Page 59 of The Tryst

I laugh uncomfortably, even though I’m glad David’s mood is better. He looks relieved as he takes off, the door snapping shut with abe careful what you wish forfinality.

I’m alone with his father, once again.

19

THE FRIENDSHIP STRATEGY

Layla

I stay at the kitchen island the whole time, making calls and sending emails. Nick paces by the living room window, and it’s hard not to watch him. I have a thing for the way he walks.

Not helpful, libido.

But in my libido’s defense, have you seen him in those tailored pants? That snug shirt? That undone tie?

As he chats with college friends, tech gurus, colleagues, and the like, he progressively tugs on the maroon silk.

During the first call, he fidgeted with it.

During the third, he loosened it.

During the fifth, he unknotted it.

Now during his eighth or ninth call, as I’m texting with Raven about her designer donation, he’s undoing the fabric.

I steal glances in between texts as his nimble fingers undo the silky material.

“It’ll be great to see you there, Trav. And no, I will not go easy on you on the basketball court next week. I will never go easy on you,” he says, then ends the call with an amused shake of his head.

“You play basketball?” I ask, setting my phone on the counter. I’m far too interested in this tidbit about Nick.

“Pickup basketball,” he says.

“I figured as much.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I didn’t think it was pro ball.”

Dropping the tie on the back of the couch, he laughs. “I mean why did you figure I’d play pickup.”

“You seem like the kind of guy who strides onto a court when he damn well pleases, trash talks his friends, and takes their money when he beats them.”

Nick’s eyebrows rise as he crosses the room. He likes that compliment. “Thank you.”

I laugh. “What if it wasn’t a compliment, Nick?”

“It was a compliment,” he says, and I like this banter. I’d rather we get along for real.

“Cocky,” I tease.

“And you like it,” he says, then he shakes his head, muttering, “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

He stops at the end of the counter, dragging a hand through his hair, roughly. “I need to do better.”

I wish I could play dumb, but I know what he means. “I think you’re doing fine,” I say.

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