Layla Last night, Leif sent me home early and took his daughter out for her birthday dinner. She still has no idea we’re planning this birthday party for her today, and I can’t wait to see the joy bursting out of her when she finds out. I get to the townhouse to see Leif standing in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee and Isla twirling in front of him. For a short moment, before he notices me, Leif’s face is soft, open. He smiles at his daughter and murmurs something that makes her laugh so hard she clutches her belly, then she wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes tight. Then he looks up, sees me, and the softness remains for a moment before a cool mask descends on his features. For a second, it almost looked like he was happy to see me. Like he... cared. We haven’t talked about what happened in that same kitchen. Why would we? We’re both adults, and we realize that it was inappropriate. I’m more than willing to move on. My body hasn’t gotten the memo. The sight of Leif’s long body leaning against the counter causes heat to build in the pit of my stomach. My skin grows more sensitive, my nipples tightening against my bra. The man had his hands on me one time and I can hardly think in his presence. We didn’t even kiss. We did nothing more than touch—mostly over clothes, if you don’t count his fingertips diving beneath my top. But now he watches me as I approach the kitchen and I feel naked. Gloriously, shamelessly naked. Heat flushes through me, all the way up to the top of my head. “Layla,” Leif says in that low tenor of his. “Mr. Sorensen.” I nod. Amusement glints in his eyes. “I need to get to work. I’ll see you tonight, Isla. Be good this afternoon.” “Can I invite Talia over to play?” She blinks her immense eyes at her father, clasping her hands at her chest. “Pleeeaasee?” “We’ll see. Dani’s due date is coming up, remember? The baby will be here any minute. Talia might not be allowed to go far.” A stab of guilt pierces my stomach. I haven’t spoken to Dani all week. We saw each other nearly every day when we were both nannying our respective kids and we’ve k ept in touch, but this week I’ve completely forgotten about her —apart from the invitation I sent over to her place. She’s going to be giving birth to Emil Van der Berg’s baby, and I should be there for her. My head is a muddled mess, though. Leif lays a soft kiss on top of his daughter’s head, barks out a few orders at me and the other employees scattered around the house, then leaves. When he passes me, his arm brushes mine, the faint touch sending my body into cartwheels. I really, really need to get a grip. Once Leif leaves, everything will be easier, including breathing and forming coherent thoughts.
It doesn’t help that I’ve barely gotten more than a couple hours of sle ep every night this week. It takes me an hour to commute to the Sorensen house every morning, and I’ve worked late at the bar every night. Adding in the party planning and the pressure of impressing a bunch of billionaires attending a kids’ party—well, I haven’t had much time to rest. But after today it’ll all be over, and I’ll sle ep tonight. I ignore the stab in my gut at the thought that today is my last day in this household. My last day with Isla. My last day with Leif. “What do you want for breakfast, Isla?” I ask. “French toast!” She beams at me, hopping from one foot to the other. I glance at the clock on the wall and shrug. “Sure. But you have to get your bag packed for school so we can leave right after you eat.” “Okay!” She takes off like a bullet to gather her things, and I make her a special breakfast. Once Isla is at school, I make a few phone calls, and the townhouse turns into a hive of activity. Carrying my notes under an arm, my hair in a bun atop my head, I direct the movers to shift the furniture as I’ve planned. There’s an army of employees ready to string up lights and set up tables. Rachael arrives midmorning with a broad smile on her face. She wraps me in a big bear hug, squeezing tight. “I can’t believe you got me this catering job, Layla. If these people like my food, it could change my business forever.” Rachael is always bright and boisterous, but I see something different in her face this morning. A vulnerability and a kind of tenuous hope that I recognize. For her, this is The Job. Heart squeezing, I wrap my arms around her. “Let’s make sure they like your food, then.” Directing a young man to grab the other end of a portable bar, I set it up near the mouth of the kitchen and start arranging the tablecloth, linens, and glasses that will be used during the party. Rachael goes outside and reappears with trays and trays of food, along with another helper. The house is a disaster, but there’s a buzz in the air. A thousand people have questions for me, requests, problems, and we only have a couple of hours to sort everything out before Isla’s half day at school is done and guests start arriving. But... I love it. The tiredness that clung to me this morning disappears and I find myself buzzing with excitement of my own. I love the pressure of a tight timeline. I love seeing all my plans come together. When I’m ticking this off my list, I look around and realize we have no cake. Frowning, I call the bakery. The ballerina cake should have been delivered by now. There’s no answer, and I call again. Nothing. While I’m staring at my phone wondering if I should call a third time, the bakery calls back. “I’m sorry, Miss Reynolds,” the woman on the other side of the line says. “A pipe burst in the kitchen overnight. Must have frozen in the cold.” She sucks in a breath, and I know she’s near tears. “We lost the cakes. We lost everything. I would make another one, but I have no oven, nothing. I’ll refund you, of course, but I... I...”
