Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)
Natasha Boyd
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1
Trystan
Charleston Airport
I slide my fingers under the rim of my starched shirt collar as I walk off the plane in Charleston, South Carolina. The reason I'm here now makes my collar and tie feel like they’re choking me.
I’d been hoping to at least stop by my hotel to check in, drop my bag, and connect to my scheduled meeting back in New York. But my flight had been delayed so I need to connect into my meeting from here.
I set my laptop bag on the bar height workstation at the gate across the concourse from my arrival gate and plug in my dead cell phone. Might as well get some work done before my call. Seems like everyone has the same idea. Almost every charging outlet is taken, but I don't have time to find somewhere quiet.
A hint of sugar and flowers wafts through the air, and I'm jostled as some chick next to me digs around in her oversized purse. Women and their massive purses. I shake my head almost involuntarily. Why so much stuff?
My phone buzzes as soon as it's got juice, and I answer.
"Trystan? It's Mac. When are you back?"
"Best case, by tonight, worst case I'll be back Friday."
"Are you sure there's not something you're not telling me?" Mac asks.
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"Rumor has it Carson is offering more. A lot more."
Bloody hell. "I'll grind his fucking nuts," I snap, momentarily forgetting I'm in public. The pressure of my current situation has apparently caught up with me.
"He doesn't have any fucking nuts or he'd up his game." Mac laughs, but he sounds nervous. "It isn't the first time he's done this. But I can trust you, right, Trystan?"
I'd never shaft Mac. We've been doing business for years, and I owe him.
"It's a good offer," Mac adds. "He knows it. We know it."
Yeah. Of course I know it. But I'm just over people being greedy motherfuckers. Where's the honor? The fucking decency? I'm strung tight today and can't check my irritation anymore. "If you see him before I do, tell him to shove his offer up his—"
Now I definitely feel censure emanating from the floral hippie chick with the oversized purse. I turn and catch her blue eyes. “His arse,” I finish.
"That's my boy," says Mac.
She’s cute. But hippies don't really do it for me, no matter how pretty they are. There's a higher chance of underarm hair, coconut oil, and quinoa for breakfast.
I shudder.
Been there. Tapped that.
"Exactly what I thought you'd say," Mac says. "Or hoping anyway."
Hippie Chick scowls at me and wanders away. I follow her arse, the shape of two full moons visible against the fabric of her long patterned skirt. Probably got legs like tree-trunks. Yes, I'm an asshole, but I prefer a delicate calf. Fuck it, why do I even care? Because her hair is my weakness. Red. No, ginger. No, freaking rose gold and wavy.
What is wrong with me? I shake it off and snatch my gaze away.
"Trystan? You still there?"
"Yeah, I am. Sorry."
Mac sighs. "Look, you good to get on the call with the bank in five minutes? They have some follow-ups from the meeting this morning. And try not to sound like you're holding this deal together like MacGyver with a handful of paper clips." He laughs. "I know it's a bad week."
"Ha. I'm going to take a leak, then I'll call in."
I tap the end button and breathe out a long, slow breath. Immediately, I pull up my Spark app. I'm going to need to get laid if there’s a rat's hell chance of surviving the tension of the next few days. The app is location based, so it's useless to pull it up here at the airport. I may be an asshole, but I'm not going to have a quickie right before or after the funeral. Or in a freaking airport bathroom. That's beneath even me. Still, it's worth a look to get my mind back to neutral. Maybe Hippie Chick is on Spark. Wouldn't that be a bloody laugh? With that in mind, I quickly tap through to see if anyone is around me. No joy. Not in this terminal anyway. My phone battery is still so low. I set it down, leaving it charging. I hate to do it, but I've got a long day ahead. I grab my laptop bag though and head to the men's room across the way before the conference call starts.
I wash my hands and then splash water on my face, running my hands over my rough chin. I look up and stare myself in the face. I have my mother's eyes, and my grandmother deserves to see them today. To see the eyes of the daughter she turned her back on. I blow out a breath and drag my damp fingers through my short, dark brown hair.
Game time.
Minutes to spare. I stalk back to the work area. Luckily the spot next to my phone is still open. I unzip my laptop and power it up. I open my email for the dial-in number my assistant, Dorothy, sent me for the conference line. I'm late. Grabbing my charging cell phone, I jam the on button with my thumb and keep it there to fingerprint identify my code. Except there's no code. The screen opens to an array of icons. I wonder if the last update undid my security code. It's probably time to upgrade the entire device, I've been meaning to. I make a mental note to have Dorothy order me the latest iPhone. I hurriedly press the green phone icon and keyboard so I can type in the number.