Layla EIGHT DAYS AGO A teenager with acne-covered cheeks and a bored expression on his face reads out the total cost of my groceries, then points at the machine when I lift up my debit card. Inserting my precious rectangle of plastic into the reader, I punch out my PIN with one hand and subtly cross my fingers with the other. I’m pretty sure I have enough to cover groceries this week. I should have enough—I checked right before I came to the store. Ten minutes ago, I had the money to pay for food for my sister and myself for the week, but I can’t help it. I’m still nervous. Maybe it’s the look on the face of the middle-aged lady standing in line behind me that makes the space between my shoulder blades itch. She has perfectly styled hair and a huge rock on her finger, and she’s looking at me like I’m scum. She knows I’m worried about the cost of my meager groceries. I can tell by the way her eyes flick to my crossed fingers, then down to my hole-studded and stained shoes, then up to my messy ponytail. I bet her sneer would increase tenfold if my card was declined and I had to do that whole shameful dance of deciding which items I don’t really need to buy. I scan the bags and decide I’d lose the chicken. It’s the most expensive item I picked up this week, and I’ve been meaning to eat less meat anyway. Win-win, right? The card reader ke eps thinking, that little screen taunting me with the word “AUTHENTICATING,” seeming to take an eternity. Maybe the machine is authenticating me, determining whether I’m worthy of my groceries this week. It’s not my fault I’m broke. The scowling lady’s diamond-clad fingers drum on the handle of her cart, her brow arched in impatience. I shift my weight from foot to foot, waiting for that damn machine to put me out of my misery and tell me if my payment went through or not. It be eps once, and I can’t help the sigh of relief that es capes my lips when I see the word “APPROVED” written in black, block letters. See? Nothing to worry about. I knew I had enough. “Receipt?” The spotty-faced teen hands me a long strip of white paper, which I acc ept with a nod, then shuffle out of the store without looking back. Groceries shouldn’t be so stressful. Standing at a till shouldn’t make me feel like I’m standing at the pearly gates being judged by St. Peter himself. I haul one bag over each shoulder and start the cold, six- block trek back to the apartment I share with my little sister. I could have gone to a closer store, but I had a coupon for buy-one-get-one-free cleaning products. Plus, a little extra walk never hurt anyone, right? Huffing and puffing, I hike the bags a little higher on my shoulders, put my head down, and try to ignore the January winds piercing through my too-thin jacket. My sneakers are soaked from snow and slush, toes curled against the cold. I really need new boots. New Jersey winters are harsh, especially when
I have three jobs that require me to crisscross the Hudson River multiple times a week. I put a lot of miles on my shoes, and I already know these old sneakers won’t last through the cold months. That, however, is a problem for another day. Maybe a day when I have more than six dollars left in my checking account. Wiggling my frozen toes as I wait for a streetlight to turn green, I feel the vibration of my cell phone against the interior pocket of my inadequate jacket. The light changes as I unzip my jacket and reach into my pocket, and a man beside me bumps my shoulder. It wouldn’t be a big deal normally, but the tread on my shoes is almost completely worn down and I hadn’t noticed the little patch of ice under my left heel. The bags of groceries have me slightly unbalanced while the cold is making my muscles stiff. In other words, it’s a perfect storm of winter fuckery. That’s why I lose my balance. In the age of smartphones, it’s a wonder that nobody catches me on video. My legs swe ep out from under me in a classic America’s Funniest Home Videos gag and I land flat on my tailbone, crying out in pain and surprise at the impact. The worst part, though, is the crunch I feel in one of my precious grocery bags, and I know I’ve lost my carton of eggs. Tears cloud my eyes as my cheeks burn in embarrassment, my phone still buzzing merrily against my chest. The man who bumped me is long gone, but a kind- looking older woman bends over, her huge purple puffer jacket and matching woolly hat making her look like an elderly Violet Beauregarde. “Are you okay, dear?” She’s even chewing gum. She smacks her lips and nods at my bags. “That was a spectacular fall.” “I’m good,” I lie, groaning as I shuffle to a standing position. My eggs are already leaking through my reusable cloth grocery bag, and my tailbone feels like it was hit with a sledgehammer. “I’m fine,” I tell Old Ms. Beauregarde, who nods and rushes across the road before the light changes. I’ll wait, I decide, and stretch out my back. Maybe by the time the light changes again, everyone will have walked on and I’ll be anonymous again. “Layla!” I freeze, halfway bent over my broken eggs and spilled groceries. Tilting my head to peer in the direction of the voice, my heart starts thundering. No. I can’t—I’m not—I don’t... Oh, no, no, no. Leif Sorensen jogs toward me, his charcoal-grey peacoat flapping open to reveal a tailored three-piece suit. With his cashmere scarf sailing in the wind, pedestrians part around him like a school of fish around a very attractive shark. His blond hair is tousled, cheeks ruddy from the cold, long limbs eating up the distance between us as I shove my ruined groceries back in their bags and straighten my creaking, sore body to face him. The man is hotter than sin. I officially met Leif Sorensen when I was the temporary nanny for Benny and Jane Eldridge, two precious kids from the Upper East Side. The job only lasted three months while their regular nanny was on maternity leave, but they were the most stable, calm three months of my adult life. I’ve been begging my boss, Linda, to find me a permanent placement like that for months. If I were a full-time nanny, I could quit my café job and my waitressing job, and I might even have enough money for winter boots.
