Chapter 15 Layla The tension in the car is thick as soup, but I just decide to ignore it. I live with a teenager, after all, and I know how to let moodiness roll off my back. Even when Leif is gruff at the bakeries, or when he stands with his arms crossed and a scowl on his brow as I buy a cake stand, I just pretend he doesn’t exist. It’s easier that way. And when we get back to the townhouse, progress has been made. The room is almost completely set up, Rachael has the food well in hand, and I focus on the cake. With some clever draping of gauzy white fabric I pilfered from a children’s princess dress from Target, a doll duct-taped to the cake stand, and beautifully arranged cupcakes, I end up with something that looks elegant and appropriate for an eight-year-old ballerina. Speaking of ballerinas, Miss Oliver arrives with four former students in tow, and we talk about where they will perform and how long we’ll need them. All the while, I feel Leif’s eyes follow me around the room. I’m not sure what happened, but I can feel his anger pulsing against my skin. Just ignore it. Today is my last day, after all. I’ll help with clean-up tomorrow, and then it’s bye-bye nannying job. After what seems like only a minute, my alarm goes off. “I have to go pick Isla up from school,” I say. Then the doorbell rings, and the first guests arrive. Dani, my extremely pregnant friend and the soon-to-be wife of billionaire Emil Van der Berg, enters the house and looks around, wide-eyed. Her gaze lands on me, and she wraps me in a big hug—or as big a hug as we can manage across her baby bump. “This looks incredible, Layla. I can’t believe you pulled this off in a week.” “Isla is going to love this,” Talia says. The little girl is Isla’s age and the two of them are the best of friends. Talia’s hair is near-black, and she’s her little brother’s protector and defender. Frankie is hanging onto his father’s neck while Emil looks at Dani with stars in his eyes. The two of them are in love; it’s obvious for anyone to see. I don’t know why that causes my stomach to knot. I’ve never been in love, and I’ve never had a man look at me the way Emil looks at Dani. Maybe I’m just jealous. “You are definitely planning my next party,” Dani says with a shake of her head. “This place looks beautiful.” “She’s impressive,” a de ep voice says from behind me. It makes my skin prickle even though I felt Leif approach a moment ago, as if my body is finely attuned to his presence. Shrugging off the compliment as the doorbell rings again with more guests, I make my excuses and head out to pick the birthday girl up from school. An hour and a half later, after having taken Isla shopping as planned to give guests more time to arrive, Isla and I climb into the Rolls-Royce that I’ve somehow become accustomed to, and Elton takes us
back to the townhouse. “Do you think Daddy will like my new dress?” Isla smooths her hands over the skirt of her dress, her feet kicking back and forth as the car rumbles beneath us. When she picked out the princess dress with the long tulle skirt (“Like a ballerina!”), I told her she should wear it and surprise her dad. Then we went to a café, got hot chocolates, and I redid Isla’s hair into a complicated set of braids tied into a bun at the crown of her head. “I think he’ll love the dress,” I answer. “You look beautiful.” Isla turns to look at me. “Are you going to come back next week, Layla? I like how you did my hair for school. Everyone was impressed, even my teacher.” A twist in my chest makes it hard to speak for a moment. I pat Isla’s knee. “Mrs. Harriet will be happy to be back, Isla. I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun with her too.” Isla shrugs. “Yeah. She’s nice, but she’s strict.” Her eyes brighten. “Maybe you can show her how to French braid my hair.” The car turns onto our street and I almost say something placating—but I know from experience with Emma that with kids her age, it’s best to be gently honest. “I’m not sure that will happen, Isla. Mrs. Harriet and I probably won’t see each other. I’ll be in New Jersey at my other job.” “You should quit your other job.” I snort. “I would if I could, believe me.” Isla giggles, her feet still kicking. We stop in front of the townhouse and Elton helps us out, his eyes twinkling as he opens my door. “The boss just texted me. Almost everyone is here and ready for you to go in.” Heart fluttering with excitement at the thought of my first big event coming together, I extend a hand toward Isla, who has wandered to a nearby car. “Come on, Isla! Let’s go inside. I think your dad is home, we can show him your new dress.” “That’s Miss Oliver’s car,” she says, pointing to a white car parked on the other side of the street. She turns to look at me. “Why is my ballet teacher here?” Elton and I exchange a glance, and I bite my lip. “It might be someone else’s vehicle.” “Nope,” Isla says, marching toward me. “She has a scratch on the door just like that car. It’s hers. Do you think I’m in trouble?” I arch a brow. “You think you did something that deserves trouble?” Isla gives me an impish grin, then shrugs, grabbing my hand to head to the door. We climb the few st eps to the landing, then Isla turns the handle and enters. “SURPRISE!” The shout is so loud that even though I was expecting it, I jump. Isla stands in the doorway, mouth open, staring at all her classmates, ballet buddies, their parents, and all her family members. The ground floor of the townhouse is packed, with uniformed caterers already milling around with little bites and trays of drinks. Above us, the ceiling is a web of twinkling fairy lights. Gauzy fabric is draped along the walls to match the tablecloths I got to cover the rented café tables on the far side of the room. The centerpieces on the tables have little ballerinas twirling among glittery puffs of cotton that look like smoke. A big banner proclaiming, “Happy Birthday, Isla!” hangs above the central fir eplace bisecting the room.
