Page 56 of The Tryst

But now that I’m about to go into the Lair of Awkward, my stomach dips with nerves again. Setting a hand on my stomach, I strip away the banter, going straight for the bare truth. “Ethan, I feel like such a little…”

I hate the wordliar.

The man who killed my father accused him of being a liar. My father wasn’t. I knew he wasn’t. My father knew he wasn’t. We all knew that his business partner was the liar.

But I feel maybe I am. So I say the word, no matter how much it hurts. “I feel like a liar.”

Ethan rubs my shoulder with a sympathetic hand. “What were you supposed to do though? You weren’t going to ’fess up over fries that you already knew his dad. That you’d spent time with him in Miami. That you had a date with him. That would have been unnecessary. Just try to leave it all behind you,” he says, and the thought of leaving Nick in the past makes my chest ache. But I know it’s for the best.

I know, too, I’ll have to do a better job than I did the other night when I texted Nick that photo of my corset in a moment of weakness. I can’t keep teasing him with the possibility of an us. I can’t keep toying.

He didn’t even respond. Let that be my lesson to shut up.

“I’ll try,” I say, chin up, resolute.

Ethan wraps an inked arm around me and kisses my cheek. “Let me know how it goes, babe.”

I smile, grateful for the pep talk. When we let go, I pat his strong chest. “Have fun with Martina and the crew. And I hope your next blow job is…well, a revelation.”

“Let us pray.”

Once he’s off, I go inside, saying hello to the doorman, then I head to the concierge and give him my name.

“Excellent. Mr. Adams is expecting you, Layla,” the man says politely in an Australian accent.

“Thank you,” I say, then head to the elevator. Once inside, I hit the button for the thirty-second floor, just as a voice brushes down my spine like a lover’s touch.

“Hold the door, please.”

Please let him be alone.

I can’t face Nick and David in an elevator.

I turn around, pressing the hold button. I get my wish—one terribly handsome man in a tailored charcoal suit strides across the polished hardwood floors of the lobby.

How is it possible to walk sexily?

I don’t know, but Nick Adams has mastered it.

But the closer he comes, the more I can see his mask. His face is impassive. Unreadable. He’s like any powerful man in any big, tall building in Manhattan as he enters the elevator.

There’s no spark, no wink, no secret little exchange.

“Hi, Layla,” he says, and his eyes don’t linger on me as the doors shut.

He simply faces the front a few feet away from me, the gleaming brass reflecting us back—a man in a suit, and a woman in a red blouse and designer jeans, second-hand, thank you very much.

Well, that’s clear.

The past is the past. This is the present, and we are definitely pretending Miami never happened.

My jaw tightens with annoyance as I look away from our uncomfortable reflection.

But what did I expect would happen? We agreed to move on.

I’m the one who sent that photo. Not him.Of coursehe didn’t respond.

I’ll have to do a better job pretending Miami never happened.

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