Tryst Read online

Tamara finishes gathering the documents and leaves them in a neat stack on my desk. “Mmmm hmmm. Look at you. Too weak to hold a piece of damn paper. Let me go send someone before you pass out on me. I love you, girl, but I ain’t mouth-to-mouth resuscitating a goddamn thing.”

  I shoot her a nervous smile as she walks away, fat-injected hips swaying. Then I look back down at that chicken scratched signature, running my fingers over the scrawled letters. Only two Rs are legible, but I can clearly make out his name. Why did he sign it? Because I slept with him? Suddenly, I’m pissed, and I pick up the phone to let someone know it.

  “Caleb, what the fuck is this?” I spit out as soon as he answers.

  “I’m fine, thank you for asking, Heidi. Now if you’re quite done being a rude bitch, might you elaborate on your dilemma?”

  I huff out my frustration. What exactly had I meant to say when I called? “The contracts, Caleb. They’re signed.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes, but, why did he sign them?” Shit. What if Caleb knows exactly what persuaded Ransom? My reputation would be as laughable as Shaquille O’Neal’s music career.

  “Well, you went to the party. He got a chance to hang out with you, and he likes you. End of. Geez, Heidi, if this is your version of gratitude, you are in serious need of an attitude adjustment. Maybe that sex doctor of yours can teach you some manners.”

  “Well, did he say anything?” I ask, ignoring his comments. He always manages to bring up Justice whenever we talk. Mostly because he’s hoping I’ll reveal that JD’s secretly gay and wants to bang him. I guess being delusional doesn’t interfere with Caleb’s work as a top entertainment agent.

  “Nothing.” I can hear the shrug in his voice. “He said you were cool, and told me he’d sign. Fuck, Heidi don’t tell me you have a pitiful little crush on the kid, because that would be—”

  I hang up on him. I’m actually surprised I didn’t do it sooner.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m still looking at the contracts in disbelief, but I have nourishment to counteract the swarm of butterflies in my belly. I take a bite of banana and contemplate my next move.

  I can do this. I’m a professional, goddammit. So what—tons of industry pros have slept with their clients. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last. And since he technically wasn’t my client then, I should feel zero guilt about this.

  I hurriedly wrap up my meal, take a swig of caffeinated crack, and get down to what I’m good at—launching careers to the next level. The plan of action is simple. Ransom needs to be on every talk television show, promoting the album and the upcoming tour. We need to show that the guys are united and there are no signs of discord within the ranks. And while I don’t represent the rest of the band, I’m sure I can get them on board with this plan.

  I shoot Caleb a text and tell him to send over Ransom’s schedule for the week so I can get a few appearances lined up. He replies with a smart-ass comment and a set of numbers that tilts my world off its axis.

  Tell him yourself, bitch.

  555-844-6730

  I don’t call. But I save it under my contacts and assign it to RR. That’s all I need to see—those two little letters, and I know it will all come rushing back to me.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s Wednesday. And I’ve decided to put my big girl panties on and meet my newest client for lunch.

  As unprofessional—and quite frankly punkish—of me as it is, I reach out to him by text, extending my invitation and relaying my intent. The text takes me nearly half an hour to generate, and another ten minutes to gain the nerve to just press fucking Send. He responds with two letters, five minutes later.

  Ok.

  I look good today. Chic, fashionable, yet smart, in a white, fitted wrap skirt, black silk blouse, and white, lightweight blazer. I’ve left my hair down so it falls in long, voluminous waves, something I rarely do during the week. And while my metaphorical big girl panties are on, my ass is delicately wrapped in La Perla.

  I suggest Sage, a modern American restaurant in Midtown that I frequent often. It’s my go-to spot for client lunches, and since Ransom is a client, and nothing more, it makes sense to meet him here. Plus, the owner is privy to my high-profile clientele and the staff always knows to seat me in a private area. However, Ransom texts me twenty minutes before our meeting to tell me to meet him in Tribeca at a modern French bistro called La Charcuterie. I huff out my frustration at the plan’s deviation, although I’m inwardly grinning. I had heard great things about that place, yet my schedule permits little time for social lunching. And Tucker usually likes to frequent the same five restaurants on date nights.

