Leif Layla stands stiff in the center of my home office, her shoulders bunched near her ears. She’s still wearing that too-thin jacket, but at least her shoes look newer. My brows tug together. She should be wearing boots. The snow and slush and ice are no match for sneakers at this time of year. Picking up a bag my assistant set beside my desk, I hand it to Layla. She frowns. “What’s this?” “You tripped three times yesterday. You need proper winter boots.” Not waiting for an answer, I take my seat behind my desk and motion to an armchair. My lips twitch at the vibrating temper I feel pulsing from her. She doesn’t like my gift, apparently. “Leif,” she starts, fists clenched. I ignore the fact that my name on her tongue sends heat spearing through my gut. “Mr. Sorensen,” I correct. “Or have you changed your mind about our professional relationship?” “You’re an asshole,” she spits, then clamps her mouth shut. This time, my lips visibly twitch. “Although I know that’s true, I’m curious what has brought you to that conclusion. Was it the boots?” “I don’t need you to buy me boots.” I arch a brow, which I can tell infuriates her. “I beg to differ. I won’t have you tripping and falling all over the place while you care for my daughter.” Layla blinks, and I wonder if she forgot she was here for Isla. I wouldn’t blame her. Being near Layla makes me forget everything, too. She pauses, staring at a spot on the floor, and I wonder if she’s counting to ten. When she lifts her gaze, she gives me a curt nod. “Thank you. The boots are very generous of you.” She glances inside and frowns. “How did you know my size?” “My assistant handled it.” Sort of. I might have also helped by digging through Layla’s social media every time I had a free moment last night and stumbled upon a post of hers trying to sell a few pairs of stilettos three years ago. But my assistant is the one who bought the boots, so that much is true. I wave a hand at the seat across from mine. “Please.” Without answering, Layla gathers her bag in front of her and sits primly on the edge of the chair, her shoulders back, chin high. I hide my grin. That fire coursing through her veins gets more attractive with every moment I spend with her. I feel like a little boy holding a stick, looking at a big beehive knowing I shouldn’t poke it—but unable to resist. I meet her eyes, then drop my gaze to her lips. A lush, pink bow that looks soft and kissable, her mouth has probably been the inspiration for countless male fantasies. With her hair in a tight ponytail like that, I can just imagine wrapping my hand around it and guiding her toward my— “Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. I slide into my chair and roll forward to hide the evidence of her effect on me, my cock a rigid length pushing against my zipper. “When Harriet told me about her husband’s heart attack, Isla immediately asked for you.”
Layla’s brows jump up. I grin. “I think the Eldridge twins’ birthday party was a highlight of her summer, and she knows it was your idea.” “Cupcakes have hidden powers, apparently.” Her voice is husky and sensual, and it doesn’t help the blood pooling in my groin. She’s not affected by me the way I am by her; that’s just her voice. Just like her lips, it’s a voice crafted for male fantasies. For my fantasies. Clearing my throat, I grab a manila folder and pull it toward me. “Ms. Delmar emailed through the contract you signed last night. Thanks for that. I’ve just got a few more things to go through. Harriet thinks she’ll be back next week, but I wanted to ask if you would be able to stay on, in the event that things work out between you and Isla, and if Harriet needs more time with her husband.” Layla’s head bobs up and down, so vigorous a strand of golden hair falls against her temple. “Yes, that would be fine. I have a couple of other jobs, but this one would be the priority, of course. My schedule is fairly flexible, and I won’t let anything interfere with my work for you.” I freeze, brows lowering. “A ‘couple’ of other jobs?” “Two,” Layla clarifies, then shifts in her seat while clearing her throat, clearly uncomfortable. She motions to the folder in front of me. “Is that for me to sign?” “You’ve already signed the contract and the NDA,” I answer. “This is Isla’s schedule and some information from Harriet. Phone numbers, meal preferences, location of all of Isla’s things that you might need. She always ke eps a handover document up to date.” I push the folder toward Layla. She scans it, brows jumping. “Wow. This is thorough.” “You have large shoes to fill,” I say with a