Layla Breathing a sigh of relief when I duck out of Leif’s view, I lean against the cigarette-smoke-stained hallway wall and close my eyes. My heart beats a rapid tattoo against my ribs as I try to regain control over my rioting body. And I’m going to be working for him? Disaster. Godsend. Trouble. He’s had the same effect on me every time I’ve been near him. First, at the nightclub when I thought he was some sort of savior, then quickly realized I was pathetically stupid. Again, I had the feeling at Benny and Jane’s birthday party when he unleashed that charming, arrogant smile and dissolved my knees—then I realized he didn’t remember me at all. Both times, my body has reacted violently. A pulsing in my gut, reminding me that I’m not a nun, a stuttering of my heart, and a heaviness in my tongue that makes it hard to make sentences—and makes me trip over my own feet, apparently. And along with the physical feelings, the aching embarrassment of being forgettable. Leif is the kind of man you see from a distance and think, I’d do him. But then you get closer and you can’t hold his gaze because of the sheer magnetism of him. His presence presses against my skin and makes me simultaneously want to be near him while also feeling the urge to run and hide. Hence my running up the stairs and hiding around the corner. He’s the type of man that is photographed with supermodels and socialites, who can pluck any woman from a crowd and make her feel like a queen—if only for a night. And from what I know, it would only be for a night. Not only because of the gossip magazines, but my own experience with him. He was all too eager to play the savior and walk away, proving that I was beneath him. I wasn’t a stiletto- and-diamond-wearing model who had the right to touch his thigh. I was just the poor, pathetic waitress who got fondled and then forgotten. Even Dani says he’s a player. She met him the same night she met Emil, and she said he looked at her like she was fresh meat, like he’d love to eat her up. “Don’t get me wrong, Leif’s hot as hell,” she told me last week when she got back to town after staying in Vermont for a few months. There was a photo of him in the tabloid on the coffee shop table where we sat. A suit-clad Leif had his arm around a besotted pop singer, a jagged line in the middle of the photo proclaiming the couple had officially broken up after only two heavily publicized dates. Dani sipped her herbal tea and rubbed a hand over her pregnant stomach while pushing the newspaper away. “But I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him." “Mm-hmm,” I’d r eplied knowingly, pretending I wasn’t hanging on every word. My eyes darted to the photo again, a stupid, foolish kind of satisfaction coursing through me at the sight of that jagged line. Yes, it caused me de ep satisfaction that a billionaire whom I’d met exactly two times—months and years ago— was now single. I never claimed to be smart. That’s my sister’s domain. “He came over for dinner last night with a new date, and I caught him texting another woman at the same time.” Dani clicked her tongue and gave
me a loaded look. “No man is hot enough to justify that.” True enough, but no other man has ever had that kind of effect on me. I didn’t tell Dani, though. Today, while my heart settles to a more manageable pace, I cre ep to the window at the end of the hall. I glance outside in time to see him getting into a sleek silver car that doesn’t belong on this street—or this neighborhood. Leif Sorensen’s driver is dressed in a crisp black uniform. He jogs around the front of the vehicle after making sure his master is safe inside. I lean a shoulder against the window frame and feel the vibrations of the car purring to life below, then watch them drive away. Dani is right. No man is worth the kind of heartache Leif would deliver. If I were the type of woman who could s eparate sex from emotion, I’d go for it—but I’m not. The safest thing for me to do is stay away from Leif. I snort. Fat chance of that happening when I work for him. Since I’m desperate for money and can’t afford to turn down a week of steady work, the only other thing I can do is erect a wall between the two of us and do my best to ignore my body’s reaction to him. Easy peasy. Straightening my spine, I head back toward the staircase. Maybe this job is a good thing—and not just because I’m broke. It’ll give me a shield of professionalism to ignore my body’s needs. I can hide behind the paycheck and treat him as a