Layla
The shower is a beautiful place.
Well, not my shower specifically—this one is quite ugly, with its 1970 s, faux-marble tile that looks
more like odd orange fungus than any sort of natural stone, and the pea- green tub beneath my feet—but
it’s still a place that feels serene.
Especially when I just had the best sex of my life. When I first enter the shower, I look at the duct tape
Emma wrapped around the base of the showerhead and decide it’s a problem for tomorrow. Today, I’m
just going to take a scalding-hot shower, wash my body and hair, and let this pleasant, post-orgasmic
sensation permeate my entire being.
The first part of that plan goes great. I turn on the shower and tilt my head, closing my eyes under the
stream. I think of everything that happened today, from Leif showing up at my door, to the final party
cleanup, to my meeting with Mrs. Sorensen.
I smile under the shower stream. Christine Sorensen is terrifying. I was practically shaking in my
four-thousand- dollar puffer jacket, hands clenched on my lap as I waited for her. Patty was friendly—a
woman in her forties that clearly takes pride in her job as a personal assistant.
Mrs. Sorensen strode into the living room wearing a pencil skirt of soft khaki brown and a silky top.
Her hair and makeup were tasteful and elegant—subtle touches that emphasized her natural beauty.
No wonder Leif is so pretty. With genes like those, there was no other option.
She sat down across from me and gave me a leather- bound folder with all the requirements for her
anniversary party. She wanted an elegant event that felt intimate, similar to her granddaughter’s birthday
party. The event planners she fired all tried to sell her on wedding-like events, which was all wrong,
according to her.
When I suggested a private dinner party, perhaps something like a degustation menu with a theme that
was meaningful to her and her husband, Mrs. Sorensen beamed.
Why she thought a part-time nanny who had planned one single birthday party was qualified to take
this on, I’ll never know, but the excitement of having a chance to prove myself made my whole body
buzz.
But I pretended I could do it, and just like Emma asked, I worked up the nerve to sound mostly
confident when I told her my fees were twenty percent of total expenses— plus an initial fee of one
thousand dollars.
Christine didn’t need to know that extra thousand would pay for my grandparents’ initial legal fees.
It sounded ridiculous when I said it, and it took everything in me not to let my voice tremble.
Those few seconds when she paused to consider my price were the longest in my life—but she finally
dipped her chin and agreed.
Just like that. I smile under the stream of water, already knowing that Emma will give me an
impertinent teenage arch of her eyebrow and an I-told-you-so smirk. As she should. My sister is a genius,
after all.
I have four weeks to plan the party, which means I’ll have to put all my time into it. Tomorrow, I’m
going to speak to my managers at the café and the bar to see if I can take a few weeks off. If not, I’ll quit.
The money I could make from this event should more than make up for it, and if I do a good job, it might
lead to more event planning. I could have a future. A future! Me!
Finally, I open my eyes and think about what happened after the meeting.
The dread I felt when I got ready for my date with Joe. The feeling that blossomed in my gut when
Leif interrupted. Everything that happened after we got home.
A twinge of guilt makes me resolve to apologize to Joe when I next see him. I should never have
agreed to go out on a date when I knew I wasn’t interested in him. It wasn’t fair to him.
And what happened in my apartment... well. That wasn’t exactly responsible either, but I’m not
feeling too upset about it. How could I, when I just had the best sex of my life? I’m too high on
endorphins to flog myself about not using protection.
I grab my loofah and start washing—and that’s when my hand knocks the showerhead. It wobbles,
and water starts shooting out of the bottom of it. I drop my loofah and try to cup my hands around the
water, but that just creates more pressure around the base.
Don’t ask me why I don’t just turn the shower off. I think sex with Leif permanently boiled my brain,
because as I try to somehow stop the flow of water with my bare hands, the showerhead comes off the
wall and into my grip. Water shoots out of the wall and hits me in the face. I scream, flailing.
Off-balance, I put my foot down on the loofah, which slides right out from under me. My right hand
grabs for the wall, finding nothing but slick tile. My left hand, still
holding the showerhead, reaches for the curtain and comes into contact with the shower rail instead.
I go tumbling out of the bath as water shoots out of the wall, the shower curtain and rail clattering
down on top of me in a tangle of plastic and metal.
Bare-assed, soaking wet, and stunned, I look up as the door crashes open.
Leif blinks at me, eyes flicking to the showerhead, then the jet of water coming out of the wall. Calm
as anything, he st eps inside and turns the knob to stop the water, then he looks down at me.
I extend a hand (the one not gripping the showerhead). “Help. Get me off this shower curtain. I hate
touching it. It’s grossing me out.”
Lips twitching, Leif hauls me up and wraps his arms around me. He gently pries my fingers off the
showerhead and d eposits it on the edge of the sink. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh.” Exc ept for the embarrassment. “You need a plumber.” “That’s what I’ve been telling my
landlord for months, but does he listen?” I look at the hole in the wall where the end of a pipe sticks out,
water still dripping in a slow stream. Then I look down at my feet, my rubber-ducky- covered shower
curtain crumpled beneath me, the shower rail diagonal across the toilet down to the ground. “Well,” I say,
planting my hands on my hips, “I guess Emma and I will be showering at the gym for a while.”
“You’ll be showering at my place,” Leif answers. Before I can protest, he scoops me up into his arms
and marches back to the bedroom. “Pack a bag. We’ll come back tomorrow morning to get Emma. You’ll
stay at my apartment in the city until your place is livable. If it ever becomes livable.”
Water drips everywhere. I stare at him. “What? No.” “Yes.” He tightens his hold on me, not putting
me down until we’re in front of my closet. “Now pack.”
I turn toward him, hands on hips. We’re both still naked. “Leif, no.”
“Layla, yes.” “You’re ridiculous.” “Your shower just came off the wall. If you’d hit your head on the
way down, you could have died. There’s mold on the walls, and those cracks look structural. Now pack.
I’m taking you home.”
“I am home.” I cross my arms, which draws Leif’s eyes to my breasts. Goosebumps prickle over my
entire damp body, and I look down at the trail of wet footst eps Leif left on the carpet. Then I look at the
water stains on the ceiling and the places where mold has started growing near the windows. Last time I
told my landlord about the mold, he just painted over it.
I sigh. “Fine. But it’s only temporary.” “Whatever. Pack.” He grabs his underwear and pulls it on,
followed by his pants and shirt. When he meets my gaze and arches his brows, I realize I’ve been staring
at him getting dressed. Sue me; he’s pretty.
“You’re really overbearing, you know that?” I ask, but I still reach for my underwear drawer and start
dressing.
“I do know that,” he says. “That’s what makes me a good father and a great boss.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not your daughter or your employee, remember?”
He just grins. “I’ll wait in the living room.” And that’s how I end up moving into a penthouse in
Midtown Manhattan owned by Leif Sorensen, billionaire extraordinaire.