Leif
If I hadn’t been watching Layla, I would’ve missed the stiffness stealing over her shoulders. Would it
really be so bad to work for me?
She brushed me off when I met her at that children’s birthday party, too. I saw her as soon as I walked
into the room. I remember exactly what she was wearing: a pretty yellow sundress that nipped in at her
waist and set off the warmth in her skin. She looked like bottled sunlight, from the spun gold of her hair to
her skin to the bright, happy smile on her face.
She looked familiar. I stumbled on the threshold at the sight of her, and I wanted to grab her by the
waist and drag her to whatever dark corner would allow us a modicum of privacy. I wanted to slip that
dress off her slim body and see what delights were hidden underneath.
In the fragmented, compartmentalized existence I called my life, I wanted to drink up her sunshine
and see if it would make everything better.
But when I tried to approach her, I couldn’t get more than a few words out of her, and she ran away at
the first opportunity. I had to deal with my friend Emil’s ribbing comments for my strikeout.
I watched her get into the car and drive away from me, and just like that, she was a splinter lodged
under my skin. The second of such splinters—the first of which happened six years ago on a night that
was supposed to be like any other. A night that ended with a sprained wrist and the feeling that I’d lost my
chance with the first woman who made me look at her twice.
I’ve managed to ignore those splinters, of course. I’ve gone on dates as I always do, flirted, teased,
fucked. I’ve acted like myself, but she’s been there at the back of my mind. The woman made of golden
sunlight that wouldn’t give me a minute of her time.
And now, even when I’m going to pay her for that time, she won’t even give me a second. Am I really
that r epulsive? Is it because her friend Dani is dating my friend Emil? Is it because my last name is
Sorensen? What the hell is so terrible about me?
It’s... unusual. Conquests have always been easy for me. I see a woman I like, and I go after her. They
melt, they wilt, they bend to my will, and then they leave.
It works for me. I like to ke ep women in a special, insulated corner of my life, s eparate from my
business, s eparate from my daughter and the rest of my family. Everything in my life has its place, and
nothing ever crosses from one box to the other.
Exc ept Layla. Layla knows my daughter, and if she works for me, it will make her utterly off-limits to
anything relating to sex and romance.
It should be a good thing. I can ke ep work and family and sex s eparate, as they should be.
But I want her. The problem is, she doesn’t seem to want me.
So, if she’s going to refuse the offer of a temporary, one- week position in my household that pays
way more than the
market rate, I need to know why. I need to know what it is about me that makes her want to run away,
and I want to drag her back to my bed and show her all the reasons she’s wrong.
But before I can open my mouth to ask Layla why she’s so intent on avoiding me, the tension leaves
her body and she lets out a shallow breath. “Oh,” she says. “When do I start?”
Pleased, I stand up a little straighter. Then I realize my arm is still banded around her front. I take one
long moment to enjoy the touch, then drop my arm and st ep away. She turns to meet my eyes when I
answer, “Tomorrow—Saturday—if you can. We’ll do your orientation and get you pr epared for Monday.
You can have Sunday off in the meantime.” We reach another street corner and Layla turns left to follow
the sidewalk. “I need you for a week. My regular nanny had a family emergency.”
“Oh! Is Harriet okay?” I nod. “Yes, but her husband is sick.” We dodge around a few pedestrians as I
glance at the surrounding buildings. Peeling paint and a few overgrown patches of grass, but otherwise
tidy. A working-class neighborhood. Lining the street are a few townhouses leaning up against a tall
apartment building, with cars parked on either side.
This is exactly why I’ve been interested in Newark. The block I’m trying to develop is a few streets
away, closer to the local elementary school and st eps away from a small enclave of cafés and shops.
Currently, there are a few single-family dwellings taking up the space, but with a new subway station
planned nearby, the potential profits for a development project are huge.
The city was enthusiastic about my company’s proposal to develop the block into a tower of luxury
condominiums. We’d r eplace six family homes with over sixty dwellings, skyrocketing the surrounding
property values. It’s a win- win for everyone.
