ACCIDENTAL TRYST

by Natasha Boyd

  In my bathroom cabinet?

  * * *

  Suit Monkey: I looked.

  * * *

  Oh, so he'd seen all my personal items, including my birth control pills. Why that bothered me but flirting with him and asking what turned him on didn't, was anyone's guess. I was a mess of confusing feelings.

  * * *

  Try the pantry cupboards?

  * * *

  The phone rang in my hand. I took a deep breath and swallowed. "Hello?"

  "Sorry, it's easier than typing. Which pantry cupboards? I looked, but I'm not sure I know which you mean?"

  "There's a pullout pantry, and there's a basket in one of the shelf drawers that has painkillers and stuff in there."

  "Shelf drawers?" he repeated. "Not sure what you mean by that." I heard shuffling around and the opening and closing of doors.

  "No, it's a pullout one. Regular cupboard door to the left."

  "Hang on," he said.

  The phone in my hand started doing a high-pitched ring. A video call.

  Oh my shit.

  I put my wine down and sat straight up. God, I was make-up-less, and my hair was up in a towel. Argh! I had to answer otherwise it would seem like I was avoiding it. With a wince, I accepted.

  There was a beep and then Trystan's face and bare shoulders appeared.

  "Emmy? Hey."

  Holy mother of all Godlike creatures.

  The screen focused, and he was brought into sharp relief and high-definition glory.

  I stared at him wide-eyed and speechless. Damn, but he was gorgeous. Even with that crinkled, furrowed brow and brown hair shiny and disheveled like he'd stepped out of the shower and had just towel-dried it. He'd been naked in my shower. In my bedroom. Thoughts and visions torpedoed through my brain a mile a minute.

  "Emmy? You're frozen. Can you hear me? Shit." He moved, his arm dropping down and . . . I got a drive-by view of his torso.

  Suit Monkey wasn't wearing a suit.

  A squeak left me—a gasp that had exploded from the pressure, and I realized I hadn't been breathing. I spurred into action, slamming the phone against my robe to muffle the sounds of me letting the air out of my lungs and trying to normalize my breathing. I pulled the towel off my head, and my damp hair flopped down. I raked fingers through it, over it, smoothing, and tucked it behind an ear.

  I counted to three then brought the phone up. "Hi," I managed, my voice sounding stupidly breathless to my own ears.

  Trystan was staring straight at the phone, one eyebrow quirked waiting for me. As we locked eyes though, something shifted in his expression. His eyebrow dropped, and we really looked at each other for a beat. His eyes looked dark gray, his jaw strong and shadowed. And his lips . . . I didn't think I ever noticed how perfectly formed they were.

  "Hi back," he said softly after a moment, and I saw his Adam's apple move heavily. Could he tell on a small screen I was staring at his mouth? Holy shit, but he was absolutely stunning. My memory and his scarce phone photos did not do him justice.

  At.

  All.

  "You're shirtless," I said stupidly.

  His perfect lips quirked. "And you're in a robe."

  "Did you just shower?" I asked.

  "Did you?" he countered.

  Fuck. What was going on? This was some crazy foreplay right here. I was so turned on. I squeezed my legs together.

  He stared at me.

  "So, painkillers?" I asked when I could no longer bear the tension.

  "Ahem. Yeah." His gorgeous face disappeared and was replaced by the cabinets in my kitchen.

  "Walk forward to the cabinets on the left," I started, then took a break to bite my own knuckle. "The end one has pullout drawers." I watched him open the door. "Okay see the third drawer?"

  "Yeah." He slid it out.

  "At the back is a basket."

  He pulled the drawer out farther until the basket was in view. Sitting right next to the bottle of generic brand painkillers was a box of condoms I'd forgotten about.

  Nausea swirled through me. How many times could I feel mortified in only a few days? Something about Trystan made me feel like I was operating on some flayed open level of vulnerability that made everything feel embarrassing.

  Of course I had to watch as his hand went for the condoms instead of the painkillers.

  "Well, well. Good to always be prepared. But why are they in your kitchen, Emmy?"

