Leif Boss/employee. That should be enough for me to ke ep my damn distance. It doesn’t matter that Layla’s last day was yesterday. It’s still not appropriate. Never mind everything Marcus was saying. Apparently my brain has disengaged from the discussion, though, because I wait in the car outside Layla’s apartment until the door opens and she swe eps out in that worn-out jacket and painted-on jeans. Elton is out in a flash, opening the door for her. A cool blast of air comes in with her, and she sits down on the seat with a sigh. “Thanks for waiting.” “We’re going to make a stop first,” I tell her. When Elton gets behind the wheel, I tell him to make a stop at the nearest d epartment store. Layla sits quietly, her hands folded on her lap. When we get to the store, I ask her to follow. It’s not until we’re in the women’s clothing section that a suspicious look etches itself on her face. I grab a fluffy down jacket and hold it up in front of her body. “Try that on.” “That’s a Balenciaga jacket, Leif.” I glance at the display. “So it is. Try it on.” “I’m not trying on a jacket that costs”—she grabs the tag and her eyes bulge—“three thousand, eight hundred and fifty dollars?” She drops the tag and st eps away like the jacket in my hands will jump up and infect her with some deadly disease. “No way.” “You need a new jacket.” “So I’ll get one at a thrift store! I can wait until summer when everything is on clearance. My jacket is fine, and I definitely don’t need a jacket that costs that much.” “Are you two finding everything okay?” a sales associate cuts in, her face a mask of politeness. Her eyes roam over me, flick to Layla, then cut back to me. Her smile brightens a bit. “Can I get a changeroom started for you?” “Where’s your sale section?” Layla blurts while I say, “We’re fine.” The woman arches a condescending brow at Layla, and it makes me want to rip her head right off her shoulders. No one should look at her like that—like she’s some kind of insect that’s beneath them. No one. “We’re fine. My—” What is Layla to me? “Layla was just going to try on this jacket.” Layla crosses her arms and huffs. “I am not putting that on.” “Fine. I’ll buy it and if it doesn’t fit, I’ll buy you another one.” I bundle the down up and hand it to the sales associate. “Leif, no.” Layla drops her hands at her sides and gives me an exasperated look—the same way she looked at me in the jazz bar, exc ept this time it’s tinged with rage instead of humor. It makes my cock harden to steel. I want to wrap my arm around her waist and drag her close for a punishing kiss.
Somehow, I resist. “So try it on, otherwise I’m buying as many as I need until we find one that fits.” I take the jacket back from the sales associate, who’s not even pretending not to enjoy the show. I unzip the jacket and hold it open. Layla growls, gives me a death glare, and pulls her own zipper down. “You are without a doubt the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.” “I’m honored. Now try this on.” She huffs, then drapes her old, stained jacket over the display of multi-thousand-dollar jackets, to the horror of Ms. Sales Associate. I bite back a smile, then a groan, because Layla looks like magic in a tight white tank and a cropped cardigan. Her breasts stretch the white fabric and the cardigan falls off one shoulder, and all I want to do is unwrap her like a present. I swallow, throat thick, and shake the jacket I’m holding in her direction. “Calm your horses, Mr. Sorensen,” she grumbles, then spins around so I can slip the jacket over her shoulders. Before she can move, I spin her around and work the zipper myself. Once it’s done up all the way to her neck, I give her a once-over. Layla answers with a flat stare. “So?” “Looks good.” I turn to the sales associate. “We’ll take it.” “Leif, this is about two sizes too big.” She bends her arm at the elbow to show me the four inches of excess fabric past her hand. “You’re saying this looks good?” “It looks warm.” “This is ridiculous.” “Might I suggest this style? The collar is oversized which is great for ke eping warm.” The sales lady holds up a bright white puffer jacket. I tug at Layla’s zipper and she bats my hands away. “When did you get so overbearing? I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.” “This is more fun,” I answer, and am surprised to realize it’s the truth. She purses her lips but allows me to pull the zipper down. She tries on the other jacket and turns to me. “What’s the verdict, Your Highhandedness?” I cross my arms and squint, then turn to the sales lady. “Does it come in black?” “Of course.” She smiles brightly and grabs a black version, swe eping it out to display it in a graceful move I’m sure she’s done a thousand times. “We’ll take them both.” I start walking to the cash register as Layla sputters behind me. She stomps up to me, holding her ratty old rain jacket crumpled in one hand. “You can’t spend nearly eight thousand dollars on jackets, Leif. I won’t allow it.” I lean on the counter as the sales associate starts scanning the jacket, then reach over to unzip the one Layla’s wearing. “You’re not in charge here, Layla.” “I won’t wear them.” Her jaw clenches, chin jutting out, and it makes me want to bend her over and smack her ass to teach her not to sass me like that. “You will, because we’re going to burn that sad excuse of nylon you call a coat.”
