Layla Look, I have nothing against fantasy football, but when Joe asked me out on a date, I didn’t think he’d walk me through every decision he made from S eptember to January for his pretend football team for pretend points and pretend glory. I certainly didn’t think he’d expect me to actually comment on his decisions like I knew what the heck he was talking about. Sighing with relief as the waiter appears with our food, I let him place the steaming plate of pasta in front of me and smile before gulping down half my wine and asking for another glass. “This looks good,” Joe says, grabbing his fork to dig in. “I love this restaurant,” I answer. “Next time we go out, I’ll take you to my favorite pizza place. You’ll love it.” His eyes are glued on his plate, so he doesn’t see me freeze. Next time we go out. Oh, no. Emma was right. This was a mistake. I said yes to going out with Joe because it felt like Leif was out of reach and my attraction to him was—is—completely inappropriate. But I can’t do this again. I can’t sit through a dinner with a man who—okay, fine, Emma was right about this too —feels like a cousin I have nothing in common with. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just... Not Leif. “I think if I were to rank pizza,” Joe says, “I’d put Neapolitan pizza at the top. Then New York style. Chicago de ep dish would be way down at the bottom of the list. What do you think?” I don’t care! I want to scream. I don’t care about pizza styles or fantasy football or teamster politics or unions or ANYTHING YOU CARE ABOUT! I stuff my mouth full of pasta to ke ep myself from saying something rude. Sauce dribbles down my chin as noodles hang out of my mouth, and I chew violently while gesturing to my mouth in apology and explanation as to why I can’t answer his inane questions about pizza styles— And the front door of the restaurant bangs open. I jump, pasta hanging out of my mouth. And my heart stops. Leif Sorensen, billionaire, single dad, business owner, and all-around hunk, is standing in the doorway looking hot as hell and awfully, terribly angry. His eyes flash as they cut to me, and then he starts moving. His chest is heaving, but he walks slowly, deliberately across the dining room. No, not walking. Stalking. His windsw ept hair somehow still looks elegantly styled. His peacoat is hanging open, scarf draped over his shoulders. His hands flex and release as they take me in where I sit. My body feels hot and cold at once. I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. And for the first time tonight, I feel unbearably turned on. My panties soak through in an instant, nipples tightening to hard points beneath my black lace bodysuit and matching black bra. My blood thrums to the beat of Leif’s slow, steady st eps.
Conversation dies in his wake. People’s utensils stay suspended halfway to their mouths, and I just sit frozen with a huge bite of food stuck in my mouth, quickly congealing to unchewable glue. If I try to swallow this, I’ll choke. “Layla?” Joe finally looks up from his plate and frowns at me. “Are you okay?” “She’s fine,” a de ep voice r eplies. Leif turns to the older couple beside us and politely asks if he can use one of the chairs at their table. The woman, cheeks flushed, lashes batting, waves a hand in permission. Smooth as anything, Leif flips the chair around and arranges himself on it like he’s a king. I still have food in my mouth. One finger at a time, Leif tugs off his leather gloves and d eposits them lightly on the table in front of him. I watch him, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but breathe through my nose and blink, hoping this is all just some weird, awful hallucination. “Who the hell are you?” Joe puffs his chest out. Nope. Not a hallucination. Leif just blinks at him and interlaces his fingers, resting them on his crossed knee. “Oh, don’t mind me. Carry on.” He waves a hand at our food, his eyes moving to meet mine. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your date.” The emphasis on the last word makes it sound like a sharp, pointy dagger aimed right at my chest. I need to say something, but I have food in my mouth. Do I chew it for ages, swallow, and then try to defuse this situation, leaving the two men to discuss things while I finish my bite? Do I spit it out into my napkin? Do I run to the bathroom and sneak out through the window, change my name, run all the way to Mexico, and start a new life somewhere far, far away from Leif Sorensen? “You need to leave,” Joe says. “The lady and I were having a good time, and you need to go.” “Were you?” Leif’s eyes are still on me. He arches a brow. “How good a time were you having, Layla? Would you prefer it if I left?” “Yes, she would.” Joe’s practically vibrating with outrage on the other side of the table, but there’s confusion in his gaze. Leif has such an undeniably strong presence that Joe doesn’t know what to do. Everyone knows who the alpha male in this situation is. When Leif holds up a hand to silence him, I can almost feel the temperature in the room drop, and the pressure cooker of Joe’s rage crank up a few notches. “I want to hear it from Layla. Tell me how much you’re enjoying your date with a man who isn’t me.” Joe starts speaking, then stops. I don’t want to meet his gaze, but I can feel him staring at me. “Who is this guy, Layla? Is this your boyfriend or something?” I have no choice. I need to spit out my food, because there’s no way I can swallow past the constriction in my throat. Grabbing the cloth napkin from my lap, a part of me dies of shame as I turn my back to both of them and spit out the half-chewed food that was supposed to save me from answering an awkward question.
