Page 50 of The Tryst

I groan.

Fucking Finn.

My phone is missing too. I left it on the table, thinking it’d be safe since I’d reserved the pool area for a solo swim.

I peer around for my older brother, but—no surprise—he’s not here. I should never have told him to meet me on the gym level of the building before our dinner. Rookie mistake, giving him the code.

I head for the locker room to grab another towel when the glass door to the pool swings open. Finn strolls in, looking polished and sharp, my missing towel draped over his arm.

“Dude, you’re going to be late for our dinner,” he calls out.

“I won’t be,” I say. We both know that would never happen. We’re meeting our dad in a couple hours. But first, we’ll catch up on work at my place.

“Cocky,” he says, then tosses the towel into a bin of dirty towels.

He’s such a dick.

I’m not going to grab for the towel and give him the satisfaction. So I stand there dripping wet in only my swimsuit, assessing Finn. His phone’s in his hand. My phone too.

I wiggle my fingers. “I’ll take the phone now.”

He adopts a confused look. “What? These are both mine.”

“They’re not,” I say.

“I have two phones.”

“Why would you have two phones?”

He rolls his green eyes. “One is for testing new apps. Obviously.”

I appreciate his commitment to the prank. Truly, I do. But a brother’s got to do what a brother’s got to do.

I grab my phone easily, even as he protests with ahey now. Then I take his as well.

“What the hell?”

I toss the phones on a table a few feet away. They clatter lightly, but the alternative is them going in the pool with my brother. I have no choice but to throw him in.

Splash!

He resurfaces, annoyed but laughing while soaked in his fancy duds. I grin too. It’s not quite as satisfying as a night with a good woman, but this is definitely the most pleased I’ve been in days.

* * *

An hour later, we leave my place together, both dry and dressed. David’s not here. He’s out seeing a friend. I didn’t ask who. On the elevator down, I eye Finn’s new clothes—jeans and a black Henley. “I would have loaned you something,” I deadpan.

He snorts. “As if I’d have taken it.”

Instead, he called a nearby men’s shop, ordered new threads, and had them delivered in thirty minutes.

I’d have done the same. I’d never give him the satisfaction of wearing his clothes, but it’s still fun to offer him mine, even after the fact.

We climb into the black town car waiting at the curb. I tell the driver the address of Antonia’s, Dad’s favorite Italian spot in Queens.

As the car weaves into traffic, Finn deals me an intense look. “So, Marilyn wants to know why you don’t like Ginny,” he says, plastering on an irritated grin, but it’s not me he’s annoyed with.

It’s his wife.

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