Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(68)

"Emmy." His mouth formed the word, but I couldn't hear it.

"Thank you," I returned. His eyes watched my mouth.

So many things seemed to pass over his face—concern, questions, happiness . . . hunger. He also looked a little stunned. I guess I understood that feeling. Less than a week ago I didn't know he existed, and now I could barely believe how intense it had gotten between us.

Unsure of what might happen next, I held my breath. I looked down from his shirt and jacket to his jeans.

You're only wearing half a suit, I texted and narrowed my eyes at him, accusing him of not living up to his suit monkey persona. Last night's bare-chested display notwithstanding.

His eyes roamed my bare legs down to Annie's high-heeled lace up shoes.

Suit Monkey: You're only wearing half a dress

Then he took a step back from me, and I almost swayed toward him. His eyes didn't miss it.

He typed something into his phone.

Suit Monkey: I want to touch you.

Suit Monkey: But I don't want the first time to be here.

Suit Monkey: You should come home to your own bed tonight.

Will you be in it?

Suit Monkey: I'd like to be.

God, I wanted him to be too. I was frozen with indecision. On the one hand, I hadn't had this much chemistry with someone in forever. Or ever. And I didn't mean just the sexual kind, though that had been incendiary. On the other hand . . . one-night stand.

Was this what it would be? Maybe I'd only ever had the wrong kind. Of course, I wasn't dumb enough not to realize that part of me hoped it wasn't a one-night stand, and that was the part I had to be most careful of.

Suit Monkey: We'll always wonder.

I nodded. Yes.

He closed his eyes. Then he typed with a cheeky smirk.

Suit Monkey: What if I'm too scared of the ghost to stay there alone tonight?

Nice try.

Suit Monkey: For what it's worth, I don't think one night would have been enough for us anyway . . .

Armand chose that moment to materialize, sweaty and out of breath, his hair slicked back.

Trystan shook his hand, and I was jealous of the touch. Then Trystan gave me a long look and held out the phone in his hand.

I looked down at it, then back at him.

He was letting me go.

My breath left me. My stomach clenched, and I bit my lips between my teeth. God, I suddenly wanted to cry for some reason. Slowly I reached out with my fingertips, careful not to touch his hand, and took my phone.

Then I held out his to him. He took it.

Finally he took his eyes off me, nodded to Armand, and evaporated into the crowd.





32





Trystan





There's an uncharacteristic chill in the breeze tonight after the muggy heat of the last few days, and I savor it as I exit the cab and walk the cobblestone alleyway. I'm disappointed as I head to Emmy's little home from the club. There's no denying it. But a part of me also recognizes this is my pattern—losing myself in a willing female for a few hours to let go of the day’s stressors. It's not every day, I know that. It's not like I have a sexual compulsion, but when Emmy said she'd felt like I'd manipulated her the night before, it hit me hard.

In retrospect, leaving dinner at the Montgomery home and seeking out Emmy was in line with my MO.

Even if it was Armand who asked me to come and sort things out with Emmy, it still doesn't sit comfortably. She'd been right to turn me down. But shit, she was stunning. Watching her dance . . . I almost groan out loud again as I remember. Why had I thought Armand was gay? He said he was meeting a guy the other day and I just assumed. Which was weird for me, and I recognize it must have been wishful thinking back then. A few days ago felt like weeks.

I negotiate the courtyard and unlock the antique front door. I hit all the switches to blaze the place with light and avoid any cats or ghosts sneaking up on me. It strikes me that staying here this last night before I go back to New York feels like the last tie to Emmy. I no longer have her phone, and she doesn't have mine. I hadn't realized what an unspoken connection, a feeling of attachment, that had brought. The idea leaves me with a feeling of emptiness I don't like.

I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of the dining room chair, grab a glass of water, and then reluctantly turn some of the lights off so I can head to bed.

When I get to the top of the stairs I see the cat, sitting with its black and white back to me, tail swishing as it stares at an empty corner of the bedroom.

Oh, fuck no.

I pull out my phone to ask Emmy what she does in these situations but then stop. My hand drops. It's going to seem like I can't take a no from a woman. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a sexually aggressive jerk.

Backing silently down the stairs, I eye the couch. There's a throw draped over the arm and the cushions look all right to sleep on. It's not ideal but it will have to do for now. It's not that I'm scared, I tell myself. But the cat is freaking weird, staring at an empty corner. I've seen the movie Ghost, I know the cat freaks out when it sees Patrick Swayze. Who's dead, by the way. Anyone would feel nervous. But I do feel like a bit of an idiot as I unbutton my shirt and take it off. My own phone is loudly silent and devoid of app notifications that I know Emmy disabled, and it doesn't bother me as much as I expect.