Page 71 of The Tryst

She nods toward the door. “Kip texted me. He’s at their Greenwich home tonight. And I have a car.”

“You have a car?” No one in New York has cars—well, except for those who do.

As she picks up her bag, a fond smile tilts her lips. “It was my dad’s. He got it when he won a big case. It was custom-made from a guy named Max Summers. It’s electric. It’s red, a dream to drive, and hot as sin.”

Sounds like her.

“Let me drive,” I say.

She shakes her head, amused, but we both know she’s really saying yes.

* * *

We cruise along the highway as the sun dips lower in the late summer sky. Music blasts from the car stereo, a playlist Layla cued up. Alt music, she said. New and emerging bands her friend Ethan turned her onto.

I like…some of them.

“Are you a music person? Or are you more a podcast/NPR/news type of guy?” she asks. Then she shakes her head. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

With one hand on the wheel, I toss her a glance liketry to get it right. “Go for it,” I say, since this is better than talking about Kip, and dating, and my insatiable need to touch her.

This is safer.

Driving her. Taking care of her. Helping her.

She taps her chin. “Podcasts, I bet. On economics, and theories of the universe, and how stuff is made, and why certain micro trends portend the future of business, and how the universe operates, and we’re all connected.”

Whoa. Can you say mind reader? I crack up, then answer, “Did you just potluck my podcast tastes? Turn them all into a bigbusiness guystew?”

“I guess I did,” she says, staring at me with anticipation in her eyes.

My lips twitch as I return my focus fully to the road. “You’re right,” I mutter. She nailed me.

She pumps a fist. “Knew it.”

“I’m that easy to read?” I ask, a little annoyed, but only because I don’t want to be predictable to her.

She shakes her head. “No. But I feel likeIcan read you.”

My chest warms. Dangerously. “Why?”

“I saw you speak. You like theories of the world and business. You like understanding why people do and buy and think what they do. And also, it makes sense. If you’re going to take chances on little companies, you need to understand the big picture.”

“I guess youcanread me,” I say, then hold up a finger to make a point. “But I do like music too. I listen to a lot of tunes when I’m at the gym. Or when I’m cooking.”

“What do you like?”

“Besides polka, swing music, and old standards?” I tease.

“Obviously.”

With my gaze fixed ahead, I grumble out an answer. “Old standards.”

She laughs, tossing her head back. “That is fantastic.”

“Hey now,” I tease.

She pats my arm, then lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I like old standards too.”

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