Page 88 of The Tryst

I watch her out of the corner of my eye, trying to read her. Her jaw tightens. Her hands curl tightly around the steering wheel. She stares straight ahead. Sure, she’s driving, but her body language doesn’t require a translator.

This is how we’re doing it.

Post country club.

Post rest-stop diner.

Post Raven run-in.

“How’s your week been?” I ask, hoping meaningless conversation will make the next two hours and fifteen minutes less uncomfortable than stark silence.

“Great. Super busy. Yours?”

Ah, so we’re at the peppy, short sentences stage. Got it. “Same. Non-stop. Can’t complain,” I say.

“Good. Good,” she says as she weaves through traffic, artfully changing lanes to dodge a cab in rush hour.

Goddamn, that’s hot, the way she maneuvers her car in the stop-and-start, honk-infested slog of New York City.

I clench my fists, wishing this were easier. But two minutes have passed, so there’s that.

“And things should be good for the auction too,” I say.

We talk about nothing but our tone reveals everything.

Too bad the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice make me want to spend more than the next two hours and thirteen minutes with her—I want to spend the night, and the next one too.

* * *

When she pulls over on Spring Street, she cuts the engine then says, “The Chopards are on the fourth floor. They have a vintage necklace, some other vintage jewelry too—”

I cut her off. “David told me. I know.” Then I’m out of the car, heading to the lobby and meeting one of Rose’s parents’ friends.

A woman in her late sixties waits in the lobby. She wears a silk blouse and smells of Chanel No. 5.

“Thank you again for donating, Mrs. Chopard. David and I are so grateful,” I say as she hands me a box.

“So happy to help,” she says, then peers past my shoulder at the car waiting at the curb. “And how is that dear doing lately? Is Layla okay? I think of her so often.”

I’m thrown for a second, but then I put two and two together. Thishasto be about her father. Layla wouldn’t want me to reveal a damn thing, so I smile and say, “Layla is wonderful. Thank you again.”

When I return to the car, I set the box in the backseat.

“Thanks,” Layla says.

For doing my job? For helping my son? For not flirting with you? The only thanks I’d even want is for protecting her privacy, but I’m sure as shit not telling her about Mrs. Nosy Chopard.

“Sure,” I mumble.

We’re silent the rest of the way to the West Village, where I snag a couple of framed playbills fromCrash The Moon. The director is donating a set of box seats and a backstage tour to his newest musical, a revival ofAsk Me Next Year. I thank him for the playbills—those will go on the auction table to represent the big prize—then return to the car.

“Got ’em,” I say.

“Wonderful,” she says like she’s interviewing for a sorority.

Next, we head in silence to Chelsea. The popular romance author Hazel Valentine is donating several sets of her signed bestsellers. Her boyfriend is, too, since he’s also a writer. We swing by their place, where Layla double parks and then tells me to stay with the car. “I know Hazel. I want to say hi to her.”

Well, la-dee-fucking-dah.

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