grin. “Harriet is part of the family.” “She’s a formidable woman,” Layla answers, eyes still on the documents in front of her. Her throat works as she swallows, and I find myself tracing the graceful length of her neck down to the edge of that damn jacket. I can’t make sense of this woman. She didn’t give me the time of day when I first met her and now she’s all professionalism. But yesterday, she was rosy-cheeked and flustered, and I was sure there was a spark between us. But then there’s the fact she lives in that shitty building across the river, she has old, worn clothes that need to be r eplaced, and she has not one but three jobs, counting this one. What is she hiding? How could a bright, beautiful woman like her end up struggling so much? Surely she could have any career she wants? “What did you study in college?” I blurt. A red flush cre eps over her cheeks, and Layla closes the manila folder with delicate, precise movements. “Um, I didn’t,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “I studied event management at a local community college but had to drop out after a year for... personal reasons. I trained with the Delmar Agency and got my childcare certifications, and my first aid is up to date. I can send everything through if you need to see it.” I wave a hand. That’s not what I was asking. I know she’s trained and qualified; Linda only hires the best. That’s why the Delmar Childcare Agency is the premier childcare agency catering to a particular high-net-worth swath of Manhattan’s population.
What I want is a hint of who Layla is. How she ended up here. Why she looks like she’s clinging onto her dignity and her pride like it’s the last thing she has left. There’s something about her that rings a bell somewhere in my memory. I know her from somewhere. A knock on the door makes us both turn, and Isla pokes her head through the door. “We’re going to be late, Daddy. You know Miss Oliver doesn’t like tardiness.” The strict, silver-haired ballet teacher is scary enough to make me pause, so I push my chair back with a nod. “We’ll go now, kiddo.” Isla’s lips pinch. “I’m not a kiddo.” “Munchkin,” I amend, hiding the twitch in my lips. Isla pushes the door open wide, plants her feet, and crosses her arms. “I’m not a munchkin either.” “Sugarplum? Sweetheart Treatheart?” I come around my desk, seeing the laughter dancing in my daughter’s eyes even as she lets out a little feral growl. I arch my brows. “Pudding-cakes Mc Gee?” The last one proves to be too much, because Isla drops her arms to her sides and rolls her eyes so hard they make her whole head travel in a circle. “Whatever, Daddy. Come on.” “Okay, Miss Mc Gee.” I grab a jacket off a hook by my office door while Isla betrays herself with a giggle. I grin, only to remember Layla is still in my office. She’s standing next to the door, a strange, soft expression on her face. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly. I arch a brow. “No? What did you expect?” She shakes her head, shrugging. “The parents I’ve worked with have all been a bit... cold.” “Let’s go!” Isla calls out from the front door, and I give Layla an apologetic grin. “The boss has spoken.” I swe ep a hand for her to exit the office in front of me, taking a moment to admire the twitching smile on her lips. Layla’s eyes flick to Isla, who is literally tapping her foot as she gives us a meaningful glare. My daughter’s temporary nanny glances at me. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” Her arm brushes mine as we head across the living room. Neither of us move away from the contact. I nod. “Y ep.” A delicate, tinkling laugh, a sound of pure delight. “Good,” Layla answers. “I like trouble.” Once Isla is at her ballet class and Layla’s been introduced to the teacher, the two of us head back to my townhouse. Layla’s quiet in the car, looking out at the rows of townhouses we pass on our way home. Her presence is a flame at my side. I feel rather than see the way she shifts in her seat, the mere inches of space that s eparate our thighs and knees. When she turns to look at a particular house or car or person we pass, her knee comes dangerously close to touching mine. Blinking, I look away. Why would I care if her knee touches mine? Haven’t I done worse—done more—with any woman I chose? Why would Layla Reynolds’s presence twist me in knots like this? It’s because she doesn’t seem interested in me that way, I decide. She presented me with a challenge that I can’t refuse, even if I know it’s a bad idea. There’s a reason I only pursue unattached women and leave them as soon as I can: simplicity.