It’s better than I could have imagined. I was fairly confident my choices would all work together, from the lighting to the food to the choice of centerpieces, but it’s different to see it in real life. When I left just over an hour ago, the fairy lights were off and the place was still a manic hive of activity. From the crowd, Leif detaches himself and bends in front of his daughter. She runs into his arms and he twirls her around, causing her to giggle and giggle and giggle. “Happy birthday, kiddo,” he says in a low murmur. “I’m not a kiddo,” she answers, but she squeezes her arms around his neck again. “Love you, Daddy.” “Love you too, baby girl.” Leif sets his daughter down, and she strips off her jacket and tosses it aside before running toward Talia and Dani, who are the first to approach with birthday wishes. Picking up Isla’s jacket, I hang it up in the hall closet when a familiar male presence moves closer. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Leif regarding me with a strange expression. “Thank you, Layla,” he says quietly. “Isla’s face when she saw the room was...” He shakes his head, throat working. “I should have known she’d want a birthday party.” “You have a lot on your mind,” I answer with a polite smile. Before he can answer, one of Rachael’s employees approaches. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “but Rachael asked me to get you, Layla. She needs you in the kitchen.” I nod, slipping away from Leif. I feel his eyes on me until I turn the corner into the kitchen. From there, I do my best to stay out of the way. I help the catering team gather dirty dishes and glasses, I make sure drinks are chilled and ready to be served, I put out fires and organize kids’ games, and make sure everyone has everything they could possibly need. After an hour, Miss Oliver starts the show. A male and female dancer twirl in the middle of the floor to the delight of all the little girls in the audience. The older generation looks on appreciatively, and I even see Great-Aunt Hilda nodding in approval. She’s sitting in the corner next to a younger woman who has to be Leif’s mother. Rachael transferred my hodg epodge cake stand onto a wheeled trolley of hers and added a tablecloth, fresh flowers, and sparkly decorations to the edges to make it look sophisticated, ethereal, and utterly beautiful. A smaller, six-inch cake I bought to have Isla blow candles out is placed beside the ballerina cupcake extravaganza. With one last adjustment to the flowers on the edge of the trolley, Rachael smiles at me. “You did good, Layla. She’s going to love this.” I adjust the doll’s arms so they’re above her head in an approximation of a ballerina’s pose, then nod at one of the waitresses. “Bring it out. It’s time.” I follow into the main room as Leif asks for silence, then starts the “Happy Birthday” song in a surprisingly de ep and beautiful singing voice. Of course the man can sing. He’s beautiful and rich and charming—what’s one more panty-melting skill to add to the bunch?
Unable to resist watching this part of the proceedings, I stand next to the wall and join in the singing, trying to catch a glimpse of Isla’s face. She has her hands clasped at her chest, her face beaming with pure childish joy. Throwing her arm around her best friend Talia’s shoulders, she points at the doll and says something in her ear. When Leif holds out the smaller cake for her to blow out candles, the entire room erupts in applause. “My son tells me you planned all this in less than a week,” a female voice says from my right. It takes all my self-control not to jump out of my skin. I turn to see the woman that had been sitting next to Great- Aunt Hilda. Mrs. Sorensen is as tall as I am, dressed in a beautifully tailored cream pantsuit. Her neck is ringed with an emerald necklace, hair tied back in a French twist. Rings glitter on her fingers as she folds her hands in front of her stomach, her piecing green eyes studying me. Finally, I find my voice. “It was Hilda’s idea,” I demur. “Oh, she made sure to tell me,” Mrs. Sorensen answers with a laugh. “But you’re the one who pulled it off. Good work.” And with that, she drifts through the crowd to talk to another woman, who—judging by the frenemy vibe between the two older women—has to be Paula, the one who needed to be outdone by this party. I let out a sigh, closing my eyes for a moment and gripping the wall for support. I need air, or silence, or just a moment to gather my wits. I haven’t had more than a few hours’ sle ep this whole week, I’ve worked crazy hours, but a terrifyingly elegant woman just told me she was happy with my work—and then went over to another woman to gloat. I did it. Slipping through the crowd, I enter the first door I can find, which is the spare room opposite the kitchen. It’s an intimate TV room where we stored the extra couch from the living room, which now dominates the space. I close the door behind me and lean my hands on the back of the sofa, dropping my chin to my chest. I only have a moment’s respite, though, because the door opens behind me. The noise of the distant party gets louder then quiets again when the person closes the door. By the thickness of the air in the room and the prickling of my skin, I already know who it is. Turning slowly, I meet Leif’s eyes as he turns the latch on the door. “Layla,” he growls. “Mr. Sorensen.” His eyes flash at the sound of his name, and I know it’s because he wanted me to call him Leif. There’s a storm in his eyes, an emotion I can’t decipher. Then he crosses the distance between us, hooks an arm around my waist, and kisses me like the world is ending.