boss should be treated. Plus, I’ll probably get to know him and see all the warts he’s hiding under his billionaire veneer. This stupid crush will fade once I get to know the real him. Yes, this is a fantastic idea, I decide. Working for Leif will cure me of this attraction, and I’ll be able to move on. Because no one is that sexy in real life. When I make it to the apartment I call home on the third floor of this derelict four-story building, I find my younger sister lying on her stomach in the middle of the living room, books and papers fanned out in front of her. A scowl carves de ep grooves between her brows as she chews the end of a pen like her life d epends on it. “You’ll get ink all over your lips again, Em.” I walk across the small space and drop my slightly-worse-for-wear grocery bags on the end of our galley kitchen counter. “Blame it on organic chemistry,” she says, tossing the pen aside and flopping onto her back. She throws her arm across her face and groans like the dramatic seventeen- year-old she is. “It makes no sense.” Sometimes I forget how young she is. Even when she was a kid, my sister had this age about her. An old soul. Not to mention her brain. There’s a reason Emma graduated high school a year early and was acc epted into NYU’s Prehealth program at the tender age of sixteen. Her hair is blond, like mine, but hers is a darker strawberry-blond to my pure gold. I’m the taller of the two of us, but I wouldn’t put it past Emma to have another growth spurt in the next year or two. She has long, long legs and is the type of person who forgets to eat, so she’s skinny as hell. I’m glad she’s so focused on school, because whenever she discovers that she’s gorgeous and she notices that men are already prowling, I’ll have to invest in a machete. Or a gun. Or a flamethrower. Or all
three. While I strip off my jacket, Emma jumps up off the floor in a display of teenage agility and starts unpacking the groceries. When she gets to the eggs, she frowns. “Um, Layla...” The crushed box looks pitiful as she holds it up, brows arched high. “Did any of them survive?” I ask, starting to unpack the second bag. My sister carefully opens the box and bunches her lips to the side. “We’ve got three. I can probably save two more of them if you give me a bowl to dump them in.” I sigh. Five eggs out of twelve, all because of a patch of stupid black ice and the smooth bottoms of my shoes. I hate winter. And I hate being broke. But on the bright side, Leif caught me the second (and third) time, and I definitely would have crushed the remaining unbroken eggs if I fell on them again. “Grandma just called. She’s making roast beef and she said we could bring dessert. Can I make brownies?” “Sure, Em,” I say, nudging her shoulder with mine as I pull my phone out of my purse. “You know they’ll love that.” Dinner with Grandma and Grandpa might not be everyone’s ideal Friday night, but it sounds like heaven to me. “I have to call Linda. You mind unpacking the rest of the groceries?” My sister’s eyes brighten. “She has a placement for you?” “I think so.” “For how long?” “A week, I think.” Emma’s shoulders drop. “So not a permanent one.” I ruffle her hair until she squeals and ducks out of reach. “Don’t worry. I’ll get a permanent position soon.” “You work too hard, Layla. You have three jobs and you don’t get enough sle ep. Don’t think I don’t notice.” “The only thing you need to worry about is passing organic chemistry, okay?” I wave my phone. “I need to make this call.” I dial Linda Delmar’s number and wait for her cool, sophisticated voice to answer. She confirms what Leif said—one week of work. It’s better than nothing, I suppose. “Harriet’s husband is in the hospital,” Linda tells me. “He had a minor heart attack and Harriet needs to care for him, and she called me directly to recommend you after seeing how you handled the Eldridge twins. You should thank her, Layla, because you jumped ahead of some more senior girls with that recommendation.” Throat thick, I nod. “I will. What hospital is her husband in? I’ll send flowers.” Once I scrounge up enough money to buy them. Harriet doesn’t work for Linda, but the two of them know each other from way back. When I first met Harriet, I was in awe of her skill with kids. Little Isla Sorensen was the most well-behaved seven-year-old I’d ever met, and that was all down to Harriet’s loving iron fist. “Already done, darling,” Linda says. “I sent a care package from all of us at the Delmar Childcare Agency.”
