Leif
My house is a disaster of people and tables and chairs and tablecloths and decorations, but instead of
staying and supervising, I realize the thing that interests me most is the mission Layla is going on for my
daughter’s birthday cake.
Also, the final bit of the conversation I heard, when she told the person on the other end of the line
that she loved them.
A boyfriend? Is that why she ran away after our time in the kitchen?
I grit my teeth against the sharp stab in my chest. Not wanting to investigate that emotion too closely,
I just follow Layla to the door and watch as she directs a few workers to r eposition tables, decides where
decorations will go, and answers half a dozen questions that come up from various people. The location of
lights needs to be approved. There aren’t enough power points and the cords won’t reach, so Layla directs
the person to a box of extension cords that she had the foresight to pr epare. The tables don’t fit exactly as
planned, but there’s an easy solution—that Layla comes up with, of course. One of the workers cut their
hand and needs a first aid kit.
Layla answers every question with no hesitation. She puts her jacket on and wraps a scarf around her
neck while
directing the proceedings, and I can’t help but watch the way she handles the chaos with ease.
She’s good. It’s not often that I’m impressed. I hire good people to do hard work and I expect the best.
But Layla seems to be spinning dozens of plates, all while dealing with some kind of cake emergency.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bright, and that tired, drawn look I noticed on her face this morning
seems to have disappeared.
“Oh!” She glances at the stairs. “I need one of Isla’s dolls.” Before I can say anything, Layla darts to
the stairs. I’m only halfway up behind her by the time she reappears at the top, holding a doll dressed in a
ballerina outfit in one hand. “Got it!” She smiles at me. “St
Ep one of the Cake Crisis is complete.”
“Are you going to explain any of this to me?” “Maybe if you’re nice.” Her eyes glimmer as she
brushes past me on her way to the stairs. When we st ep outside, she takes a de ep breath. I watch her chest
rise and fall, aching to put my arm around her shoulders and tuck her close to me.
But she’s Isla’s nanny, and I don’t bring women anywhere near my daughter. My love life does not
intersect with my family life which does not intersect with my business life. Ever.
Still, I can’t quite stop the words from coming out of my mouth. “I’m surprised you had time to take a
personal phone call in all that chaos. Your... boyfriend... must be very important to you.”
Layla gives me a strange look as Elton jumps out of the car and hurries to open the back door. “My
boyfriend?”
“You were on the phone when I walked in, huddled in the corner away from everyone. You told him
you loved him.”
Layla laughs. Laughs. At me.
Women don’t laugh at me. They laugh at things I say while they trail their fingers over my arm in
overwrought flirtation. They don’t turn their back on me and walk away, waiting for me to follow.
She slides into the car after thanking Elton, calling him by name. For a moment, I’m distracted by that
simple action. How many women have I taken on dates and driven through the city who didn’t even
acknowledge my driver’s existence?
But Layla just slides into her seat and puts her seatbelt on, tapping on her phone while Elton gets
behind the wheel. “Elton,” she says, “we need a tiered cake stand and a bit of nice fabric that will match
this ballerina. I’m thinking somewhere like Target would have both. But before we go there, I need to
stop at these three bakeries to check for cupcakes.” She rattles off the name of three bakeries, along with
their addresses.
Elton nods. “No problem, Layla. There’s actually a bakery a few blocks closer, a kind of
hole-in-the-wall place. I got my niece a cupcake from there and she said it was, quote, ‘The best ever ever
ever.’”
Layla smiles at his reflection in the rearview mirror, asking if it’s the same niece who made his
braided bracelet, which Elton confirms, lifting his wrist to show off the bit of colorful string. He’s driven
her around a couple of times and she knows about his family?
I have the strangest impression that I’m intruding—that Elton is her driver. That this is her car. And
I’m not sure I like the familiarity Elton has with her. I’m not sure I like this first-name basis. Anger builds
inside me, hot and red and writhing—but where the hell did that come from? Why am I angry that two
members of my staff talk to each other cordially?
Why didn’t I know of a good bakery to suggest? Impotent frustration adds to my anger.
“You’re the best, Elton.” Finally, her eyes turn to me. “My sister gave me the idea,” she says, turning
her phone to show me a picture of a doll with a skirt made of cupcakes. “She loves baking and she
happened to call at exactly the right time just now.”
Realization dawns, my anger leaking out of my pores. “Your sister.”
“The one and only,” Layla says with a gleam in her eyes. “I love her.” She turns back to her phone,
seeming to ignore me. But I can see the corner of her lip twitching.
“Not a boyfriend,” I answer. My voice is still tense from restrained temper.
Her blue eyes land on me again, a fine brow arched high. “Leif, I have three jobs, a sister and
grandparents to support, and as of this week, a birthday party to plan. Where do you suppose I’d find time
for a man?”
There’s a subtext to her words. Where do you suppose I’d find time for you?
The sass makes me want to pull her onto my lap and kiss her senseless. It makes me want to touch
every inch of her, stake my claim on her inside and out. I can show her that I can make her forget about
everything that puts shadows under her eyes.
But I can’t, can I? She’s my employee. She knows my daughter. She’s off- limits.
And that pisses me right the hell off.