,” I say, walking her to the door.

She stands at the exit but doesn’t reach for the handle. She tilts her head, as if waiting for something. Then she laughs and rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it,” she says.

Do what?

I smile, a little confused. “My apologies, Ginny. Did I miss something?”

“My number,” she says. “Would you like it?”

“I have it,” I say. I don’t want to be a dick to Marilyn’s friend, so I play dumb. “Since we were talking before I arrived.”

With a laugh, she sets her hand on my arm again. “Feel free to use it, Nick. And it doesn’t even have to be about furniture.”

Then she waits for a response.

I keep everything as polite as can be as I say a simple, “Thanks.”

Then I shut the door, glad to be alone.

Even if I were interested in Ginny and we had chemistry, I didn’t come to New York to date.

Lies. Sweet little lies.

I would date Layla if she weren’t my son’s ex.

Great. Just great.

There I go again with another Layla fail. I’m failing atnotthinking of her, so I remind myself why I’m truly back in the city where I grew up. To see my dad and my mom. To spend time with my son. To grow the company and make this newly merged VC firm bigger, better, stronger. To have something to leave my kid with when I leave this world.

I won’t leave him with nothing.

I want him to have everything.

All that isonlypart of why I’ve resisted looking up Layla online since I learned her real name. The bigger issue is I know myself. Know the rabbit holes I can burrow down. The Internet pages I can get sucked into. I’ve spent enough time watching her videos. I really shouldn’t spend any more time checking her out.

Best for me to move forward. I can get addicted to things that have slipped through my fingers. I’ve done it with companies I’ve lost out on investing in. I’ve done it with chances I’ve missed. I’ve got an obsessive streak ten miles wide. I sure as shit don’t need an obsession with a woman in my life.

As I head to the bedroom suite, I focus on one of mywhysfor being in New York. I dial David, eager to catch up since we didn’t have much time last night. “How was breakfast?” I ask as I hang up a few more shirts from suitcases.

“Better than an energy bar. Can you do that every day?”

I’m feeling good about my insistence last night at the diner. Then feeling shitty. It served my selfish purposes, not just my parental ones. To steal time with his friend.

Out of mind. Keep her out of your mind.

“I could also teach you to cook,” I say, leaving the bedroom so I can putter around the gleaming new kitchen with its sexy-as-sin stove.

David audibly shudders. “Cooking? What’s that?”

“C’mon. You must have cooked during your wilderness trip,” I point out as I test the burners.

“Does jerky count as cooking?” Before I can answer, David shouts, “Oh fuck!!!”

“What’s going on?” I ask, alarmed from the intensity of his reaction.

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