Page 68 of The Tryst

I gesture to the fridge, trying to focus on something simple and mundane, so I don’t spiral into Kip-fueled frustration. “Want something to drink? Water? Tea? LaCroix? Scotch? Moonshine?” I need a scotch, that’s for sure.

She doesn’t answer or take the bait of the moonshine joke. She points to my hand. “What happened?”

I won’t give in. I can’t give in. I refuse to give in. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Nick,” she says, gentle but clear. She’s refusing to give in too.

I wish her strength weren’t so alluring. “It’s just a pen that broke,” I say as I poke around the fridge.

She sets a hand on my shoulder.

I tense, but it feels so good too.

“Hey. Are you okay?” she asks.

I get what she’s doing. This is the friend routine. But we’re not friends.

I shut the fridge door and turn to face the bold, brilliant blonde beauty I can’t get out of my head.

Screw friendship.

Obsession wins. “I don’t want you to date Kip,” I say. As soon as I do, I want to take it back, but I want to imprint my inappropriate demand on the sky too.

“You don’t?” Her blue eyes flicker with curiosity.

I clench my fists, hiding the stupid ink spot. “I don’t, and I have no right to say that. No right to feel it. And yet I fucking do.”

She inhales, watches me, then nods like she’s gearing up for something. Then, she unfolds a story. “My mother likes to set me up. She has this fantasy that I’ll meet some blue-blood Park Avenue guy from a good family, and then she can leave the company to me, and she won’t have to worry, because she trusts no one because of my father.”

There’s too much to unpack there, and I feel like a jerk. Like a jealous, selfish jackass. She’s got real stuff to worry about. I just carry a chip on my shoulder about where I’m from. I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry, Layla,” I say, heavily. “I shouldn’t care.”

She takes a step toward me. “But you do?”

I take a breath. Try to will away the dragon of jealousy inside me. But it’s billowing great plumes of smoke. The only thing to calm it is the truth. I advance toward her and confess, “I don’t want another man to date you. Or to touch you. Or to kiss you. I have no right to feel this way, and I’m doing a terrible job at being friends with you. Because I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to feel this way about a friend.”

Her lips part. Her tongue flicks across the corner of her mouth. “What way?”

I don’t think. I cup her cheeks and bring my lips dangerously close to hers. “Obsessed.”

She lifts her chin, like a dare. “Show me how much.”

21

CORAL LIPS

Nick

Her coral lips are a tantalizing invitation.

She doesn’t need to tell me twice to kiss her. Touching her is all I can think about. In an instant, I’m sweeping my lips to hers, tasting her sweet mouth once more.

I groan.

In relief, in desire, in need.

I’ve missed this so much. Wanted her so deeply.

I clasp her face, kiss her lips, craving even more of her. I’m intoxicated by the sight, the sound, the taste of Layla. The flavor of her lipstick is like peaches, and there’s never been a more perfect taste for a woman.

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