  The camera angle swung around so I could see Trystan's amused face and cheeky eyebrow.

  I covered my eyes.

  "Don't you think they should be in your bedside drawer? With your other secrets?"

  I took a deep breath, refusing to cower under his teasing. "Do people only have sex in bedrooms, Trystan?" I asked haughtily.

  His eyes flickered and he pursed his lips. His gorgeous lips. He held up the box to inspect it. "Well, well, well. You haven't been having sex in here that's for sure. These are unopened, and . . ." He narrowed his eyes as if really examining the box. "Oh, Emmy, these raincoats are expired."

  I slapped my hand over my eyes again. "Just get your painkillers and stop embarrassing me," I whined.

  He laughed, slow and smooth, making my skin prickle. "Okay. Back in the cupboard they go. Just don't forget you need to replace them."

  "If you don't need anything else," I started.

  "Wait. Don't hang up."

  I slowly took my hand away from my eyes.

  "Can we?" His eyes flicked away and then back to mine. "Can we just talk?" He put the pills in his mouth then held up his beer before taking a swig. I got a nice long look at his beautiful neck and watched it move as he swallowed down the pills.

  My mouth felt dry. I took a long gulp of wine.

  22

  Trystan

  I let out a refreshed ahhh sound and hold up my beer to the small screen that shows Emmy's face staring back at me. She takes a large sip of wine.

  "We'll have that drink," I tell her, hoping she'll stay online with me.

  I can tell she's nervous. I shouldn't have teased her about the condoms. I almost feel like if I push her too hard she'll scurry away. I prefer it when she's feisty and teasing me back, turning me on.

  She bites her lips together, then lets them pop free. "I guess so." She shrugs, affecting a nonchalance that I'm not sure I buy. "And you really shouldn't do that," she says.

  My mind grasps around. "Do what?"

  "Wash down painkillers with alcohol. Your liver doesn't like it."

  "Probably not," I concede.

  "There's one condition though," she says and smooths her fingers through her damp hair, "to us chatting on video." Where her hair was dark from water before, it's now starting to lighten and curl. I wonder what it feels like. Her skin is pale and flawless. Stunning. She should have this as her dating profile.

  "What's the condition?" I ask warily.

  "You tell me about your family."

  Oh.

  I'm halfway to bringing the beer bottle to my mouth, and I stop. Having an evening of flirting and conversation is one thing. Discussing my family? Not so much.

  "I told you about David. About my family. It's only fair," she says.

  "I've already told you about how they kicked my mom out. I'd say we're even."

  "The math doesn't add up," she says. "You said you've been avoiding them for fourteen years. Correct me if I'm wrong but you're a little older than fourteen. Thirty-one if I'm not mistaken."

  I walk across the room, prop the phone up on the coffee table against a stack of books, and sit down across from it. I pulled on jeans after my shower; I may not have fully buttoned them up. I let my legs splay slightly and lean against her sofa back, relaxed as can be.

  She's frozen with her wine glass in front of her mouth as her eyes drink me in.

  They roam down my bare chest as I'd wanted them to. I spend a lot of time on my abs, it's only fair they should be appreciated. She puts her wine glass down, but her expression is inscrutable.
I'm trying to distract her, but I'm not sure it's working.

  "And you're twenty-eight," I answer her, confirming what we already know—that we've both checked out each other's dating profiles.

  "Correct," she says. "And you don't have a dog, do you?"

  "My friends have dogs." I laugh.

  "So what did your grandfather leave you in his will that has your grandmother all in a tizzy?"

  I narrow my eyes at her. "If I tell you a bit more, can we drop it then?"

  She lifts a shoulder, and I wonder what she has on under that robe.

  "You don't have to tell me a thing," she says. "We can end our call and both get a much needed early night."

  I drop my head back on the couch back and lift both forearms across my closed eyes. Hearing her soft intake of breath I know she's not as unaffected by her view as she's pretending to be. For that, I'll give her something.

  "My mother died when I was seventeen." I can see she immediately regrets asking me, but she did and here it comes. "We were living in England."

