Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

LAYLA

"I'm telling you; you're going to be sorely disappointed." Jorge shakes his head.

He stopped by a few hours ago to help me find something to wear for tomorrow night. After settling on a little black cocktail dress and heels, we've been drinking rosé on the fire escape I use as my balcony. Polishing off the bottle, we go back to talking about Tristan and dissecting the text conversation from this morning for about an hour.

Jorge takes a hefty sip from his wine glass before continuing, "You know damn well that ninety percent of men boasting about what they're swinging between their legs are totally full of shit."

"And the other ten?"

"Thoughts and prayers for your pussy." Jorge maintains a serious expression as he draws an imaginary cross by touching his hand to his forehead, chest, and both shoulders .

"Got it," I chuckle. "A Tic Tac or a Pringles can. No in-between."

"If it's the latter, find out if he has a brother that swings in my direction." Jorge winks with a smile. He pulls his phone from his pocket. "Shit. I'm going to be late for my date."

Abruptly standing from the oversized pillow beneath him, he hands me his empty wine glass and squeezes his large frame back through the window. When he's safely on the other side, he extends his hands to take both glasses from me.

He's already placing them into the kitchen sink by the time I climb into the apartment behind him.

"Call me when you get home safe." I drop a soft kiss on his cheek as we hug each other to say goodbye.

Finally alone for the night, I open a second bottle of rosé and forgo grabbing a new glass. I take a sip from the bottle as I make my way down the hall to the bathroom. It's been too long since I enjoyed a nice bath, a bottle of wine, and a smutty romance book.

I strip from my clothes and pull my hair into a loose, messy bun while the bath draws. Slipping into the tub, my phone buzzes on the bamboo tray, which spans the width of the tub.

TRISTAN

Still waiting on that address, darling.

I'll meet you wherever we're going.

I don't give my address to strange men.

I don't let the women I date use public transportation to come see me.

We're dating now?

I can't help but toy with him.

I didn't realize this had gotten so serious.

I'm very serious.

Address.

Not happening. Just tell me where to meet you.

Out front of your building.

Fuck, he's persistent.

I'm not backing down on this.

If you don't tell me, we might never see each other again.

And could you live the rest of your days without calling me an asshole to my face?

Dirty play…

213 6th Avenue.

It'll be fine. I have a doorman, and I'll just meet him downstairs. Plus, he doesn't seem like a psychopath.

Said every woman that followed Bundy to his car.

Was that so hard?

I can practically hear the condescension in his voice as I read his message, and I love the rouse I get from it.

Are you going to be this pushy about everything?

Are you going to be this defiant?

Probably.

Good.

I can't help but snicker at his response. Most men are much less receptive to my—as they call it— attitude .

What are you up to tonight?

I was trying to read trashy romance in the tub, but some pushy asshole keeps texting me.

You?

Relaxing in the tub.

I was going to read, but I couldn't stop thinking about the beautiful little brat who hadn't responded to my message yet.

Ha ha. Very funny.

I see we've progressed to the mocking each other phase of this relationship.

The next message that comes through is a photo. Clicking to open it, I'm met with his deep blue eyes. His hair is darker than I remember and slicked back instead of the disheveled curls from last night. It takes me a second to realize that it's wet because he truly is sitting in the tub. My gaze roams over the photo, pausing at the hint of inked skin at the base of his neck .

He seemed so clean cut…

Believe me now?

Kind of hard not to.

Enjoy your soak, darling.

See you at seven.