When I hang up the phone, my sister is leaning against the end of the kitchen counter, brows arching high. “A week,” I say in answer to her unvoiced question. “Half-day tomorrow to meet Isla and get acquainted with her schedule, then I officially start Monday.” Her shoulders drop and she voices what I’d been thinking: “It’s better than nothing, I guess.” I smile and wrap my arms around her, squeezing tight. “Make some brownies, Em. I’m taking a shower, then we’ll head to Grandma’s.” Our grandparents’ house is a handful of blocks away from our apartment. Fifteen minutes’ walk, and we’re heading up the pavers leading to the front door. It’s a small, two- story house with three dormers overlooking the street, complete with white siding and black shutters. My grandmother is extremely house-proud. Even in winter, the walkway is cleared of snow and the entrance is k ept tidy. She and Grandpa put Christmas lights up every year, but this year, I notice they haven’t yet taken them down even though we’re nearing the end of January. Putting the lights up was a big job that required help from one of the neighbor’s sons. Taking them down will be the same. Grandma and Grandpa are getting older. Emma pushes the door open without knocking, warm brownies held in her other hand, and calls out into the house. I inhale familiar scents as we walk in, and I know I’m home. “I’m in the kitchen!” Grandma calls out. “Dinner is almost ready.” Emma drops the brownies on the counter and a kiss on Grandma’s cheek, then she’s heading off to find Grandpa— probably in his favorite La-Z-Boy chair, watching whatever sports happen to be on television. I wrap my arms around my grandmother and inhale de eply, letting the comfort and love of her hug settle into my bones. “Rough day?” she asks when I pull away. I snort. “No worse than usual.” Grandma nods, then checks the potatoes boiling on the stove. Her mashed potatoes are the best I’ve ever tasted. Everything she cooks is divine—I don’t know what I’d do if she didn’t live nearby. Any time I need an injection of family, love, and laughter, all I have to do is come here. Emma and I lived here for a few years after Mom left, but the house is small, cramped, and I knew we were putting a strain on Grandma and Grandpa. The spare room has only a narrow single bed—which I insisted Emma use— so I alternated sle eping on the floor and the living room sofa for years. I moved out as soon as I could afford it but made sure to stay close. “I’ll set the table,” I tell my grandmother, and she chucks my cheek before turning back to her pots and pans. The dining room is just behind a shared wall with the kitchen, and I find a neat stack of paperwork on one end of it that needs to be cleared before I can put out the plates and utensils. Intending to stack the papers and set them on the sideboard, I pause when my eyes snag on the top sheet of paper. It’s from a lawyer’s office, and when I read further, a cold fist tightens around my stomach.
My grandfather clears his throat, his knobby fingers wrapped around the back of a chair. His eyes are clear, but the lines around his mouth are de eper. Sadder. “What’s this, Grandpa?” I lift the paper. “Some developer is trying to force you out of the house?” “Trying, but they won’t succeed,” Grandma says from the other room. “They’ve been harassing us for months.” “What?” I glance toward the kitchen, then back to my grandfather. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Nothing for you to worry about, Layla-darling.” He hobbles closer, and my heart squeezes as I watch him. He looks old. “Some developer wants to build fancy condos here, but they can damn well wait until Grandma and I are in the ground. No one is pushing me out of my house. I built this place with my own hands, and the only way I’m leaving is when I’m in a box.” “Have you spoken to a lawyer?” I scan the letter, not liking the implied threats written in con voluted legalese. “This says they can compel you to take a deal that’s much lower than what you’ve been offered. The project has been approved by the city, they say.” “Crooks, every one of them,” Grandpa huffs. “Lawyers and politicians. All the same.” “While I agree with the principle,” I start slowly, scanning the letter for the third time, “I think it might be a good idea to get a professional opinion. What if you lost the house?” “That’s not going to happen.” He pulls his chair out as Emma comes up behind him to help, meeting my eyes across the table. She’s thinking the same thing I am: this letter