  By the time the driver pulls up to the curb in front of the bistro, my cool, confident demeanor is simply an afterthought, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk, trying to remember how to put one stiletto in front of the other.

  The place is crowded, seeing as it is a popular hotspot, but the host leads me to a semi-private area that’s occupied by mostly high-powered business types, trust fund babies, and homebred celebs. From what I can see, there are no windows in this section, blocking out the intrusive flash of paparazzi photogs, and I’m certain there’s a separate entrance. No wonder Ransom chose this place.

  The moment I spot him, sitting at a table dressed for two, my heart hiccups into my throat. His roguish beauty is still alarming to me, those dark eyes and sharp features making him appear cunning and slightly villainous. He wears a pair of faded black jeans, a heather gray V-neck tee, and his hair is in a messy coif that leaves a few locks to fall over his forehead. It seems pedestrian, however, I can bet that every stitch of clothing that falls on that luscious body was created especially for him. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the antique wash of his jeans was deliberate.

  He doesn’t see me right away, since his head is down, and I can’t tell if he’s on his phone or counting the threads in the white linen tablecloth. But he must sense my approach, because without cause, he lifts his head and his eyes immediately find me.

  My step falters for just a half second and I pray he doesn’t notice. His gaze sweeps over me like a gust of Santa Ana wind—hot, dry, and remarkably strong, so much so that I heat from the inside out. The back of my neck feels clammy and I can feel sweat beading on the bridge of my nose. A smile as slow and lazy as a house cat creeps onto his face as if he can smell my perspiration from feet away.

  “Mr. Reed,” I say in greeting, standing opposite from where he sits. He doesn’t stand. He’s no gentleman. Tucker would have been on his feet the moment he set eyes on me.

  “Mr. Reed?” He raises a brow, yet his grin is still fixed on his face. He’s baiting me; he knows I’m thinking about all the reasons why we should be on a first name basis.

  “Yes, thank you for meeting me.” I should reach over and shake his hand, but I can only manage one movement at a time. So I sit down, entering his space. Sharing his air. And Ransom seems positively delighted at that prospect.

  “So you received the contracts. I’m glad.” His tone is polite, although I get the feeling he’s hinting at something devious. I go for the untouched glass of ice water that sits on my side of the table and wet my suddenly parched mouth. Ransom follows my every move with a gaze so smoldering, you would think I was skating an ice cube along the column of my throat instead. It’s unnerving.

  “I did. Just one question though: Why?”

  He narrows his eyes as though he doesn’t follow so I continue. “Why do you want me as your publicist?”

  The thought that Ransom could have agreed to work with me as a thank you for our night together, or in hopes that there’d be an encore performance, definitely crossed my mind. I had assumed he was done with me, seeing as he barely said a thing after we were done and couldn’t get me—us—out of his sight fast enough. Yet, here he is, signing up to be in my presence on a much more frequent basis.

  Ransom takes a moment to contemplate my question as he reaches over to retrieve his own
water, yet he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes, of course, but . . .”

  “That is why you came to meet me Friday night, correct?”

  I nod vehemently. “Of course.”

  “You wanted me, so here I am,” he replies matter-of-factly with a blasé wave of his hand.

  I’m stunned speechless as the waiter takes that exact moment to ask us if we’d like to order drinks. Ransom orders a beer for himself. When I don’t answer right away, he tells him to bring a bottle of champagne.

  “I’m working,” I manage to stammer. “I can’t drink in the middle of the day.”

  “You’ll have one glass,” he retorts. He’s not asking me. He’s not even telling me. He’s stating a fact. This smug bastard actually thinks he knows me.

  I cross my arms in front of my chest, preparing to tell him just how misguided he is, when he gives me a shrug and a smile meant to completely disarm me. To my chagrin, it’s working. “I’ve seen you drink much more and still have total control of your body . . . your mind. One glass won’t leave you defenseless and at my mercy. Unless you want to be, Heidi.”