Well, everyone exc ept the residents of the six homes I’m trying to buy. Three owners acc epted our
initial buyout offer, while two held out with hard negotiations. A family of four—a lawyer couple with
two young kids—negotiated double our initial offer. The other house was owned by a middle-aged couple
who wanted to downsize anyway, but who knew the value of their land. They also negotiated hard but
ultimately acc epted.
Only one couple has held out against all our buyout offers. My lawyers tell me they’re in their
seventies, an old husband and wife who built the house and have raised all their family in it. The man still
mows the lawn every Saturday if the weather permits, and the woman is an active church member.
They don’t want to move. No matter—if they don’t acc ept our generous offer, we’ll use the long arm
of the law and force them to sell. The city will put pressure on them. This development opportunity is too
lucrative to give up. Real estate is in my blood; I know when to be aggressive. I’m doing these people a
favor, offering more than a fair price and willing to go even higher.
They’ll cave. They always do. “This is me,” Layla says, stopping in front of a decr epit apartment
building. It lists slightly to the side, with balconies studded at regular windows on the way up revealing
snow-covered planters and barbecues, and dirty curtains behind streaked windows.
This is exactly the type of building I’d buy—along with the surrounding townhouses—tear down, and
rebuild into luxury condominiums. There’s money to be made here. I can almost smell it in the air.
“Looks nice,” I hear myself saying, all the while calculating the cost of the tear-down and
development I’m imagining.
Layla snorts, her eyes glimmering. A strand of golden hair has es caped her hat, and everything inside
me wants to twist it around my finger and watch it fall away. “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Sorensen.”
“Leif,” I correct. “If you’re going to be my boss, shouldn’t we ke ep things professional?” There’s a
flash in her eyes that makes my gut clench. Just like that kids’ birthday party, I feel some thread of
familiarity. I’ve met her before—but where?
“Fine,” I concede, lips twitching. “I look forward to working with you, Miss Reynolds.” Extending
my arm, I pass the green grocery bag over to Layla, who slips it onto her shoulder. Her jacket crinkles
under the weight of it, and I frown. It’s too thin for the winters here. She’ll freeze.
Layla’s eyes climb up to mine, throat working as she swallows thickly. Full lashes fan over her cheeks
as she blinks a few times in quick succession, then she shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Right.
I’ll call Linda and get the details. Thanks for walking me home.”
“Anytime,” I answer, surprised to realize I mean it. I’d walk her home—but I’d prefer to pack her into
my car and take her somewhere nicer, which makes no sense. Sure, she’s beautiful—so what? I date
beautiful women all the time.
One thing I do not do is date employees, and I certainly don’t bring any women around my daughter.
Those two compartments of my life are far, far apart, with an impenetrable steel barricade between them.
Layla’s eyes dart up to mine, then she’s shuffling in the door. She only makes it up two st eps when
her shoes slip out from under her.
I’m there in a flash, arm around her back, catching her before she cracks her skull on the icy st eps.
Scowling, I look down at our feet. “Your shoes aren’t winter appropriate,” I growl. “And your super
should be clearing these st eps and putting salt or gravel down. It’s
dangerous.” I only realize I’m still holding onto her when she pulls away, face flushed.
Three times she’s stumbled today. Twice I’ve been there to catch her, but what will happen to her
when I leave? I glance down at her feet and frown again. She’s wearing old sneakers with holes near both
big toes. Hardly appropriate winter footwear. Between her jacket and her shoes, she’s asking for a serious
injury.
Discomfort races up my spine. I have to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from dragging her
back down the street to my car, taking her home, and making sure she’s safe and warm and fed.
“I know,” she says, her voice husky. “Thanks for the rescue.”
I wait until she disappears up the narrow staircase before turning around. My driver, Elton, has parked
his car right behind me. He gets out and opens the back door for me with a nod. As soon as I’m ensconced
in the warmth and comfort of the clean leather interior, I let out a breath, my eyes still on the decr epit
building Layla calls home.
It’s not nice enough for her. Not even a little bit.