I learned my lesson with Isla’s mother, and I’m not going to make the same mistakes again. Personal and professional matters don’t mix. Family and love life don’t, either. “How long have you been working at the Delmar Agency?” I ask just to fill the silence. “A couple of years,” she answers, hands curling around the purse on her lap. Her shoulders stiffen at the sound of my voice, which bothers me. Why does that bother me? “Linda is a great boss. Her sister Bonnie is hilarious. I met her at the company Christmas party last month.” “Dani’s friend, right? She stayed at Bonnie’s place in Vermont when she was running away from Emil.” “She wasn’t running away from him.” Layla’s voice is tight, clipped. I stifle a smile. “Seemed like running away to me. He had to go traipsing around the countryside to drag her back to Manhattan.” Layla lets out an indelicate snort. “Of course you would think that way. Like he’s some caveman that threw her over his shoulder and dragged her back to his cave.” “Isn’t that what happened?” “He won her,” Layla responds with infinite patience. “He wooed her.” “Wooed her,” I r epeat, brow arched. I meet her eyes then, endless blue in her beautiful face. “I don’t believe in wooing.” Her full, pink lips purse, and it makes me want to kiss them until they soften again. “Of course you don’t. Women fight each other for the privilege of sharing your bed, don’t they? Wooing isn’t necessary when you’re Manhattan’s handsomest, most eligible bachelor.” She thinks you’re handsome, the preening, male part of my mind says, not at all worried about the scoffing tone Layla used to give me the compliment. I beat that voice down, because why would I care what Layla thinks? Her noticing my looks should make it easier to bed her, but instead she makes it sound like my being handsome is a crime. And why am I thinking about sle eping with her at all? She works for me and she knows Isla, and is therefore completely off-limits. Before I can answer, we pull up outside the house and my heart sinks. “Oh, no.” “What?” Layla follows my gaze to the car idling in front of my door. “Who’s that?” “Sir?” Elton meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Should I take you somewhere else?” “I’m not going to hide from my great-aunt, Elton,” I answer, unable to ke ep the surliness out of my tone. The truth is, running and hiding from Great-Aunt Hilda is exactly what I want to do. Elton knows better than to protest, though, and he slips out of the car to open the door for Layla. Vaguely, I hear her thank him, but my eyes are on the front door. It opens as if it can sense my gaze, and a young, dark-haired man fills the void. “Who’s that?” Layla says under her breath as she comes to stand beside me. The warmth of her body next to me makes me want to shuffle closer, but I hold myself apart with every last scrap of my will.
“That’s my Great-Aunt Hilda’s lackey, Jeremy. He goes everywhere with her, which means she’s hiding on the other side of that door.” “What’s taking so long?” a scratchy, elderly voice calls out from behind Jeremy. “We’re not trying to heat the outdoors, Jeremy, so either let the fools in or close the door.” Swe eping up the walk, I square my shoulders and set my jaw. Great-Aunt Hilda can sense weakness at a hundred paces. Nothing but the most iron-hard will can stand up to her. After a morning spent panting after Layla while telling myself I can’t have her, I’m not sure I’m up to facing Hilda. Still, I nod to Jeremy, who opens the door wider. Layla enters behind me, and I scan the room to see my great-aunt sitting in a hard-backed chair next to the fir eplace. Her gnarled hand is curled over the top of her cane, a silk pashmina scarf wrapped around her shoulders. I’m a grown man. I can deal with this. “Who’s she?” Great-Aunt Hilda says by way of greeting, jerking her chin to the woman standing half a st ep behind me and to my left. Layla st eps forward. “I’m Layla Reynolds, ma’am. I’m Isla’s fill-in nanny for the week.” “And now Harriet isn’t even here!” Hilda throws her hands up before bringing the cane down hard on my expensive hardwood floors. I had that wood imported from Japan, and Hilda treats it like she wants to dent it. “Is there a problem, Hilda?” I ask. My eyes drift to the side table next to her, where her gloves and hat are neatly placed. “Has Jeremy gotten you a drink yet?” “He has not,” Hilda’s gruff voice answers. “I wouldn’t say no to a hot cup of coffee.” Before I can do anything, Layla is moving. She gives me a nod and sways her hips on her way to the kitchen. I want to follow her, but I know it would be cowardly. Instead, I pull a chair up next to my great-aunt and take a seat. “What can I do for you, Hilda?” “Your daughter’s birthday is this week,” she starts. I nod. “Yes. I’m planning on taking her to her favorite restaurant on Thursday to celebrate.” “Unacc eptable,” Great-Aunt Hilda answers. “She’ll have a party.” Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose, I listen to Layla opening and closing cabinets in the next room. It would be easy to get up and go help her, give myself time to think—but that would only antagonize my great-aunt, and that only spells trouble. “She doesn’t want a party, Hilda.” “Nonsense. She’ll be eight years old. Of course she wants a party.” “She told me she wanted a quiet dinner with just me.” “That’s because she’s perc eptive and sensitive, and she can see you’re stressed about whatever big business deal is boiling your brain.” Sharp, clipped words that hit me like gunshots. Is that true? Is my daughter sacrificing a birthday party because she doesn’t want to trouble me? Something hot and uncomfortable snakes through my chest.
“Your mother called me because she tried to organize a venue and a caterer, but she hasn’t had any luck. She doesn’t know any of the girl’s friends, and she needs you to cooperate.” “She brought out the big guns right away, I see,” I say, nodding to my great-aunt. A ghost of a smile tugs at the wrinkled corners of my great-aunt’s lips. They’re rare, Hilda’s smiles, but they do make an appearance once in a while. The sound of clinking cups makes me turn my head, and I see Layla arriving with a tray. She didn’t just make coffee, she found the nice set of cups and saucers I ke ep in the corner cupboard, and even unearthed some cookies that must have been hidden in the pantry. A delicate bowl is filled with perfect cubes of sugar, which I didn’t even know existed. With the grace of a dancer, she slides the tray onto the side table and kneels, putting a cup and saucer beside my aunt. “Cream? Sugar?” “Drop of cream, girl,” my great-aunt answers, hawk-eyes studying my daughter’s new nanny. I’m surprised by her use of the word “girl,” because my great-aunt never uses pet names of any kind. “I’ll lean your cane against the edge of the chair so it’s within reach,” Layla says, arranging everything around Hilda with brisk efficiency. She makes sure my aunt is happy with her coffee, then moves to me. When she places my coffee on my own side table, I catch a hint of her tantalizing, sweet scent. I nod my thanks, but I don’t want her to leave. “The problem,” Hilda continues, “is that we can’t get a venue on such short notice.” “How big a party are you wanting for my eight-year-old daughter?” I ask, eyes drifting to Layla as she takes the tray back to the kitchen. “Oh, a small gathering. Fifty, sixty people. Your mother mentioned she was invited to Paula’s granddaughter’s birthday, and she only wanted to return the favor.” This time, I do pinch the bridge of my nose. “You want me to throw a party for my daughter... so that my mother can continue this strange feud with her frenemy Paula York?” “Well, you wouldn’t want that hag to get the upper hand, would you?” “No,” I answer, slicing my hand through the air. “No party. There’s no time. How could I possibly organize an event for fifty people in less than five days? I assume you want it to happen this weekend?” “Friday is a half day at Isla’s school,” my great-aunt answers. “How the hell do you know that?” Hilda just shrugs. I suck in a hard breath. “Hilda, I’d need a caterer. A venue. Staff. Food. Drinks. Alcohol for the adults. Not to mention invitations and RSVPs, all on short notice. No one will come!” “Everyone will come. Who could resist an invitation from the Sorensen heir himself?” I groan, massaging my temples. After a pause, I lift my gaze to my great-aunt’s. “You’re sure Isla wants a party?” Hilda’s eyes soften ever so slightly. She sips her coffee and takes her time putting the cup back down, then folds her hands in her lap. “Last time she came to visit me, she nattered on about some twins’ birthday party that happened months ago. She said she’d love to do something, but she’d wait until she