  "Hence the accent." She nibbles her bottom lip nervously. "I'm sorry about your mother, Trystan."

  I nod once and sit forward resting my forearms across my splayed knees. And I look Emmy in the eyes. "Okay, here's everything. I'm going to go through it once, and then I don't want to talk about it again. They kicked my mom out when she was pregnant with me. After I was born, she went to England. Maybe to try and get back together with my father, I guess. He obviously didn't want anything to do with her. But he made allowances for me, his bastard child. She was set up with a sort of common-law alimony, though I never saw him.”

  I take a deep breath. “When I was eleven we came back to Charleston. Got to know the family again. My uncle also had kids. I have two cousins. Beau was . . . I guess he was my best friend. But then my mother started having an affair with another married man—this one a prominent member of their country club. Let's just say, they weren't going to go through that again. When I was thirteen they kicked us out once more. I woke up one morning, and my grandmother said, "You and your mother are leaving." She didn't hug or kiss me that I remember. We just . . . left. Flew back to England. I was confused. Betrayed. Angry at Grandmother. Angry at my mother.” I frowned. “But she was my mum, you know? I loved her. Then she got sick. I wanted to come back here, but my mother told me they wouldn't care. They didn't come when she was sick, and they didn't come when she died. I vowed right then that they may as well be dead to me. I'd just finished high school, so I stayed in England where higher education is subsidized and got my degree. Then I moved to New York.”

  I sat forward. “Right away I put a few warehouse buildings under contract, then I filed city paperwork to adjoin the lots. I officially bought and resold them in a simultaneous closing to an import company looking for a distribution center. I built myself up quickly after that. I had a knack for a deal I guess. Maybe it runs in the family, or maybe failing wasn't an option.

  “The first time I heard a Montgomery was buying a building in New York City, I figured out it was my grandfather, and I quietly snuffed out the deal. I did it twice more." I rake my hands through my hair and let my head hang for a second before I look back at Emmy. "I thought maybe he'd ask to see me. Arrange a meeting. Ask me why. Something. It's not like I was hiding. I was baiting him. But after that, he never tried a deal again in New York, and he never tried to see me. And then the real estate crash happened. I lucked out. I was between projects, I lost less than most. But I knew he knew I was there. And I knew he was watching me. But he never, not once, reached out."

  I took a few deep breaths and the last sip of now almost warm beer. The label was starting to slip off, so I worked my thumb under it, trying to get it loose. "My grandmother had made it clear to my mother when we left that she would never allow anyone in the family to communicate with her. With us. I figured my grandfather knew that, and that's why he kept quiet. His weakness in standing up to Isabel Montgomery filled me with . . . rage. But also hurt. I missed him. I missed them. I never stopped wanting him to reach out. I even toyed with maybe making the first move. But I feared I might be rejected. Again. Then last week I get a letter from his attorney telling me he died."

  I exhale. Telling this story, even though it's short and brutal is untying something in me. But fuck, it hurts. I rub my chest.

  Emmy waits, not saying a word, knowing I'm not done. Her eyes are large, glistening, filled with emotion.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, thankful I've taken painkillers. The label on the beer bottle still needs help, so I pick at it again.

  "So the will. He basically gave me control of his company. He cut his other two grandchildren out of it, although it seems like they're fine with that. Except he wants them both to get married in order to get their inheritance. Not to each other," I amend quickly. "What a twisted request." I shake my head.

  A faint smile crosses Emmy's lips.

  "And I'm supposed to pay my grandmother a stipend at my discretion. Can you imagine more of a way to piss her off than not giving her the company that should rightfully be hers or my uncle's, and then make her beholden for spending money to a grandchild she despises? What the fuck was he thinking?" I almost yell it.

  I sit back. "There. Now you have it all. I'm not sure this was a fair trade, but now you know everything."

  "Wow," Emmy says after a moment.

  "Wow, is right," I agree.

  Just then the smell of dead fish and the funk of forty thousand years breezes across my nose. "Christ!" I grimace and turn my head, only to see a pink puckered butthole surrounded with white fur pointing right at me.

