ACCIDENTAL TRYST Read online

  ACCIDENTAL TRYST

  Natasha Boyd

  Contents

  Title Image

  1. Trystan

  2. Emmy

  3. Emmy

  4. Emmy

  5. Trystan

  6. Trystan

  7. Trystan

  8. Emmy

  9. Emmy

  10. Emmy

  11. Trystan

  12. Trystan

  13. Trystan

  14. Emmy

  15. Emmy

  email to trystan

  email to emmy

  email to trystan

  email to emmy

  end of emmy chapter

  16. Trystan

  17. Trystan

  18. Trystan

  19. Emmy

  20. Emmy

  21. Emmy

  22. Trystan

  23. Trystan

  24. Trystan

  25. Emmy

  26. Emmy

  27. Emmy

  28. Trystan

  29. Trystan

  30. Emmy

  31. Emmy

  32. Trystan

  33. Trystan

  34. Trystan

  35. Emmy

  36. Emmy

  37. Emmy

  38. Trystan

  email to trystan

  email to emmy

  email to trystan

  email to emmy

  email to trystan

  email to emmy

  39. Trystan

  email to emmy

  end of trystan chapter

  40. Emmy

  41. Emmy

  Acknowledgments

  ALSO BY NATASHA BOYD

  ACCIDENTAL TRYST

  * * *

  © 2018 by Natasha Boyd

  All persons depicted herein are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, real or imagined, is coincidental and unintentional. Seriously. Don’t be vain.

  Plagiarizing or pirating this work is illegal. If I find you, you can explain what you stole to my kids and your granny.

  That’s all.

  Read on.

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-0-9971464-9-3

  * * *

  To stay up to date with new releases, text NATASHABOYD to 31996

  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.

  There's a beep prompt for the conference pin, and I enter it and take a breath.

  The call with the bank drags on for almost two hours while they go through our balance sheets line by line. After finally hearing the beep that they've disconnected, MacMillen stays on the conference line. "That went well. I think we're a go."

  I exhale in relief, knowing I've spent years building to a poin
t where I could sell. "I'm headed to the funeral. So I hope you don't mind if we talk while I walk?" I glance at my watch. Shit. I’m going to be late to the funeral too.

  "No problem. Listen, I forgot it was today, I should have rescheduled the bank. I'm sorry. Will you make it?"

  I stalk down the concourse toward the exit and baggage claim. "I think so." I squint at the people milling about at the bottom of the escalator and spot a uniformed girl in a knee length skirt and baggy suit jacket leaning against a pillar. She's scrolling through a phone with one hand and half-heartedly holding a scrawled sign that reads Montgomery with the other. Her mousy hair is scraped back into a ponytail so tight, it looks painful. Dressing up for work doesn't seem natural to her.

  "Look, I just want to say something to you, Tryst," Mac says in my ear, his age and weariness echoing through his tone. "I know what you're walking away from by ignoring Carson's offer."

  "I know you do." I stand in front of the girl. A teenager. Jesus, can't people employ grown-ups these days?

  She looks up. Her eyes register me, and her pale skin turns puce. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Are you—?"

  I point at my name she holds and nod, jerking my head toward the exit, hoping we can get going. I motion I only have my roller bag.

  "I wouldn't blame you," Mac says as I stride out the airport terminal into the muggy Lowcountry air and follow the girl to the limousine waiting area. I hope she's old enough to drive. The phone beeps with an incoming call, I look down but don't recognize the New York number. "I've taught you to look out for yourself, after all," MacMillen continues as I put the phone back to my ear. "That's a lot of money. Money going directly to you. You haven't fought this long and this hard to walk away from what you're worth. And you are worth it. Every penny, and more. I wouldn't blame you," he repeats.

  I slide into the back of a dark Escalade, the air-conditioning cuts on, and I take a deep breath. "Yeah," I say. "But I'd blame me." I stick a finger in the knot of my tie, yank it loose and undo the top button of my shirt. I cover the phone briefly as I tell the driver to take me to the church instead of the hotel. "And today, of all days," I continue on my call, "I don't need to beat myself up any more. You're a mentor but also a father figure to me. The only other person who might have been even close is lying cold and about to be buried. This company represents everything I had to overcome. I've built it stone by stone, and there's only one person I'd trust enough to do what needs to be done. That's you."

  The phone beeps again. Same number. I frown, but Mac is talking.

  "I'm proud of you, son. Not sure how that family of yours produced you, but I'm glad they did."

  "Thanks, Mac," I say sincerely, slightly embarrassed by his pride and faith in me. "I'll talk to you soon."

  "Okay. And good luck today. Remember, you succeeded in spite of them. You don't need anything from them. And you don't owe them a damned thing."

  "Thank you. Later." I clear the roughness from my voice and end the call.

  A voicemail beeps through. Make that two.

  I look down, remembering the apps all being rearranged, then I notice the perfect screen. No crack.

  My stomach sinks. Shit.

  I go to the voicemail page and see the caller list, and it truly sinks in that this is not my phone.

  David

  David

  David

  David

  David

  Followed by two voicemails from the number in New York. I tap the first one to listen.

  2

  Emmy

  I'll grind his fucking nuts," the deep voice next to me growled.

