Leif I wake up to an aching head and the sun’s long golden fingers stretching through my gauzy curtains. The Morning After. Also known as time to get rid of my bedmate—exc ept this time, I find myself not quite wanting this night to end. Reaching across the bed, my hand slides over, over, over... and feels nothing but the cold expanse of empty sheets. I pause. I’m alone. Sitting up, my eyes scan the room. The carnage from last night has mostly vanished, apart from my own clothes strewn around the place. Layla’s gone. I flop back down on my pillows and let out a low groan. Last night... ugh. I scrub my face then let my hands fall to the side, staring at the ceiling. Last night was good. From the moment I guided Layla down the hospital hallways to the time I asked her to come home with me, I felt alive. It was the first time in months— years, maybe—that I was with a woman and I didn’t feel like I wanted it to end once the main event was over. Not that we ever got to the main event. When I close my eyes, I can still see her standing nearly naked before me. I can smell the sweet scent of her skin, I can feel the softness of her body against mine, so perfect and warm and mine. But she’s gone. I walk through yesterday’s events, from the hectic planning, to the cake fiasco, to the party itself, to the wait at the hospital, to our first drink that was supposed to be our last. Then, what happened after. What didn’t happen after. I learned a lot about Layla in those few hours we spent together, and all of it was good. She’s complicated and intelligent and she loves her family fiercely. The way she spoke about her sister and grandparents made me think of what I feel for Isla, and how I’ll do anything to ke ep my daughter safe and happy. Layla has that same core inside her. Protective, loving, and loyal. She’s nothing like the other women I’ve dated. Nothing like the women who wanted me for status or money or bragging rights. Nothing like the woman who left without looking back. That’s why we ended up in bed together. I couldn’t not bring her here. It was an eventuality. And when I leaned over and asked her to come home with me, I saw the way her body shivered, how she pressed into me before looking at me through thick lashes and saying yes. And then she fell asle ep on me. Well, technically she fell asle ep when I was on her, but still. We shared hot, de ep, drunken kisses and tore the clothes off each other. She rewarded me with smiles and laughter and sighs and moans, and I felt like the king of the world. Apparently I was the king of lulling a woman to sle ep with my boring lovemaking. Talk about a blow to the ego. It’s for the best, though, isn’t it? In the bright light of day, I remember all the reasons we can’t get in volved. She worked for me. She has a busy, exhausting life. And most importantly, she knows Isla. I refuse to bring women
around my daughter when the woman who was supposed to be there forever so callously walked away. I refuse to expose my daughter to that kind of rejection. That’s a hard rule for me... Or it was, until Layla. As I lie in my empty bed, looking at the imprint of her body in the sheets next to me, I find myself wishing she was still here. The smell of sizzling bacon wafts toward me, but my mind stays stuck on Layla. I remember inhaling the scent of her skin and kissing her neck, her jaw. I remember feeling her hands shape my shoulders, my arms, and nearly coming in my pants when she wrapped her legs around my hips. Maybe it’s a good thing she fell asle ep. When I have her for real, I want to be sober and present, and I want her to be right there with me. I want it to mean something. The thought clangs through me. My brows tug together. I want it to mean something? Since when does sex mean anything? Sex is just sex. It’s scratching an itch, a biological need. Nothing more. I sit up, bringing my hands up to massage my temples. No, I don’t want sex to mean anything. Especially not with a woman who is supposed to work for me. A woman who has spent time with my daughter. A woman that can’t just be jettisoned from my life without complications. This is bad. Very, very bad. Sex is meaningless. Women are r eplaceable, and Layla is nothing special. Right? Ripping the sheets off, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Layla means nothing. Last night meant nothing. It can’t mean anything. I’ve been down that road once before —I let a woman in, and she gave me a beautiful