Page 89 of The Tryst

Like I’ve been admonished, I stay in my seat, stewing. But when I peer into the side mirror, there’s a cop car trudging down the street.

Maybe he’ll give her a parking ticket. Maybe I’ll even let her get a ticket. Take that, Miss Silent Treatment.

I cross my arms.

The black and white inches closer.

Ah, hell. I can’t. I climb over the console, adjust the seat, then pull out. By the time I’ve circled the block, Layla’s waiting on the curb, her head tilted. I lean across and push open the door as she hops inside. “Cop?”

Are you kidding me? We’re back to one-word sentences?

“Yes. And I’m driving now,” I say as I hit the gas, because I need something to do. “I’m not a good passenger.”

She shuts the door. “Oh,” she says, and now she sounds admonished.

Good.

When she clicks the seatbelt in, she must adjust her mood since she gives me a plastic smile that’s straight out of a debutante handbook. “Thanks for doing that,” she chirps. “Three down, two to go.”

And now we’re back to the fake portion of the night. Fine by me.

“Almost done,” I bite out, and oops.

Did I sound like a dick?

Yes. Yes, I did.

“Yes, we are,” she says, still peppy. Then, she stares out the window as the billboards flash by.

This errand is worse than I’d even imagined.

* * *

Over on Park and Thirty-Third, she snags a chess set—it’s a Staunton, so that’s the real la-dee-dah—then sets it in the backseat, before settling into the passenger seat again.

She smooths a hand over her black skirt. It’s a flowy little number that makes me think bad things.

What a surprise.

But I’ve made it this far. I can last through one more pickup. “Hugo’s, then we’re done,” I say. The wine expert and restaurant owner is donating a private dinner party at his restaurant, as well as a few vintages of his favorite wines. We’re picking up the wine bottles, and then we’ll be finished.

“Actually,” Layla begins, and her voice signalschange of plansbefore she says the next thing. “Why don’t we drop all this stuff at your place since we’re close to it? And then I can handle the Hugo’s pickup solo since it’s near me.”

How fucking stubborn is she? Does she think she can go toe to toe with me in the bossy department?

Come at me.

“Yes to the drop-off. No to you picking up the stuff at Hugo’s solo,” I say, brooking no argument.

“It just makes sense, Nick. I live on Seventy-Third. It’s a couple blocks from Hugo’s. Then, I’ll just bring the wine to the auction,” she says, like logic matters right now.

When it definitely does not matter.

As I weave through traffic, I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d have to park your car in the garage, then go to Hugo’s, then carry the wine to your apartment yourself,” I explain crisply as I slow at the light.

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