from the lawyer could turn into a serious problem. But before I can do anything about it, the two of us clear the table, put out placemats, plates, utensils, and all the other things we’ll need to eat. I make sure Grandpa has a fresh drink, then I help Grandma bring everything to the table. In our family, food is love, and Grandma feeds us until we’re ready to roll home. I mop up the last of the juices on my plate with fresh, warm rolls, a bit of tension eking out of my bones. This place is as much a home to me as it is to my grandparents. They can’t lose it. Not for some fancy luxury condos that will probably just make a rich developer richer. After dinner and brownies, we call my mother, who lives in Colorado with her new husband. She’s in good spirits, in love, and as flighty as she’s ever been. Sometimes it hurts my heart to know that she dumped us on Grandma’s doorst ep the minute she met her new man, especially considering I was only sixteen and Emma was six, but she’s my mother, and I can’t help but love her. I’ve learned not to rely on her, though. Malice wasn’t the reason my mother left. She was just... selfish. I still don’t think she realized what a burden she placed on my shoulders, and she probably never will. When we hang up the phone, Emma’s lips are pinched and I feel completely drained. We don’t talk about the lawyer’s letter until I have my jacket wrapped around my torso and my feet stuffed into my old, wet sneakers. “I’m going to find a lawyer, Grandma,” I tell her, bracing myself for a fight. “We need to have someone look at that letter and tell us what our options are.” Instead of protesting, my grandmother surprises me by softening her shoulders before glancing back toward the
living room, where Grandpa is snoring in his favorite chair. She looks back at me, and her eyes look tired. “Thank you, honey.” She leans in, voice quiet. “I’m worried.” Before I can answer, she paints a smile on her face and thrusts a bag full of leftovers toward me. “Take care of your sister. Night-night! Love you both.” Fat, slow snowflakes drift down from the sky outside. I st ep onto the sidewalk and glance up at the thick layer of clouds, letting out a puff of white breath as my grandparents’ door closes behind me. The air is cold, piercing through my thin jacket, but the world has that hushed, muffled feeling that always comes with fresh snow. I glance over my shoulder to look at the tidy, homey place that has been my sanctuary for most of my life and try to ignore the knot in the pit of my stomach. They can’t lose the house. They can’t. Never mind the emotional attachment; Grandma and Grandpa are too old to move. Losing the house would weaken them, and the expenses of moving and buying a new place would make them as destitute as I am. Grandpa might be in denial, and he might be right about lawyers and politicians, but that doesn’t mean we can’t fight back. Giving my sister a nod, we start walking back together. Emma and I are halfway home before she speaks: “They’re in trouble, aren’t they?” Her voice is quiet as she extends a mittened hand to catch a particularly large snowflake in her palm before bringing it to her mouth to touch her tongue to it. Sometimes I forget that she’s still a teenager and then she does something like that—childlike, innocent. I’m so used to thinking of her as a brainiac that I forget she’s still a child in many ways. And right now, she’s speaking with a child’s voice. So, being the responsible big sister I’ve always been, I put an arm around Emma’s shoulders and squeeze her close. “I’ll figure it out, Em,” I tell her with more confidence than I feel. “They won’t lose the house just because some rich asshole wants to put up a bunch of fancy condos. Grandpa wants to live out the rest of his life on that old leather La-Z- Boy, and I intend to make that happen.” Snorting, Emma gives me a grin. “Remember when Grandma tried to get him to r eplace it with a newer one?” “World War Three,” I say, squeezing her close once more before releasing her. My grandfather’s face was set in that grim, stubborn way of his when she proposed the idea of r eplacing his chair. He crossed his arms and set his jaw, and both Em and I had taken cover in the next room before the explosions started between the two of them. That stubborn, steel-hard spine is something my grandfather passed on to me. He’ll fight for his chair, and I’ll fight for his home. Come Monday, I’m finding a lawyer. No matter what it costs me, I’ll make sure my grandparents ke ep their home.