Leif came to the birthday party I threw for the twins. It was the second time we met, but he didn’t remember the first—and I wasn’t going to remind him. I learned my lesson six years ago, thank you very much. I know that people like me mean nothing to people like him. I was forgettable then—but apparently this time, when I’m making a fool of myself, I’m memorable. And now he’s jogging up to me looking like he just walked out of a high-end cologne commercial while I just fell on my ass in the middle of the street. Yeah, he’s definitely out of my league. I stand to face him, bracing myself for the assault of his attractiveness on my poor little female soul. “Layla,” he r epeats, his breath coming out in a huff. “I saw you fall. Are you okay?” Before I can stop him, Leif reaches toward me. Broad hands clad in fine-leather gloves grip my shoulders, then one of them moves to my jaw as he inspects my face. I don’t know why—shock, maybe—but I let him tilt my head this way and that, his thumb pressing into my chin before swe eping gently across the curve of my lower lip. Heat gushes through my veins, and my jacket doesn’t seem so inadequate anymore. He touched me six years ago, not so differently from how he’s touching me now. Like I was precious. Like he cared. Then he forgot me—and why wouldn’t he? I squeeze my eyes shut and remember all the reasons Leif is out of my league. He’s rich. He’s successful. He’s an heir. He went to private school and probably an Ivy League college and he looks like masculine perfection. He started one of the fastest-growing real estate development companies on the Eastern seaboard. He’s a shark in the boardroom. He has a boardroom, for that matter. I, on the other hand, am more broke than the eggs at the bottom of my grocery bag. I have no future, no familial connections, and more responsibility on my shoulders than he’ll ever know in his life. Between my sister’s college tuition and my grandparents’ care, I don’t have two red cents to rub together. I certainly don’t have time to indulge in useless fantasies about a man who will forget about me by the time he crosses the Hudson back into Manhattan. But he remembered my name this time, and I haven’t seen him in months. I shove the thought aside and mentally smack myself across the face. Bad Layla! He’s like a white-hot flame. Get too close and I’ll burn up into nothing. Girls like me don’t belong in his world. But Leif’s hand slides from my chin to my cheek, the leather soft as he lets his fingers drift over my cheekbone. His eyes meet mine, crystalline blue that makes my breath catch. I didn’t know eyes could be that piercing. His irises shatter from dark to icy blue at the edges, de ep and complicated and beautiful, just like the man they belong to.
Still lost in the quagmire of my attraction to him, I let Leif slide his other hand down to take my bag of groceries from me. His brows tug together, eyes roaming over me as if to make sure I’m still in one piece. I am, indeed, in one piece. One piece that’s about to be consumed by the fiery-hot flame of bone-de ep embarrassment. “Leif,” I croak. “What are you doing in Newark?” “I had a meeting,” he answers, gripping my old green grocery bag in his hand. Egg guts drip down from the bottom of it onto the pavement beside him. “Where are you going? I’ll get my driver to bring you.” He has a driver. I don’t even have a car, never mind a whole other person whose sole job it is to drive me places. “That’s okay,” I say, reaching for the bag to take it from his hand. He angles his body so the bag is out of reach, and my hand touches the edge of his coat and my face almost comes into contact with the soft wool of his jacket. He smells delicious, and he clearly doesn’t want to give me my groceries back. “Then I’ll walk you.” “That’s really okay,” I r epeat, gritting my teeth. “I’m sure you’re busy.” “Layla,” he growls softly, the sound sending heat shivering through my veins. For a brief moment, I wonder how it would feel to have him say my name like that with his lips next to my ear, his body on top of mine, my legs wrapped around his waist— “I’m either driving you to a doctor, driving you home, or walking you to where you need to go,” he finishes, his voice still holding that growly edge that makes my lady-parts quiver in a way I haven’t felt before. His blue, blue eyes meet mine, brow arching. “So which is it going to be?” My eyes dart to the eggs still dripping through the bag. I’d make a mess of his doubtless expensive car interior. Eggs dry like glue, and I’d probably cause permanent damage to his vehicle. “Let’s walk.” He grunts in what I guess is approval or agreement, and another shiver tumbles through my body. Something about his voice—even his growls—reaches de ep in the pit of my belly and makes heat flame to life. My body clearly hasn’t gotten the memo that I’m not supposed to be attracted to him. We stand in silence until the lights change, then start walking. We’re at the next set of lights when he speaks again. “Did Linda call you?” I frown. “Linda?” “Linda Delmar. She said she’d call you this afternoon.” “Oh!” I reach into my jacket and pull out my phone to see a missed call on the screen. “Yeah. I was trying to get to my phone when I fell. I’ll call her back when I get home.” But wait. Why would Leif know that my boss called me? As if he could read my thoughts, Leif explains, “My daughter’s nanny has a family emergency.” The light changes and we both start walking. “You’ll be working for me.” The pavement rears up beneath my feet, tangling with my sodden shoes. Stumbling, I throw my hands out in front of me, but not before a strong, male arm darts out to wrap around my waist. In a moment, I’m crushed against the hard, warm surface of Leif Sorensen’s chest as my legs remember the job they’re supposed to be doing ke eping me upright.
His closeness jolts something from my memory. Another time when his arm was around me like this. When he saved me from another danger... When my unfortunate infatuation with Leif Sorensen started.