Page 57 of The Tryst

“Hi…” I begin, but what does he want me to call him in this post-Miami world? Nick feels too familiar. “Mr. Adams.”

“How are you today, Layla?” He sounds so cool, so removed.

“Great. And you?”

“Excellent.” He looks at his watch. “David’s checking out a sublet after work. But he should be here in five minutes.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says, just as stiffly.

I get why he’s acting this way, but I don’t intend to lose this battle. Wait till he sees how well I can play this cordial game. “How is everything going with your new firm in New York? Are you enjoying working with your brother?” I ask, both because it’s a necessary diversion tactic, and because I’m legitimately interested.

“I am,” he says as the lift rises. He sounds more energetic now, less distant. “We each have different areas of focus but they go well together. I think we can grow this into something strong and meaningful.”

That last word catches my attention. “Meaningful? In what way?”

“I try to work with companies that don’t just have innovative tech, but that truly support their employees, use sustainable business models, and give back,” he says.

Oh.

Damn him.

I wish I didn’t like that so much. I wish we didn’t share the same values. It’d be easier.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk much about his work.

“How’s everything going with The Makeover?” He seems legitimately interested. “I’ve been hoping you’re enjoying working with Farm to Phone. Are you?”

When he was in London, I told him we’d inked a deal with the marketing firm I met at the conference. “It’s going great,” I say, sliding into business talk with ease, like we did in Miami. “We’ve landed some press coverage and grown our user base. And Mia Jane’s just asked me to do an event at her new store in New York.”

Ha. I’m a lady boss. Take that, world.

And maybe I like showing off for Nick. He’s so successful, so Mister Midas Touch. I want him to know this gal can hold her own without any help from her mom, thank you very much.

“That’s terrific,” he says.

The elevator stops on the thirty-second floor. Our destination. The doors whoosh open, and we turn down the wide hallway, heading to Nick’s penthouse. “It should be good marketing for The Makeover. It’ll help with our goals,” I say, staying as professional as can be.

“Absolutely. Especially since you’ve got a natural enthusiasm for her products. And your videos using them have been terrific,” he says as we near his apartment.

“You’ve been watching still?” I’m not sure why this surprises me. Maybe because I thought he’d tune them out since we can’t be a thing.

“You’re passionate,” he says, matter-of-factly. Then his mask disappears and in a heartbeat the Nick from Miami is back. There’s fire in his eyes but also, honesty. This is how he talked to me when we met, how he talked to me while he was in London, how he spoke at the diner. “I’ve become a little addicted to them,” he says as we reach the door. Then, as he turns his back to me to unlock it, he adds, quietly, “It’s something I have to watch out for. A tendency.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what I mean?”

His tone is a warning, but his words are an admission.

He’s given me a piece of himself, something I suspect he keeps close to the vest. “I do, Nick,” I say softly. “I do.”

When he looks back at me, our gazes lock for a few, heady seconds. I can sense the fight in him. The resistance. The war.

It excites me more than it should.

And I hope I don’t become a little addicted to him.

Or more addicted than I already am.

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