Layla vibrates beside me as I tug the jacket off her shoulders, using the excuse to get nearer to her and brush my hands down her arms. Her eyelids droop as her pulse flutters in her neck. In a rustle of puffy down, the second jacket goes on the counter and I hold out my credit card, eyes still on Layla. Her cheeks are awash with red and her eyes are shooting flames. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my entire life. Once the payment is processed, I nod to the jackets. “Which one do you want to wear?” Teeth grinding, Layla glares at me for a moment, and I just r eply with a placid, blank expression on my face. Finally, my heart leaps when her shoulders soften. She jerks her chin. “The black one.” When she’s safely ensconced in the puffy down monstrosity, something settles in the d epths of my heart. It feels good to take care of her, to know that I’m the one who has the privilege to do it. I’m the man who should be providing for her, protecting her, cherishing her. Me. If only she’d let me buy her a new apartment. I could even get her one in the new tower we’re building a few blocks over from her place if that elderly couple ever decides to do the right thing and acc ept our offer. “Can we get to work now?” she sasses, arching a brow at me. “Or did you want to visit the jewelry section on the way out? I wouldn’t mind a nice diamond tennis bracelet for all the galas I attend. Maybe a designer gown while we’re at it. I can wear it while I wash your toilets. Oh, and how about an all-expenses trip to France?” She turns to the sales associate, who’s still hovering nearby pretending not to listen. “You wouldn’t happen to know what’s fashionable in Paris this time of year, would you?” My lips twitch. “Your wish is my command, Layla, but be quick, because Isla’s ballet lesson ends in twenty minutes and traffic is pretty heavy. I’ll ask Regina to book some flights for you.” Layla just rolls her eyes and stomps toward the exit. I don’t even try to bite back my grin. We pick up Isla, who natters on about ballet positions and hairstyles and leotards, and I can’t ke ep any of it straight. All I can do is notice the way Layla burrows into her jacket whenever we’re outside. She doesn’t tremble with cold anymore. I should have bought her the jacket days ago. The three of us head home again, just in time for Layla to call the rental company to pick up their gear. Harriet arrives in the meantime to watch Isla this afternoon, and Isla sits at the kitchen island while Harriet fixes us both some lunch. It should feel like life is getting back to normal with Harriet here, but it feels like the opposite. Like life is about to get worse. When my daughter is fed and busy reading in the TV room, I watch Layla coordinating the cleanup and furniture moving. She’s good. There’s this energy about Layla when she’s in the midst of party planning that isn’t there at any other time. As much as I’d love to ke ep Layla close to me, to have her as my daughter’s nanny full-time, it’s plain as day that her calling isn’t taking care of children. Heart in my throat, I retreat into my office to bury myself in work. The plans for the Newark development still have a few issues, so I busy myself looking over every detail. Work never fails to sober
me up, to strip away the emotion that seems to have invaded every other aspect of my life. With work, I can hold myself apart from all that and be a logical, successful man who built an empire. A while later, I exit my office to find Layla gone. She’s left to meet my mother about my parents’ wedding anniversary party, and it feels like all the s eparate parts of my life are mixing together. The perfectly s eparate compartments I’ve so carefully constructed are being melded together one by one. A week ago, I was upset about it. Now it feels... right. “Looks like you had an interesting week without me,” Harriet says, her face a perfectly blank mask. I snap my eyes away from the front door and give her a flat stare. She just shrugs, a little smile playing over her lips. Harriet might see something between me and Layla, but she doesn’t know how easily Layla twists me up in knots. She doesn’t know that Layla has torn through my defenses like so much tissue paper. Everything is muddled. Family, relationships, women... The only thing I have left that’s truly s eparate is my business. That, at least, is easy. So, as Harriet takes care of my daughter and my household staff buzzes around me, I once again throw myself into my work. The uncomplicated contracts, schedules, and staff issues that need to be handled. Waiting in my email inbox are dozens of messages that just came in, including a notification from my legal team that the elderly couple blocking the Newark development have indicated they’ll fight us. Instead of being upset about the news, I feel excited. Finally, something normal, typical. My home life is being turned around by a blond-haired woman with a smoky, seductive laugh, but business is still business. I can fight for the condo development and battle it out with this stubborn old couple until they fold under the pressure. Work makes sense when nothing else does. My lawyers sent through a long r eport including all the areas we might be exposed to legal action and how they plan to fight it. We’re in a strong position, they say. This could even work out to our advantage. I assume, judging by the fees they charge, that my lawyers mean this whole mess will work out to their advantage, not mine. But I’ll pay them, because building this condo building in Newark is exactly the type of expansion my company needs. Plus, it’s exactly the distraction I need to remind myself that there’s more to life than a beautiful woman who confuses all the rules I’ve set for myself. I work until Isla knocks on my office door and tells me dinner is ready. Blinking, I realize hours have passed. Layla must be home by now, and I wonder if my mother decided to hire her. If she’s wearing the jacket and boots I bought her. If she was serious about the diamond bracelet and new purse. If she’s thinking of me, missing me, needing me. I shut my computer down and follow my daughter to the kitchen, then give in when she asks me if she can sle ep over at one of her ballet friends’ houses tonight.
