Page 87 of The Tryst

I try, but I fail, since I’m thinking of her jasmine scent, her lush hair, her soft skin.

What is she doing tonight? Is she having a hard timenotreaching out to me too? Is she forcing herself to make ten million makeup videos to stay busy?

Focus, man. Fucking focus.

I concentrate on David and Cynthia. “It was good to meet you too.” I shake her offered hand, telling them goodnight as the cab idles.

David scoots inside the yellow car and snuggles up against his woman as they drive off into the New York night.

Lucky guy. But hey, that’s the benefits of falling for a woman you can have.

And now I’m jealous of my son.

I head home and go straight to the gym to burn off my inappropriate feelings with exercise.

* * *

The next day, I’m up at dawn. I hit the pool for a swim then march into work before anyone else. I am nose to the grindstone all day long, and all these fantastic metrics, like ROI potential, and market share, and scalability, have my mind exactly where it should be.

At the end of the day, though, David knocks on my door, too fast, too frantic. His hair’s a mess. He tugs on his tie. “I don’t know how to get all this done before the weekend,” he says, then as he heads straight for the couch, he rattles off a list of final details he needs to take care of—a shelter visit for more pics, a phone call with the hotel, ferrying some auction items out to the Hamptons tomorrow since he has the day off. “And I promised Layla I’d go with her tonight to pick up the final things around the city. And I don’t want her to have to do it alone.”

He flops onto the couch, flat on his back, like he’s at a shrink’s. “I don’t know what to do.”

My heart aches when he’s like this—nearly immobile from the weight of it all. And I haven’t seen him this stressed since the night we started planning the auction at my place. I take the wheel now like I did then. “I’ll go with her.”

He breathes a huge sigh of relief. “Really? You don’t mind?”

It’s amazing how much I don’t mind. “It’s no problem.”

“Great. I’ll text her,” he says, then taps away on his phone. When he looks up, he says, “She’ll pick you up at your place at six.”

I don’t want her to drive around the city alone either. A new count begins—sixty minutes till I see her.

There goes my six-day chip.

I head home quickly and shower.

28

FOR TONIGHT

Nick

Layla pulls up at six on the dot, the sight of her sports car kicking up my pulse.

Great. Just great.

I grab the handle of the passenger door and get in, feeling like I’m in a foreign country and I don’t speak the language.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi. I mapped out the stops. Put them in my GPS to crunch the traffic times. We should be able to pick up everything and have it back to your place by eight-fifteen.”

Well, Robot Layla is in the driver’s seat.

“Let’s get going then,” I say, following her cool lead.

With a tight nod, she pulls into traffic, heading toward Lexington.

---