I’ve watched Layla all afternoon, need growing inside me like a bad toothache. She’s worked diligently, fielding problems as they arose and making sure everyone has anything they could ever need. She thought of everything. It’s a simple party, really. Nothing like the lavish affairs my parents throw or the galas I’ve attended in the past. But the simplicity of the afternoon doesn’t detract from the pure joy Layla has brought to my daughter. Isla’s face when she walked into the room nearly broke me. How could I think my eight-year-old daughter was happy to have a birthday dinner with me and nothing else? How could I miss the fact that my little girl loves feeling like a princess? The dancers were a genius touch, too. I watched Isla staring at them intently, mimicking their movements as they used a small space to twirl and dance, her mouth open and her eyes wide. Then there was the cake. That was the last straw for me, I think. Isla did that thing where she wiggles her butt and hops from one foot to the other—a sure sign that she’s so excited she can hardly contain it. She whispered something in Talia’s ear, unable to ke ep her eyes off the tower of cupcakes and the ballerina atop it all. Layla barely knows my daughter, but she was able to give her an afternoon of pure joy. She was able to transform the bottom floor of my house into a wonderland for my daughter and make Isla feel special. I’ve felt so full I could burst ever since they walked in the door. No one but me has ever done something like this for my daughter. My mother buys her presents and spends time with her, of course, but sometimes I feel like she’s trying to mold Isla into something my mother wants, instead of seeing my daughter for the amazing girl she is. My father dotes on Isla, but he’s always been distant. Harriet has been part of our family for years and she’s like a mother to Isla, but this is different. It’s like Layla saw to the core of my daughter, saw what Isla would love, and then did everything in her power to make it happen. So, when I saw Layla slipping into the other room, I had to follow. It was like a magnet dragging me across the floor. A hook anchored in my gut that I was powerless to resist. I walked in and there she was, bowed over the back of the sofa dragging in de ep breaths, the exhaustion written on every line of her body. Layla did that for Isla. For me. Kissing her was inevitable. To have a woman give so much for my daughter and me made me unable to resist. So that’s how I ended up where I am, with one arm wrapped around Layla’s body, my other hand cupping her jaw. After a mere moment of surprise, she softens in my arms like she belongs to me. Her lips part, letting me in. The taste of her jolts through me, sweet and soft and delicious and mine. I slide my fingers to tangle into the hair at the nape of her neck, a low growl riding in the back of my throat as I de epen the kiss, wanting to etch her taste and her touch into my mind forever.
When Layla slides her hands up my arms and wraps them around my neck, something yawns open inside me. A torrent of feelings rushes out, and it’s all I can do to grip onto her to survive the onslaught. Her kiss melts my brain, sends all my blood rushing south, makes me forget all the reasons we shouldn’t be touching each other at all. It’s right. Her arms around my neck, her lips on mine, her sweet, beautiful body pressed up against the length of my own. Through the whirlwind inside me, the realization builds—this is exactly where I should be. This is where she should be. I break the kiss, breathing harshly, to stare into her eyes. Her kiss-bruised lips are swollen and glistening, her eyes hazy and wild. She looks beautiful. Irresistible. Then her hands press the back of my head and her chin angles up toward me, and who am I to resist that kind of sweet demand? I crush my lips to hers again, sliding my arm from her waist down to her bottom. Pressing her against the front of me, I know she feels my arousal when she gasps against my lips. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. I want this woman like I’ve never wanted anyone before. It’s beyond the thrill of a challenge. It’s beyond the fact that she’s beautiful and attractive and sassy. She fits. Her curves and hollows press against my body like she was made to be there. She fits in my life. In my family. When Layla starts gently rocking her hips, I groan and move my lips to her jaw, her cheek, her neck. “Leif,” she pants, hips still writhing, hands curling into my hair. “Shh,” I manage to say, tugging her shirt aside to run my tongue along her collarbone. “Don’t shush me,” she pants, her breath catching when I pull her hard against me. This is more than a kiss. It’s more than sex. This is my whole world tilting onto its side, everything I knew about women and dating and rules shattered in an instant. This is some door in the darkest corner of my mind opening up to reveal wants and needs and desires I told myself didn’t exist. Her hands move from my neck to my shoulders and down to my chest. I groan, copying the movement as I press her hips against the back of the sofa, using both hands to shape her breasts, feel the sweet hollow of her waist, the graceful curve of her hip. Her body. Goddamn. “Leif,” she r epeats, eyes closed, head tilted back to reveal the creamy column of her neck. It’s irresistible, so why would I resist? I bury my head in the crook of her neck and press my lips to her skin, letting my tongue dart out to taste her there, just like I want to taste her everywhere. Her breasts are small, but they fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. I knead one while my other hand slides down to cup that hot space between her legs. It’s my daughter’s eighth birthday party, and I’m in the other room debauching her nanny. I’m despicable. I’m a piece of shit. I don’t deserve Layla, but she’s giving herself to me, and I don’t care what I deserve anymore.