Harriet already packed Isla’s bag for the night, so clearly she realizes just how easy it is for Isla to get what she wants in this house. I watch the two of them leave with Elton, then I sink down onto my sofa, which is back in its original position. My living room is pristine, with not a speck of dirt or glitter or cake crumbs to betray the fact that a party happened here just yesterday. I look at the door to the TV room and feel a pang in my chest. That’s where I kissed Layla. Where I dragged her to my chest and felt that voice in my head screaming that it was right. It was good. It was exactly where she was supposed to be. And I can’t stand not feeling that way right now. I can’t stand the fact that she’s on the other side of the Hudson River, that she’s in that shitty apartment, that she’s not safe and warm here by my side. I want her to take care of my daughter. I want her to live with us. I want her to be in my life, and for her to blur as many lines and demolish as many compartments as she needs to. The realization hits me hard. I want Layla, and I don’t care what I have to change to get her to stay. I don’t have time to wait for Elton. I grab my jacket, wallet, and the keys to my Mercedes S-Class sedan and head to the back of the townhouse where my single-car garage backs onto a narrow alley. From there, I stomp on the accelerator and head for the Lincoln Tunnel. Using the car’s Bluetooth, I dial Layla’s number. I don’t care that she was my daughter’s nanny. I don’t care that she’ll work for my mother. I need to see her. Kiss her. Trudge through the confusion in my mind until she’s in my arms and things make sense again. The call rings out, and I dial once more. Again, no answer. I swear, gripping the steering wheel tighter as I make my way to New Jersey. The car purrs beneath me, gliding down the darkened streets as my heart thuds. I’m not letting Layla get away. Not tonight. Not again. She can ignore me all she wants, but I’ll knock down her door if I have to. Layla belongs beside me. I can’t let her drift out of my life like every casual relationship I’ve had. I can’t let her leave like Abby did. Layla is the one who should stay. Miraculously, there’s a parking spot open in front of her building. I glance up at the grimy balconies studded up the front of the old brick building, cut the engine, and march to the intercom. “Hello?” a young voice says after I buzz. “Is Layla there?” “Who’s this?” I close my eyes, frustration mounting. “It’s Leif Sorensen. We met this morning, Emma. I need to talk to your sister.” “Oh.” There’s a silence. “She’s... not here.” My fingers curl into my fists, but I manage to ke ep my voice calm. “She’s not answering her phone. Do you know where she is?” “Um. One sec. I’ll be right down.” Every second that passes makes me feel like Layla’s slipping through my fingers. Irrational, but isn’t that par for the course with Layla? She confuses everything—and I can’t get enough of it. Heavy clomping on the st eps inside makes me look up, and I see Emma Reynolds coming down. She’s wearing the white puffer jacket I bought today, and for the first time since Layla left my house today, I feel the edge of a grin coming on.
I knew she’d want to give the jacket to her sister. That’s why I bought two. Layla isn’t the type of woman who would let her loved ones go without. “Hey, Leif,” Emma says, hiking her backpack higher on her shoulder. “So, um...” She glances at me, then away. “Layla is, uh, busy.” “Busy?” “Yeah. She’s out.” Emma clears her throat, adjusting her backpack strap again. She won’t look at me. “Out? Out where?” “Out on a date,” the girl answers, glancing at me through her lashes. Her gaze is sharp, though, and I have the strange feeling she can read my every thought on my face. Like the pure, white-hot rage that floods my veins. Or the throat-crushing jealousy that threatens to suffocate me. “A date?” I manage to squeeze out through clenched teeth. “A date with a man?” A man who isn’t me? “Um, yeah.” She shifts her weight. “Well, anyway, I’m going to the library. I have a midterm tomorrow, so I’ll probably pull an all-nighter. Thanks for the jacket, by the way. It’s really warm. Layla said she’d kill me if I spill coffee on it tonight, so I’ll have to be careful.” She clears her throat. “I’m babbling. Sorry. Well, goodnight!” With a bright smile and a wave, Layla’s sister starts walking down the st eps. “Emma.” She stops, turns, and meets my gaze. Big, guileless eyes blink up at me. “Yes?” “Where’s Layla now?” The girl scratches the side of her head, glances over her shoulder before turning to face me fully. She purses her lips. “She’ll kill me if I tell you, Leif. It’ll get blood all over this nice jacket and everything.” “Fuck the jacket,” I growl. “Tell me where your sister is.” And tell me what asshole she decided was better than me. With a long, dramatic sigh that reminds me of Isla, Emma jerks her head down the street. “She’s at the Italian restaurant on the corner. La Trattoria.” I’m down the st eps between one heartbeat and the next. I’m halfway down the street when I hear Emma’s voice shouting, “You owe me, Leif. Big time! I’m going to need witness protection now and everything. She’ll kill me!” Despite the stress and rage and jealousy pumping through my veins, a laugh falls from my lips and I glance over my shoulder to see Emma grinning at me. She gives me a wave, then crosses the street in the opposite direction. If I were thinking clearly, I’d offer to drive her to the college library. It’s still relatively early—barely seven-thirty —but it’s dark out, and she’s young. Damn it, I should be taking care of Layla’s family. I want to take care of them, because I know it would make Layla’s eyes go soft. It would show her how much I care. But Layla is on a date. With a man. Who isn’t me. The sign for La Trattoria appears in the distance, and I start running.