daughter and a beautifully shredded heart. I’m not going through that again. I’m not letting a woman rip apart my carefully constructed life. Layla’s gone, and that’s a good thing. ... Or maybe she’s in the kitchen cooking bacon? Standing up so fast I give myself a head rush, I stare at the closed door. Isla’s here. I hear the high pitch of her voice now. Who is she talking to? Wait—Isla? What the hell is my daughter doing here? She’s supposed to be with Marcus. Could she be talking to Layla? I start moving, tangling my feet in the sheet, and hop on one foot then the other to regain my balance. Finally, I make it to the walk-in closet without tripping over and cracking my head open. Yanking my drawers open, I throw on sweatpants and a tee, then practically run to the door. My feet slap on the hardwood floors as I force myself to slow down on my way to the main room, heart pounding. The sight of Layla cooking breakfast for my daughter might be too much to bear. That’s the stuff dreams are made of. A beautiful woman laughing as she listens to my daughter, whisking eggs while the sun makes her hair shine and her face glow— I stop dead. It’s not a gorgeous blond bombshell in the kitchen. The dark head bent over the stove belongs to my good friend Marcus. I scan the room before they notice me. There’s no sign of Layla anywhere. Tightness grips my chest and I rub the spot with the heel of my hand, unsure where that pain came from. Surely not from Layla’s absence. She’s just a woman, and women don’t matter. Not in that way. It’s
a good thing she’s gone. Whatever fantasy I had about her cooking breakfast for my daughter and me was just that—a fantasy. Women and Isla don’t mix. Not in my life. “Daddy!” Isla launches herself at my waist. Hot on her heels, Marcus’s dog, Bear, comes trotting toward me. I ruffle her hair then give the dog a quick ear scratch. “How was your sle epover at your uncle Marcus’s house?” He’s not actually her uncle, but he’s been in her life since she was born. He has four sisters and about four thousand nieces and n ephews, and Uncle Marcus’s house is a favorite among the brood. “Fun. We watched a movie and ate pizza for dinner. We went to bed an hour past my bedtime and he said it was a special birthday bedtime even though my birthday was Thursday. Marcus told me not to tell you, but I knew you wouldn’t be mad.” My lips twitch. Apparently my daughter is well aware that she has me wrapped around her little finger. She moves back to the kitchen island, onto one of the barstools lining the edge. Her feet kick out back and forth as she rests her chin on her hand. “When do I get to meet Dani’s baby?” “Well, I haven’t heard from Emil, so I think the baby hasn’t arrived yet. You might have to wait a couple of weeks, kiddo,” I answer, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “They have to get settled at home before they have anyone over.” “Weeks?” Isla answers, horrified. “That’s like, forever!” “We have to give Emil and Dani time together as a family, Isla.” I sip my coffee. “And time for Talia and Francis to get to know their new sibling.” Isla gives me the longest, most dramatic sigh I’ve ever heard. “Fine,” she says, dragging out the word. Marcus places a plate in front of Isla with a slice of buttered toast, a sunny-side-up egg, and two slices of bacon. Isla immediately forgets about her hardships and starts eating. Bear sits obediently at her feet. My daughter breaks off a piece of bacon and feeds it to him with a secret grin. When she catches me watching with an arched brow— she knows she’s not supposed to feed the dog while she’s eating—Isla just shrugs. My plate is next. It slides across the counter as I take a seat. Bear comes shuffling over to my feet and I just shake my head. “Don’t even think about it, buddy.” The dog huffs and returns to my daughter’s end of the island. Marcus fixes his own breakfast last, and his dog doesn’t even try to come beg for scraps. When Marcus turns around to put his plate on the island to eat standing up, his eyes meet mine for a long moment. He knows about Layla. I don’t know how, but he does. Ignoring my friend’s stare, I have breakfast with the two of them and try to drown myself in coffee. “What movie did you watch, kiddo?” I say, dragging my gaze away from my friend’s. “The Emperor’s New Groove,” Isla answers before chomping on a triangle of toast. “It was funny. But Daddy, I’m eight years old now. I’m not a kiddo anymore.”