  "Jesus! Fuck!"

  Something screeches in surprise and flies right at me in a hissing streak of black and white fur, though I think it was trying to jump down and lost its balance due it its ungodly size. Swinging my arms out in self-defense, I accidentally hit the creature in midair, and it clatters across the coffee table, sending the phone, the empty beer bottle, and books flying all over the place.

  With one more outraged yowl it disappears.

  It's all over in seconds, and I stand there alone, in shock and utter silence, clutching my chest.

  No, not silence, there's the muffled sound of Emmy laughing uncontrollably from the phone face down on the carpet. I think she's trying to ask if he's okay, but she can't breathe.

  "If he's okay? What about if I'm fucking okay?"

  I guess that was her cat.

  * * *

  We're still laughing about it a few minutes later when I turn off the downstairs lights and head up to the bedroom.

  "I'm crying, Trystan. Actual, real tears I'm laughing so hard." She's had to put the phone down.

  "I haven't heard you apologize yet," I tell her as I trot up her stairs.

  "Me? Apologize? Why?" Emmy can finally breathe.

  "It's your cat."

  "Okay, I'm so sorry, Trystan. Especially as you told me you don't like pussies on your face."

  Oh, she went there, and I'm not letting her out of it. "It would depend on the pussy, Emmy."

  There's a sharp inhale.

  An instant visual of Emmy over me, me looking up her sweet body with all its secrets on display, to all that glorious red hair surrounding her flushed face. Her sinking down to meet my mouth. God, I'd love to know how she tastes.

  A punch of lust rips through my gut, and it almost brings me to my knees.

  I look at the phone screen, but all I see is the hotel ceiling.

  "Emmy," I say. My voice is rough to my own ears. She must know what's in my head.

  "Don't go there, Trystan."

  "Why not?" I ask.

  "Because."

  "Because why? Look at me, Emmy."

  "No."

  "Because why?"

  "Fine."

  The camera angle moves and her face, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, comes into view. I sink onto her bed. "Christ, you're beautiful," I say, cutting off anything she’s about to say.
r />   She swallows heavily. "You're not so bad yourself."

  "Why can't I go there, Emmy?"

  "We don't ... know each other. Not really."

  I stare at her. I've never bared myself to anyone the way I have to her. Probably because I thought we didn't really know each other. But maybe we do. Today, I heard her at her most vulnerable. Her most scared. And instead of running away, I ran toward danger. I've shared. She's shared. I'm in her home surrounded by her scent.

  "I do know you, Emmy."

  "You don't." She shakes her head.

  "And you know me."

  "No."

  "Better than anyone alive." It's the God's honest truth.

  "But I've only seen you once in my life. And it wasn't the greatest first impression if I'm honest."

  I wince and blow out a breath. This is the pushing too hard too fast thing I've been doing. It makes her bolt. I have to reel it back in. Go slower.

  "Okay. Maybe you're right. What don't I know about you that matters?"

  "That's not how this works."

  "Isn't it?"

  "No."

  "So tell me."

  "You don't know what makes me cry—"

  "David," I interject. "Families. Injustice. People who are alone. Christmas movies, I bet."

  "You're guessing."

  "Well. Am I right?"

  "Partially. What makes me laugh?"

  "Apart from me being attacked by your cat?"

  She smiles. "Apart from that."

  "The absurdity of life," I tell her. "You find the ironic and the absurd in every situation. Particularly the tough ones. It's what helps you through life."

  Her smile falters, and she blinks. "How can you—?"

  "But also people. Their quirks. Their gifts. Your friends. Your godson. You seek out the joy. You find it even when no one else can."

  She blows out a long slow breath.

  "Trystan," she says, and she props the phone up, presumably on the side table, and lies back on the hotel bed, rolling to face me. Her head is resting on her hand, and her hair is a tumble of red waves, her cheeks tinged pink. The robe gapes slightly showing me a curve of breast and the beginning of whatever she's wearing underneath it.