Page 72 of The Tryst

See? I can do this. I can justbewith Layla without devolving into grunts or groans.

We can talk about likes and dislikes, and that’s all good. But there’s more I want to know about the woman by my side. I pat the dashboard briefly for emphasis as the GPS chirps, letting me know we’re a mile from the Greenwich exit.

“So this was your dad’s car?” I ask, careful as I broach a sensitive subject.

“I helped him pick it out,” she says, and she doesn’t sound sad, or distant like she was the other day. She sounds proud.

A sign to keep going. “Oh yeah?”

“He’d always wanted a sports car, and when he was researching makes and models, I suggested he try a custom-made electric. He liked the idea,” she says. “I’ve tried to encourage my mom to change some of her business practices—to make them more clean. But she never really did. My dad was open to it though, and that meant a lot to me.”

That’s a passion point of hers. David’s too. And honestly, it’s become one of mine. But I don’t want to pat myself on the back. I’d rather give credit where it’s deserved. “It’s nice to see your generation caring so much. Taking on a stewardship role.”

“My generation?” she asks, with an arch of a brow. “We’re fifteen years apart, Nick. I don’t think that’s a generation.”

It’s not the age though, really, that’s keeping us apart. It’s the person. And I can’t keep playing these bedroom games behind my son’s back. “Layla,” I say, my voice heavy.

She draws a sharp breath. Holds up a hand. “I know.”

I sigh again. “I can’t do this to David. It’s wrong.”

She nods, looking straight ahead. “I know,” she repeats, crisply.

“It’s not fair to him,” I add, flicking on the signal as I switch lanes to the exit.

“I know,” she says in a three-peat. But she sounds more clipped with each answer.

I steal a glance at her. Her lips are pursed. Her jaw is clenched. And I’ve upset my beautiful woman.

My heart is stretched in too many directions.

I shut up as I drive the rest of the way to Kip’s house.

* * *

I’m a good guy as Layla introduces me to the secret society Yale grad. I’m a great guy as I make small talk and thank the guy swimming in family money. I’m a fucking saint as I carry the golf clubs out to the circular driveway in front of said family’s Greenwich mansion.

The polished blond in the mint-green polo and khaki shorts reaches for the bag as Layla pops the trunk. “I can put them in there,” Kip says, reaching for the golf bag as dusk covers us.

Like that’ll happen. With a jovial grin, I hoist it in. “No worries, kid. I’ve got this.”

Kid. Ha. Take that, all you fuckers who’ve called mesir.

With the bag in place, I close the trunk, then offer a hand to shake. “Thanks again for the donation. The golf lessons will be in high demand. David and I truly appreciate it,” I say with genuine gratitude. I might not like this guy, but he is helping my son, and that’s something.

“So do I,” Layla chimes in.

The Ken doll looks me in the eyes and says, a little smugly, “You’re welcome, Mr. Bancroft.”

Fuck. You.

“It’s Adams. Nick Adams,” I correct.

“Oops. My bad,” he says, but he doesn’t sound apologetic one bit. Bet he doesn’t know how to apologize or why it’s important.

Yup. He’s an asshole. I was right.

When he lets go of my hand, he turns to Layla, holds out his arms wide. “It was so good to see you again, Mayweather.”

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