I smile into my toast. “My mistake, Miss Mc Gee.” Isla just rolls her eyes. Once her breakfast is eaten, she puts her plate away in the dishwasher and announces that she’s going to practice her ballet routine and to come get her when we’re ready to leave again. Then she heads for the other side of the cavernous open-plan room, to the blank space on the hardwood floors she always uses to dance. Bear follows obediently, circling his tail three times before flopping on the floor with a sigh. I watch her prance away, already half-dreading her teenage years. She’s willful enough as an eight-year-old. I don’t want to know how she’ll act when she’s sixteen. When I turn around again and face my friend, I already know what’s coming. “Layla was here this morning,” he says in a low voice. I clear my throat. “Yeah.” “Isla thought she was here to be her nanny again. Layla denied it. Then your daughter asked me why Layla was wearing the same clothes she was wearing yesterday at the party.” My stool creaks as I shift, reaching for my now-empty mug. I stare at the brown ring at the bottom and let out a sigh. “She’s very perc eptive, my daughter.” “Leif.” “Marcus.” “You fucked her, didn’t you?” The mug clinks against the marble when I put it down with a little too much force. My spine stiffens. “Even if I did, is that any of your business?” “It’s messy. Isla likes her. Are you just going to kick Layla out of your life when your daughter is attached to her? You need to think, Leif.” “I didn’t know I’d wake up to a lecture from the biggest libertine in Manhattan. Who are you to tell me what’s messy and what isn’t? You’ll fuck anything that moves. You’re probably just jealous I got there before you did.” My words come out sharp, and I narrow my gaze at my friend. Does he want Layla? Marcus meets my gaze. “I sle ep around, sure. But I don’t have a daughter.” His words hit me like a slap across the face, because they echo exactly what I’ve been thinking. I should never have asked Layla out yesterday. I should have had one drink as planned, offered her a ride home, then said goodbye and forgotten all about her. “Nothing happened,” I tell him. It’s a blatant lie, obviously. But if I tell myself that we didn’t technically have sex, maybe I can pretend none of the prelude to it happened, either. “I don’t believe you,” Marcus answers. “I don’t feel like being lectured by a man who just a few days ago was telling me he sl ept with seven different women in seven days,” I growl, glancing across the room to make sure my precocious little sponge isn’t eavesdropping. Isla has started some music and is going through ballet positions, oblivious. I turn back to Marcus. “It was nothing. We had a few drinks and came back here to sle ep it off.” “To sle ep it off,” he answers flatly. His uptilted emerald eyes regard me from under coal-black brows. Marcus comes from mixed ancestry, with a Spanish grandmother on one side, Chinese grandfather on the other, and various European bloodlines mixing to create the chiseled perfection he calls a face. That perfect face is currently looking utterly unimpressed with me.
“Yes. Sle ep. You know, when you close your eyes and wake up the next morning.” “Don’t be an asshole.” I snort, moving to fill up my mug again. “Me? You’re the one who barged in here and started lecturing me about my private life.” There’s a taut pause, and finally Marcus lets out a low chuckle. “So you didn’t sle ep with her,” he says quietly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be nearly so high-strung.” “I’m not high-strung,” I answer through gritted teeth. He just blinks those green eyes at me, his perfect face blank. “No, of course not.” “This is a pointless conversation. Nothing happened. Nothing will happen.” “That’s good, because your mother mentioned hiring Layla to do another event for her.” I whip my head around so fast my brain rattles against my skull. Or at least that’s what it feels like when pain explodes across my temple. “She what?” “After you left to get Dani’s hospital bag. Your mother told me she was impressed with Layla and had already resolved to never hire the event planners who bailed on her. She wants to plan a party for her thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, and she wants to hire Layla.” Elbows on the counter, I drop my head into my hands and groan. “You can’t get in volved with Layla, Leif.” His voice is quiet yet unyielding. Marcus knows my history. He knew Isla’s mother, and he predicted the train wreck before it happened. If I were a wise man, I’d listen to him. I’d heed his words, because Marcus sees things with surprising clarity. He knew my ex, Abby, was having doubts about the baby, and he tried to warn me. All throughout her pregnancy, Marcus told me he wasn’t sure about the woman I thought I loved. He said she was fickle. He said she’d run the first chance she got. The truth is, Abby didn’t have to run. She did something infinitely worse—she walked away. She gave birth to Isla, looked at the perfect little girl she’d just brought into the world, and decided motherhood wasn’t what she wanted. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it. Isla is the best kid I’ve ever met. She’s smart and funny and sweet, really good at ballet, a dedicated student, and a great daughter. Who wouldn’t want to be her mom? Who would choose to turn their back on a little girl like that? Marcus saw it before it happened. He tried to warn me, but I brushed it off. When Abby told me she didn’t want to be a mother mere hours after she’d given birth, I thought it was some postpartum problem. I thought she’d come to her senses eventually. But she left. She left. Eyes wide open, mind clear, Abby turned her back on us and walked away. Truthfully, it broke me. That’s why women and Isla don’t mix. That’s why I don’t bring my dates near my daughter—because I won’t let anyone do that to Isla again. Not when she’s old enough to remember. Not when it’s my job as a father to protect her and care for her. But Layla... Layla is different. The party was proof. She knows my daughter. Sees her. I can feel it—you can’t fake that kind of care. It’s like the way Layla speaks about her sister or her