Speechless, I listen to the despair in the baker’s voice, close my eyes, and take a de ep breath. “No problem. Thank you for letting me know.” I hang up the phone and let out a curse. Rachael looks up from her spot in the kitchen, brows arching. Her hands are still moving in front of her, chopping chives into teeny tiny pieces that she then scoops into a waiting bowl. “Everything okay?” “We have no cake.” Her knife stops moving. She bites her lip, brows drawing together. “I can’t bake, Layla. I’m a good cook, but I can’t whip up a cake in an hour.” “I know,” I answer. “I’ll have to get a cake at a different bakery. A ready-made one. It’ll have to be generic. I’ll scrap the ballerina idea.” As I open my web browser to look up local bakeries, my phone starts ringing. My sister’s name pops up, and I hesitate. I don’t have time to do anything but sort out this cake problem. But this is my sister. I never reject a call from my sister. “Hey, Em.” “How’s the party set-up going?” “Good,” I answer, then hesitate. “Well, good, exc ept for the cake.” “What’s going on?” I tell my sister the problem, and she lets out a low hum. Then, she squeals. “Oh! I have an idea. You could do cupcakes. I was looking for frosting recipes the other day and came upon a photo of this tower of cupcakes. What if you put a ballerina doll at the top, draped some fabric over some kind of tiered cupcake stand, then arranged the cupcakes on top of the fabric? That way her skirt is made of cupcakes. Plus, cupcakes are way easier to find on short notice from bakeries, and kids love them. You can buy some fancy gold-and-silver sprinkles if they look too generic.” I’m staring at the wall, trying to picture what my sister’s describing. “You said you saw a picture of this? Can you send it to me?” “One sec.” Emma’s voice goes distant, and I know she’s tapping on her phone. A moment later, my phone buzzes with a photo from her. “Did you get it?” “Yeah. Hold on.” I take the phone away from my ear and with a few taps on the screen, I see exactly what Emma described. In the photo, a cupcake stand with three tiers is covered in shimmery blue fabric acting as the doll’s skirt. A doll is propped at the top of the cake stand, the fabric tied around her waist. On top of the fabric, dozens of cupcakes are artfully arranged. The princess in the photo is a Disney princess. It would be easy enough to swap that for a ballerina if I could find an appropriate doll... of which Isla has dozens. Cake stands and fabric and cupcakes I can definitely find on short notice. “Emma, you’re a genius.” “It’ll work?” “It’ll look great. I have to go. I have cupcakes and cake stands to find.” Emma lets out a little squeal. “Okay. Send me a picture of the whole setup and the cake. Good luck! Love you!” “Love you too.” I hang up and spin around, then yelp when I bump into a big, broad chest that’s standing too close to me. Warm, strong hands curl around my elbows as I stumble back, and I look up, up, up to meet Leif’s gaze.
It’s unreadable, as usual. “Everything under control?” “Mostly,” I croak. “A little wrinkle with the cake. Specifically, an emergency at the bakery means we don’t have one. But I have a solution.” “Which is?” His hands are still on my elbows. They slide to my upper arms, and the almost irresistible desire to melt into his chest threatens to overwhelm me. But I don’t have time for that. I don’t care if he’s handsome and strong and tall and a Nordic god come to life with a soft spot for his daughter. I have a cake emergency to fix. Pulling away, I shake my head. “No time to explain. I need to get a cab and head to the nearest store to grab a tiered cupcake stand.” I make to dart around him but Leif turns with me. “You’ll take my car,” he informs me. “Elton is parked outside.” “Oh,” I answer. “Thank you. That will save a lot of trouble.” Leif nods, his st eps ke eping pace with mine. It’s not until we’re at the front door and my jacket is on that Leif speaks again. “And I’m coming with you.”