  I flinch at the sound of my name sliding over his skilled tongue, embedding itself into the warm womb of his mouth. When the waiter returns moments later with our drinks, I’m more than thankful for the sparkling liquid courage, downing my first glassful within seconds.

  Ransom refills, watching me watching him. When he nestles the bottle back into the ice bucket, I finally allow myself to breathe again. Maybe speaking won’t be so bad either.

  “I have some ideas on what we can do to launch your career and really promote the tour and the new album.”

  “New album?” he asks, a jolt of surprise in his voice. “Who said anything about a new album?”

  I furrow my brows in confusion. “Caleb. He said you wanted to record again. Said that you were excited about a song that you needed to get out. I just assumed . . .”

  Ransom nods, but doesn’t confirm or deny the rumor, and I don’t push him to. With these creative types, you have to let them do things in their own time, in their own way. They don’t respond to pressure unless it’s self-inflicted.

  With the break in conversation, the waiter comes to take our order. Even though the aromas wafting from the kitchen are downright heavenly, I hadn’t even thought about food, let alone picked up my menu. I quickly flip it open and request a spinach salad, settling on practicality over desire. Ransom asks for some type of gourmet burger with a side of truffle French fries that’ll probably cost more than what most people in this city pay for groceries for a week.

  We discuss the Euro tour that’s coming up in the fall. He tells me his plans for the summer and asks if I’ll be like the rest of the urban zombies and escape to the Hamptons. I blush with embarrassment; that was exactly what we had planned to do, at least for Memorial Day weekend and the Fourth. I’m not sure why it embarrasses me or why I feel the need to seem much more cool and blasé than I really am.

  We sip. We talk. We laugh when necessary. Ransom is . . . not what I expected. He’s young—nearly eight years my junior—but he’s lived more than most. He released his first album while still in high school. He’s traveled the world. And I’m not naïve enough to ignore the fact that only a man with a lot of experience fucks the way he does.

  By the time the waiter arrives with our meals, I’m on my third glass of champagne and probably having the best conversation I’ve had in months. But the moment I get a mouthwatering whiff of sizzling Kobe beef, melted cheese, and crispy potatoes, I realize just how hungry I really am.

  Not wasting any time, Ransom takes a bite and an erotic sound slips between his lips, causing the heat between my thighs to fluctuate into my stomach. He chews, slowly, deliberately then looks at me expectantly.

  “How’s your salad?”

  I look down at the plate of greens topped with bleu cheese, candied walnuts, and house-smoked bacon. Any other day, I would have found it fulfilling. Today, it seems as empty as my stomach. Still, I nod and reply, “Good.”

  Ransom smiles as if he’s on to me and holds out his burger. “Do you want a bite?”

  “No.”

  “No? Are you sure? Because you’re staring at it with lust in your eyes.”

  “No,” I repeat. Frustrated heat floods my cheeks, giving them an angry pink tinge.

  “Why not?” He has the nerve to look sincerely confused, which only makes this situation even more awkward.

  “Why not?” I mimic incredulously. “Because not only is it extremely inappropriate, it’s grossly unsanitary.”

  Ransom laughs heartily, loud enough to draw a few eyes. He continues to hold that damn burger, bite side up, making me appear as some type of anorexic model he has to force-feed before she withers away. Meaning, no one in the restaurant deems this whole scenario as out of the ordinary and they go back to their meals. Still, I tuck my chin and avert my eyes, praying that no one will notice.

  “I do not want to eat that,” I rage whisper between a clenched jaw.

  “Why not?” He stuffs a few fries into his mouth to prove his point and continues his campaign with a mouthful of food. Nope. Definitely not a gentleman. “It’s probably the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth . . . to date.”

  I don’t miss the teasing wink of his eye, which only flares my temper. “I’m not eating after you, Ransom.”

  A wolfish grin spreads his lips and he leans forward on one elbow, closing the space between us by inches that feel like miles. “Heidi, we’ve kissed. We’ve touched. We’ve fucked. I’ve sucked those pink-tipped nipples like twin cherry-flavored lollipops. I’ve had my tongue so deep inside your cu—”

  “Ok!” I nearly shout, rocking my chair. “You want me to eat the damn burger? I will eat the goddamn burger!”