Bundling the napkin up, I square my shoulders and dab the corners of my mouth with an unsoiled corner of the cloth, then turn to face the interloper. “Leif,” I say, painting a courteous smile on my face. “What a pleasant surprise.” His eyes darken. They’re not clear blue anymore. They’re dark as the ocean d epths. They’re stormy and dangerous and they make me want to strip down and present my body to him like an offering. I think Mexico is a good option right about now. Or maybe an asylum. Clearly I’ve lost my mind. “Wine, sir?” The waiter appears, hands clasped behind his back, face a mask of professionalism. I’ve worked in restaurants. I know he’s not actually asking if Leif wants wine. He’s gathering intel for the hordes of kitchen and waitstaff who are staring at us and gossiping about what could possibly be happening. Leif rattles off the name and year of a wine I’ve never heard of, because clearly he knows the best vintage and expects a decent restaurant to carry it. Which apparently they do, because the waiter gives him a deferential bow and scurries away. “Layla,” Joe hisses. “Who the hell is this guy?” “This is Leif. Leif, Joe.” After a pause, the men shake, as if this isn’t the most horrifying situation ever. Joe looks furious and confused. Leif looks totally at ease, but I can sense the anger pulsing off him. When the waiter reappears and does the whole song and dance about tasting a splash of wine before nodding to acc ept it, Leif takes his time and acts like nothing at all is amiss. It makes me squirm, because inexplicably, I’m turned on. I’m turned on by his arrogance and the way he swirls his wine. I’m turned on by the way he arranged his gloves on the table, and how he sat like a king on his throne. I’m turned on by the silken strands of his scent that waft over me whenever he moves. I’m also furious. How dare he waltz in here like he owns the place? How dare he sit down like he was invited? How dare he interrupt the first date I’ve been on in ages, just because he feels like he owns me? What. A. Dick. An arrogant, attractive asshole that I never ever ever should have kissed. But Emma was right. I should never have gone out with Joe, either. I was lying to myself when I said he’d be good boyfriend material. I was grasping at straws when I told myself he was cute like a teddy bear. It was cruel of me to go out with him when I knew de ep down that it would never work out. Finally, I lift my eyes and meet Joe’s gaze. He stares at me for a moment, then wilts. He clicks his tongue and crumples his napkin, tossing it on the edge of the table. “This is bullshit,” he grumbles, then pushes his chair back to get up. He stares down at me and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I can explain.” But what would I say? “Don’t bother, Layla.” He reaches into his wallet and tosses few bills on the table. I try to protest, but Joe is already grabbing his jacket and walking away. The faint clinking of utensils is the only sound in the restaurant. People glance at me, then at Leif, then at the door. My cheeks burn, shame and anger and embarrassment warring inside me.
And Leif just sits there, sipping his wine, looking as bored and aristocratic as Anna Wintour at a subpar fashion show. “You,” I start, my voice a low hiss. “You have a lot of nerve.” Leif blinks, swirls his wine, and takes a sip. He places the glass down precisely where it was when he picked it up. “I could say the same about you.” “Me?” My voice is loud enough for the next table to glance over. I lower it again. “What the hell did I do wrong?” “What was it, twenty-four hours it took you to go out with another man? I would have hoped I was worth forty- eight, at least.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize a drunken makeout session with the great Leif Sorensen precluded me from ever dating again.” “Shall I clear the gentleman’s plate?” I jump at the waiter’s question, not having noticed him return, but Leif just nods. “Thank you,” he says. Then he has the nerve to order himself a meal. I gape at him, not understanding, jaw hanging all the way down to the floor, until the waiter bows again and walks away, at which point Leif finally meets my gaze. “What are you doing?” I grit out. “I’m hungry,” he says, “so I ordered the risotto of the day.” He calls the waiter back, and nods to my crumpled, soiled napkin. “Can you r eplace the napkin, please? That one seems to be dirty.” “Of course, sir,” the waiter r eplies, grabbing my napkin before I can protest. Not that I’d have any reason to stop him from taking it, but I’m feeling very much like I need to protest about something. Anything. Everything. “You have a lot of nerve.” I lean back on my chair and grab my wine. A glint of amusement enters Leif’s eyes as I take a sip, scowling over the edge of the glass. I should grab my things and stomp out of here. I should tell Leif’s mother to shove her job up her elegant ass because I want nothing to do with her family. I should tell Leif that he has no right to interrupt a date that has nothing to do with him. Yesterday, my job with Leif ended, and good riddance. He’s trouble. He’ll chew me up and spit me out like I did with a glob of pasta a few minutes ago. The only person who will end up hurt is me. But I stay right where I am, because Leif’s nearness makes me buzz with energy and lust. I take another gulp of wine before setting it down, not wanting a r epeat of last night. I’m not getting drunk tonight. I’m not making any bad decisions. “You look beautiful,” Leif says, his eyes swe eping down my body. His face hardens for a moment before I watch him force himself to relax. “When I walked in, I was... displeased... to see that you’d dressed up for another man.” I set my glass down and pop a brow. “Displeased? I think the word you’re looking for is irate. Incensed. Wildly jealous and possessive of a woman you have absolutely no claim over.”
Instead of answering, Leif reaches a hand toward me. I freeze where I am while his fingertips touch my face, tracing the line of my cheekbone over to my hairline. He runs a finger over the shell of my ear and across my jaw, and I can’t hide the shiver that courses through my body. “I’m sorry,” he says. “No you’re not.” I’m trying to stay angry, but the heat is leaking out of me with every touch, every look, every word. This man is dangerous. He makes me forget all the reasons I should push him away. He makes my body take control. He makes me feel like I’m drunk just from being near him. Even now, I have to resist the urge to lean toward him. I want his hands on me—everywhere. I want to kiss him the way we kissed yesterday. “Fine,” Leif r eplies with a knowing grin. “I’m not sorry.” His risotto arrives, and he waves at me to ke ep eating my dish before digging in to his own. After a moment’s hesitation, I start eating again. And that’s how I end up on a dinner date with the man I was trying to avoid.