  I flinched despite the noise of the busy airport terminal and surreptitiously glanced sideways to the figure sitting next to me at the workstation on his phone.

  Who spoke like that to people? And loudly, in public, where everyone could overhear? And his cologne . . . I sniffed, we were close enough after all . . . nice, spicy. It made me think of old leather and rough-hewn wood. The antithesis to his sharp, tailored suit. But there was far too much of the scent. My nose tickled.

  His free hand, closest to me, poked out of a dark suit jacket and crisp white cuff and was curled in a fist. A stainless steel watch was barely visible. The skin was tanned and lightly sprinkled with dark hair. My stomach did a little jig. A very little jig. It was a purely Pavlovian response. See potentially sexy forearms, have physical reaction.

  Probably a vain, stuck up, custom fancy suit-wearing, heavy cologne-wearing, Wall Street douche-wagon. With a small penis.

  "Yeah. Tell him to shove his offer up his-" His head jerked toward me, and I looked up into sharp gray eyes set in tanned skin. "His arse," he finished, eyes pinning mine.

  Ah, so he was British. They always were a bit uncouth.

  My mouth dried out.

  I quickly turned my back.

  I had yet to be introduced to the legendary British charm. The only Brits I knew sang loud rugby songs at bars, got shit-faced, and always overstayed last call. Though my college bartending days were far behind me. I'd slogged my way into my executive marketing position and wouldn't pull another pint of Guinness if Jamie Fraser himself was lying naked on the bar in front of me with his mouth open.

  I wrinkled my nose and decided to remove myself from the suit monkey's caustic aura. It reminded me I needed to go buy some earbuds for my flight, so I could drown out any other potential idiots. Even if they were too handsome for their own good. Especially if they were.

  My phone still needed to charge, so I left it plugged into the worktop where it shared an outlet with the British invasion of peace. As soon as I slipped off the stool, the suit with his broad back seemed to spread out into my newly vacated space, not even noticing I'd left, just that he had more elbow room. Giving in to an eye-roll, I shifted my carry-on bag more securely on my shoulder and headed toward the newsstand.

  I browsed the books, picked up a Snickers and selected a bright pink pair of earbuds. My flight was about to be called. Finally. It had been delayed three hours, so I'd gone over and made myself comfortable at the gate opposite that didn't have a flight leaving for a few hours.

  Glancing down at my watch, I figured I still had—

  Oh, shit! It was past my boarding time. I'd completely lost track. I dumped the chocolate and the earbuds and dashed back the way I'd come. There was hardly anyone left at my gate, the attendant was talking into the speaker.

  "Last call for New York, La Guardia," she intoned.

  "I'm here," I screeched as I ran past her. "I'm just grabbing my phone. Please don't close the doors."

  Shit. I angled to the other gate, thankfully noting asshole was nowhere to be seen.

  "Ma'am," the gate attendant called from behind me. "I'll really need you to board now."

  "I'm coming," I yelled over my shoulder and grappled with my phone and the cord, yanking it out and wrapping it around my phone as I raced back across, dodging passengers and almost wiping out over a toddler in a stroller.

  "Jeez, watch it, lady," the angry mom snapped at me.

  My bag slipped down my arm. Gah. "Sorry," I yelped and made it toward the sour-faced woman at the door to the gangway. Great. Hours to relax, and now I was stressed and damp with sweat. Why was I always so bad with time? I just couldn't figure it out like most people. Thank God for electronic calendars, alerts, and reminders nowadays. It was the only way I could function in my job.

  "Thank you," I gasped as I took back my ticket and hustled down to the plane. Unfortunately my cheap airline didn't have assigned seats, so I was liable to be sandwiched into a middle seat at the back. And darn, now I needed to pee. Why hadn't I peed during all that time I had?

  My cheeks flamed as I entered and shouldered my way down the narrow aisle avoiding the passengers' irritated glares at the latecomer. To top it off I was accidentally bumping people's arms as I moved along with my unwieldy carry-on that for some reason now wouldn't stay on my shoulder.

  "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry," I mumbled as I headed to
ward the back of the plane looking for a free seat. I finally spotted one in the second to last row between a large man who was already passed out and snoring loudly, and a skinny, teenaged boy on the aisle who was fidgeting nervously and glancing frantically between me and the seat next to him.

  As I approached, his face matched and surpassed mine in probable color. He looked like he was going to die of embarrassment if I sat next to him, but I had no other option. I glanced down to make sure my top wasn't gaping and bra straps weren't showing. No need to send this clearly hormonal teenager into an apoplexy.

  "Sorry," I said again, for what felt like the millionth time and looked meaningfully at the seat next to him. The boy half grunted, half mumbled, and leapt up out of his seat so I could squeeze past him.

  "Ma'am, I'll need you to stow your carry-on under the seat in front of you and fasten your seat belt. The aircraft is about to leave the gate."

  I scowled at the flight attendant as I wedged myself into the seat and stuffed my bag between my feet. What did she think I was trying to do, exactly? Her eyes widened under my glare. Oops. Probably not good to piss off the person who was in charge of your comfort for the next hour or so. Gah, I needed to pee so bad. There was no way to do that now.