grandparents—there’s bone-de ep love there. Layla isn’t the type of woman to walk away from a difficult situation. She’s been on the receiving end. Layla’s mother walked away, and Layla knows how much it hurts. She wouldn’t do it to anyone else. “Layla is nothing like Abby,” I say through clenched teeth, glancing over at Isla to make sure my daughter is still occupied with her practice. “You barely know her.” “And you don’t know her at all.” “Leif.” “Marcus.” “I’ve seen this look on your face before. It was more than a night of fun. You’re infatuated. It won’t end well.” He sighs, running his fingers through his black hair. “I’m not saying this to be a dick, Leif. I’m saying it because it’s true. I get that you want to meet someone worthy of you and your daughter, but I don’t want to see you hurt again. It took you years to recover. Years, Leif.” His words rankle. Yes, it took years to recover from the broken husk Abby left behind. I threw myself into my work, pouring all my hurt and frustration into tough negotiations and impossible odds. I attacked opportunities for new developments and built the business into what it is today. But I feel... fragmented. My business is wholly s eparate from my home life, which is s eparate again from my love life. Layla blurs the lines. When Layla’s eyes sparkled with laughter, I felt some seismic shift in the way my heart functions. I saw a flash of a future I could have where the woman of my dreams was part of my life the way a partner should be. “I just don’t want you to end up hurt. It’ll only hurt Isla in the end.” Marcus’s voice is neutral, but I see red. Anger whips through me, lashing against my ribs. Those words clang through me like a church bell, bringing up every lasting scar marring the mottled lump of my heart. Does he think I want to hurt Isla? Does he think I’m pursuing Layla without thinking of all the implications? Instead of answering, I follow Isla’s lead and clear my plate. Marcus’s eyes are like a brand on my back, tracing my movements through the kitchen until I let out a sigh and turn around. I lean against the counter and cross my arms. That’s when I see something resting on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. Bending down, I pick up a worn wallet no bigger than my palm. I glance at Marcus, who sighs, resigned. “It’s hers, isn’t it?” Opening the wallet, I pull out the first card I see—a debit card so beat-up the corners are peeling apart. “Layla Reynolds,” I say, reading the name on the card. “Yeah. It’s hers.” “She left it on purpose?” I shake my head. “I threw her purse across the room. It must have fallen out.” “You threw—” Marcus interrupts himself, closing his eyes to massage his temples. “Leif, you need to take a st ep back and think. You’re acting like a hormonal teen.”
“I can’t help the fact that she lost her wallet, Marcus,” I protest. I meet his gaze and see nothing but hardness in his eyes. Dropping my arms to my side, I give him a tired sigh. “Say it. Say what you want to say.” “You shouldn’t get in volved with her. I know you’re thinking of returning her wallet in person. You should just courier it over to her place and be done with it. Your mother will hire her, and you should treat her with polite courtesy and nothing more. You know I’m right. You know you’re playing with fire.” “Why do you care?” My voice has a sharp edge to it that I don’t even bother hiding. “Isla needs you to be strong, Leif. You’re all she has. What happens when things between you and Layla fall apart? What happens when you go back to that dark place where all you can do is work?” Marcus’s shoulders soften and he puts up his palms. “Look,” he starts again, voice gentling, “I want you to be happy. I do. And hooking up with the nanny worked with Emil, but Leif, that was one in a million. If you bring Layla around, Isla will get attached. Are you ready for that? Have you thought about the consequences?” I gulp my coffee as an alarm goes off in the bedroom. “I need to get Isla to her ballet class. Isla!” I call out. The dog lifts his head and blinks at me while my daughter twirls. “Time to get ready for ballet!” She stops spinning. “I need help with my hair!” she screams, way louder than necessary. She sprints toward me with Bear on her heels. “Can you call Layla back? She does the bun way tighter than you do and it never comes apart. Plus, she can do a French braid. Even Harriet can’t do a French braid.” “Layla’s busy, kiddo. You’re stuck with me.” “I’ll do your hair,” Marcus says. “I have four sisters and twelve nieces. I know how to do a bun.” Isla lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But you have to brush it back so it’s smooth.” She runs her hand over the top of her head to demonstrate. “Otherwise it doesn’t look right. And make it tight so it doesn’t fall out. You have to tuck the ends in.” “I’m going to go shower and get dressed,” I tell them, lips twitching. “Okay but hurry up, Daddy,” my imperious daughter commands. “You should be dressed already.” Smiling, I drop a kiss on my daughter’s hair and walk toward my room. When my back is turned, my smile slips off my lips. I know Marcus is trying to be the voice of reason. He doesn’t want me or Isla to get hurt. But really... Would it be so bad to see where things go with Layla?