was nine or ten. She said her daddy was busy and she didn’t want to make things difficult.” My heart gives a hard, sharp tug. I sigh. “Fine. Where do you propose to have this party?” Hilda shrugs. “I was hoping you had ideas. Your mother’s made inquiries at all the nearby venues, but there haven’t been any openings. People are loving winter weddings, apparently, and every place is booked for months.” “You could have it here,” a soft, feminine voice says from behind my shoulder. I turn to see Layla standing behind my chair, a strange, calculating expression on her face. She points to a far wall. “I’d move that couch out of the way and set up a bar there. It’s near enough to the kitchen that staff can go back and forth to get ice and limes and whatnot. I’d clear this space for dancing and standing room, and have the next room arranged for seating.” She points to the space on the other side of the central fir eplace. “Small tables grouped for easy conversation. Since it’s a children’s party, you need activities. I’d lock your office but open that door that leads to the courtyard. Fairy lights and heat lamps should give it an intimate feel, and you could have the usual games. Pin the tail on the donkey, face painting, that kind of thing. But you’d need a theme, since she’s eight.” Completely oblivious to her audience, Layla takes a few st eps to look at the courtyard, then whirls around with a beaming, bright smile on her face. “Swan Lake! Ballet! You could hire dancers to mill around the room, and even get Isla’s ballet class to do a demonstration. She’d love that.” My heart gives an unsteady beat at the sight of Layla’s smile. It’s more than a smile, really. It brightens her entire face, like she’s lit by some internal glow. Rubbing the ache in the center of my chest, I shift my gaze to Great-Aunt Hilda. The older woman has the same calculating look on her face, her eyes scanning the space. “Having it in your home would make it more intimate, exclusive. People will want to know where you and Isla live, since you’re the bachelor of the century. It’s not a terrible idea.” My head moves from my great-aunt to Layla and back again. “Catering? Drinks? Where the hell am I going to find dancers and staff?” “Well, a friend of mine owns a catering company,” Layla says, her back turned to the two of us. She’s pacing out the side of the room and doing a slow turn. “Alcohol is easy enough, and children’s games don’t need to be complicated. There are companies that rent out furniture for events, and all we’d need to do is move all this expensive furniture out of the way. Simple.” She turns that beaming smile on me again, and my heart gives another lurch. Great-Aunt Hilda, cane in hand, raps the end of it on my hardwood floors again. “It’s settled, then. Miss Reynolds, you’re in charge. I’m glad we got that settled.” I blink. My eyes drift to Layla, who’s frozen on the spot. Her face, which had been so bright and beautiful a moment ago, drains of all color. It’s like she just realized what she’s done. Great-Aunt Hilda saw an opening, and she’s not the type of woman to hesitate. I could fix this. I could tell my great-aunt that Layla has her hands full with Isla, that I haven’t hired her to be an event planner, too. I could brush the whole idea aside and take Isla out for a birthday dinner and call it a day.
But the truth is, if Isla told Great-Aunt Hilda that she’d hold off on birthday parties because she didn’t want to burden me, I know my daughter would love a party. And a ballet theme? Even better. I can just imagine the bouncing, bubbly laugh that my daughter would let out if we did all this for her. And then there’s Layla. The way she lit up from the inside when she spoke about the party. How she easily dismantled all my hesitations and came up with an easy, elegant solution to the venue and catering problems. She impressed me. And maybe I want to know what she’ll do next. “I’ll walk you to the door,” I tell Great-Aunt Hilda, extending my arm. “Then Layla and I will talk about particulars.” Hilda lifts her cane and points it at Layla. “You’ll need to send invitations tomorrow or Monday at the latest. People will want to rearrange their schedules. Good luck.” Then she ambles to the door and I transfer her into Jeremy’s care. When I turn around, Layla’s still standing in the same spot, looking stricken. She closes her mouth, gulps, then lifts her eyes to mine. Endless blue, so blue I could lose myself in them. She blinks. “What have I done?”