Page 91 of The Tryst

We stay like that for a few more seconds, letting the heated moment fade some more and turn into something softer, something tender. When I separate from her, she looks up at me, regret in her beautiful blue eyes. “If you still want to, you can walk me home.”

I run the back of my knuckles against her soft cheek. “Yes. I do. At least for tonight.” Then, since I don’t always follow the rules, I offer her a smile and add, “Why don’t we get a bite to eat at Hugo’s while we’re there?”

Her eyes flicker with secret happiness. “Let’s do it.”

29

I AM MY PAST

Layla

We’re finally having our dinner at Hugo’s.

When we walked in to pick up the wine, Nick noticed there was only one table left—a quiet one in the corner, accented with a red-brick wall.

He asked the owner if he could seat us there, and since a reservation had canceled, the table is ours.

It’s perfect for us—friends who are lovers who don’t want to be seen. The lights are low and candles flicker on the table.

It’s a make up dinner in every sense of the word. Making up for the fight and making up for the date we never had when he arrived in the city.

This date won’t end with the promise of another night. In fact, it’ll end far too soon since we’ve just finished a sumptuous meal—a risotto for me and a seared salmon for him, but the best part was a fantastic conversation about trends in customer experiences with apps, the disruptive business models he hunts for, the collaborations I’m doing with Mia. Over a sauvignon blanc with tangerine notes, we didn’t once discuss us or the big obstacle that makes another night like this an impossibility.

That we can’t be a thing.

This is so much better than cold shouldering him. I can’t believe the ice age lasted as long as it did in the car. That was a feat of sheer will on my part. A necessary one though at the time. I lift my glass, swirling the last of the wine. Old standards play softly overhead. Ella Fitzgerald is crooning right now, and the tune gives me a wistful, achy feeling in my heart, especially when she sings about lipstick’s traces. “They’re playing your songs,” I say then take a sip, savoring the taste.

“And you like them too,” he counters, never missing a beat.

I do have an affection for those tunes. “I grew up listening to them,” I say, inviting him in more.

He arches an eyebrow. “Parents loved them?”

I smile at the sweet memories. “They did. Used to dance to them in the kitchen.”

“Some songs are just good.”

I’m quiet for a moment, content to zoom in on the lyrics about an airline ticket to romantic places, then feeling the possibilities of them, like a little zing. “Maybe I could even dance to it.”

I smile. Nick smiles back.

“Bet you’d enjoy dancing to Ella with me,” he says.

I picture that. It’s a good image. “Are you a secret ballroom dancer and you never told me?”

“Maybe.”

“Shut up. Are you really?”

He laughs, then shakes his head. “No, but my mom made me take dancing lessons at Johnny Angel’s School of Dance when I graduated from college. That was her graduation gift. She was convinced I was going to need to foxtrot or waltz with Rose at our wedding.”

Funny, how I felt a flare of jealousy over Rose the other week. Now, I understand his story, so I feel curiosity rather than envy. “And did you?”

“Nope. After all that, we had a small civil ceremony. Just family. We didn’t make a thing of it at all.”

“Was your mom devastated that you didn’t get to foxtrot?”

“I think so, but she’s a stoic woman so she didn’t let on much. Just gave a harrumph and saidLet me see if I can get a refund for the rest of the lessons.”

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