  I lean over and take a small bite, which he happily offers. Once the juicy, premium beef, creamy Gruyère, black truffle aioli, and—oh my God, is that foie gras?—hit my tongue, I nearly have a mini orgasm right there at the table. I swear, my eyes even roll to the back of my head. Oh, sweet Jesus and all his disciples, it is the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth. Like so fucking good, I’m pissed, because now I’ll never be able to eat another burger again.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” I say flatly after chewing.

  “Right?” He smiles broadly before taking his own bite. Right in the place I took mine. “I told you it was insane. Here, try these.”

  He finger-feeds me French fries topped with fresh shaved parmesan, roasted garlic, and white truffle oil, and I’m all too happy to oblige. Of course, they are just as amazing, and I fight the urge to suck the salt from his fingertips.

  “Oh, God. Those should be illegal,” I moan.

  “Agreed. You should have ordered the same thing. The place is famous for it.”

  “I know.”

  Ransom brings a few fries to his lips, but stops before letting them tantalize his tongue. “Then why did you order a boring ass salad?”

  I shrug. “It’s similar to what I usually order for lunch.”

  “But it’s not what you want.”

  I shrug again. “It’s practical.”

  He looks affronted, and lets the fries fall from his fingers and back onto the plate. “Where the fuck is the fun in practical?”

  Before I’m left with the awkward task of answering, the waiter comes to check on us, asking how we’re enjoying our meals. I try my best to compose myself, while Ransom just seems . . . put off.

  “You can take that salad. It’s not what she wants,” he says, his tone tinted with aggravation.

  “Certainly, monsieur,” the poor server replies, hurriedly taking the offensive plate of greens from the table. “Would the lady care for something else?”

  I open my mouth to tell him that’s really not necessary, when Ransom speaks for me. “No thanks. She’ll share with me.”

  I’m staring at him, quite gauchely wi
th my eyes wide and mouth agape, when the waiter asks if he should bring another plate.

  “No need. I’ll feed her,” Ransom answers, ignoring my glare. And with that, he scoots his plate closer toward the middle of the table.

  I chuckle and shake my head, reaching for my glass of champagne. Ransom raises a curious brow. “Care to share with the class?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, still shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s just . . . my friend—well client, really—has this theory about salad girls and burger girls.”

  “Salad girls and burger girls?” He leans forward, planting his elbows on the table.

  “He said that salad girls are the ones that will never keep you satisfied. They’re the ones more concerned with maintaining an image than being happy. It’s all about appearances. But burger girls will always be real with you. They’re comfortable in their skin. And because of that, they’ll always be confident in you as their partner and friend. And you’ll always be content—or satisfied, if you will—with them.”

  “Humph,” Ransom muses, picking over the fries. “Sounds like a smart guy.”

  “He is,” I smile. “Maybe you’ll meet him one day.”

  “Maybe.”

  That’s how we finish lunch—eating off the same plate and talking about everything from music to movies to books. To avoid further humiliation and hunger, I eat more than I probably should. Every bite seems to loosen the tension, and I find myself being more casual than I should with Ransom. He’s easy to talk to. And considering he’s an insanely gorgeous twenty-something-year-old man that has seen me naked, I know that can only be trouble. For me and for him.

  By the time we finish it all off with dessert—a chocolate ganache confection that’s good enough to make angels weep—I almost forget that Ransom and I have shared so much more than a burger and fries and cake.

  Almost.

  Chapter Ten

  With a full belly and a midday buzz, I decide to call it a day. I have no more appointments, and all correspondence can be done through text or email. I call Tamara and let her know that she can leave just as soon as she emails Ransom with the Plan of Action and forwards all my messages so I can take care of them at home. She’s delighted, of course, and prattles on about being able to make it to her favorite happy hour spot, which pretty much means she’ll be on the prowl. I tell her to have fun, yet threaten bodily harm if she comes into work hungover and/or in the same clothes. She tells me to stop being a hater and to let my “sexy ass husband” uncork the stick out of my ass.