The button of her jeans releases in a soft whisper of fabric, and my fingers touch a lacy edge. Pulling back enough to look between us, I see white lace with a little satin bow framed perfectly by the open fly of her jeans. My cock throbs painfully at the sight. It’s innocent-looking, almost virginal, and it makes me want to rip her clothes off and plunge inside her. Forcing myself to slow down, I let my fingers coast down the center seam of her jeans. She shivers, whispering my name in a husky voice that travels straight to my cock. Hips moving against my hand, I watch the way she searches to sate herself, to use my touch how she needs it. My breaths are harsh. Pinning her to the sofa with my hips, I ke
Ep one hand between her legs where it belongs, then tug her top down. Her breast spills out, pink nipple hard and waiting for my mouth. Like a man starved, I pull her breast into my mouth, grind my hand against her core, and revel in the sweet, needy sounds she makes. “You’re going to forget every name but mine,” I tell her as I nip at the stiff peak of her breast. I brush my lips over it, then lave it with my tongue. “You’ll stop avoiding me, Layla. Do you hear me?” “Yes, I hear you.” Her fingers tunnel into my hair, hips grinding against my hand. “You’re going to let me give your body what it needs.” “I will.” Her grip tightens on my hair. “Give me what I need, Leif.” Growling, I can’t wait any longer. I need to feel the soft wetness between her legs. I need to be inside her. I slide my hand up to those sweet, white panties, dip my fingertips underneath the waistband— Then someone screams in the other room. Layla freezes, her hands clenching on my bic eps, but my mind is still in a fog. Thoughts are sluggish, coming at me in fragments and pieces. All I can see is that white bit of lace framed by dark-blue denim. All I can think about is what’s hiding underneath, how hot and wet and sweet it’ll feel to thrust inside. My lips capture her breast then move up to trace the pulse point on Layla’s neck, and she taps my arms. “Leif, wait. I think something’s wrong outside.” “Someone else will deal with it,” I growl, barely recognizing my own voice. I sound like an animal. Savage, guttural. I press my palm to her stomach, dipping my fingers below her panties to feel the very edge of the split between her legs. Another half an inch, and her sweet little clit will swell against my fingertips— She grips my wrist to stop me. Slowly, second by second, my brain comes back online. Layla pushes at my shoulders and I back up a st ep, glancing toward the closed door like it’s an enemy that needs to be demolished. Then I hear it too—the hubbub on the other side. The panicked shouts, the sound of Emil’s voice telling someone to call 9-1-1. Like ice water pouring over the heat of my desire, consciousness returns to me. My best friend is asking for an ambulance, and he sounds like he’s panicking, which means—
“Dani,” Layla says, eyes wide when they meet mine. Her hands tremble as she fumbles with the button of her jeans. I readjust myself, straighten my clothes, and within moments, we’re tumbling out the door and into the chaos beyond. A pack of children are crying. A crowd is pressed around the far corner of the room. The caterers and staff watch on with wide eyes and frozen expressions. Emil roars. “Will you be quiet?” Dani’s voice snaps, then she gasps. I elbow my way through the crush of people to find Dani doubled over, her knuckles white as they grip Emil’s forearm, her face bleached of color. She glances at me as I push myself to the front of the crowd, breathing heavily as she clutches a hand to her bulging baby bump. With a wry grin, she manages to say, “Sorry to interrupt Isla’s party, Leif. Apparently the baby wanted to join.”