Layla I, um, got carried away. See, I couldn’t help but overhear Leif and his great-aunt talking about Isla’s party, and my mind started churning. All those Pinterest boards of events, cute little details and party favors, the potential that unlimited funds could bring... It made me speak before I could think. I did one year of an event planning course at a local community college before I had to quit to work full-time, but the truth is, I love parties. In theory. I haven’t exactly gotten to plan many of them, unless you include church potlucks with my grandmother. Now Leif is staring at me from the other side of the room, his lips twitching. “You heard the woman,” his de ep, de ep voice rumbles. “You’re in charge.” “No,” I answer. “No?” “No. I’m not in charge. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t plan an event for literal billionaires.” His smile widens. “You just planned the whole thing in less than ten minutes, Layla. Of course you can.” Gah! My name on his tongue shouldn’t twist me up in knots like that. Now, not only do I have to contend with blind panic seizing my muscles, I also have to deal with wobbly knees. Why couldn’t I get a job with people like the Eldridges? When I worked for them, they barely gave me a second glance. I took care of the twins and followed the rules and did everything I had to, and Mr. Eldridge treated me with cold courtesy. Mrs. Eldridge was mostly just cold. It was perfect! None of this heat lashing my core. None of the electric anticipation every time Leif moves. None of the prickling on my skin. I should never have acc epted this job. But, but, but... Emma’s college fees. Rent. Bills. Grandma and Grandpa’s upcoming legal battles. I can’t turn down a week of steady work when it pays as much as Leif Sorensen does. Turning away from his too-sharp gaze, I survey the room. I sense him coming closer, his presence pressing in on me like an electrical storm. He comes to stand next to me, shoulder brushing mine. “What are you thinking?” he asks quietly. “There’s a lot to do before Friday.” “Great-Aunt Hilda seemed to think invitations were a good place to start.” “That’s your domain,” I answer. “How am I supposed to know how to create a guest list?” An alarm goes off, and I swear under my breath. “I need to go.” “What?” Leif stiffens next to me. “Where?” “I have a shift at the bar,” I answer. Why now? Why me? I should have cleared my schedule entirely this week. I should have known that rich people expected more time than normal clients.
“You can’t go. We have a party to plan.” “Work on the guest list,” I answer, turning to the closet where I hung my jacket. “I’ll work on invitation design after my shift, and we can send them out tomorrow. Is this going to be a surprise for Isla, or do you want her to help with planning?” “Surprise,” Leif answers automatically. “I want to see her face when she walks in.” I nod, pulling my jacket on. “Fine. I won’t come tomorrow, then, but I’ll talk to the caterer I know and work on other logistics. What’s the budget?” Leif waves a hand, because of course he does. Why would someone with the net worth of a small country worry about the budget for a kids’ party? “Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket to pull out a credit card. “Buy whatever you need. Elton will be at your disposal this week to take you where you need to go. I’ll expect a full proposal by tomorrow evening, though, with a projected budget.” He clears his throat. “Thank you, Layla.” I pause as I pull on my hat, then nod. “No problem at all, Mr. Sorensen. Isla’s a great kid. She deserves to feel special.” I grab my new boots and purse, turn to the door, then pause. Turning to face him once more, it takes me half a second to regain my senses, because he’s so beautiful it almost hurts my eyes. “You should talk to Isla’s ballet teacher today, ask her if she can organize for the kids to come and do a small performance. She might even know dancers that we can hire for the event. If your mother wants to impress a rival, there should be entertainment for the adults as well.” “Yes ma’am,” Leif says with a little salute. He moves toward the door and opens it for me, but doesn’t move out of the way. We pause, staring at each other, and the moment stretches. I wonder what it would feel like to run my palm over his cheek. He’s usually clean-shaven, but there’s a hint of stubble there now. It would be rough against my skin, my cheek, my lips. If I kissed his stubble, would he turn his face to take my lips in his? Would he taste as masculine and strong and irresistible as he looks? “I’ll send you the guest list tonight,” he says. It might be my imagination, but his voice sounds ever so slightly huskier than usual. But his face is a mask of professionalism, and Leif Sorensen takes half a st ep away from me to let me pass. I slip out the door and into the cold Manhattan winter, using every ounce of my will not to turn my head and see if he’s watching me go. The next hour or two hardly give me time to stop and breathe. If I do, I might panic about all the extra work I’ve taken on. But the panic would be laced with excitement, too. Event planning is always something that has interested me, and the prospect of doing it on an unlimited budget? All I can say is—squee! All I know is I can’t mess up. If I do a bad job of Isla’s party, not only will it reflect badly on Leif, but it’ll also completely ruin my chances of getting a permanent nannying placement. I’ll be the one who planned the horrible children’s party, and why would you trust someone who couldn’t even do something so simple?
But if I do a good job... Well, it’s better not to think of that. Instead, I rush home and get ready for my shift at the sports bar, also known as Job Number Three. My evenings most nights are occupied working at a sports bar near my apartment, and tonight is no different. Even this coming week, I’ll be working at the bar most evenings after I leave Leif and Isla’s, unless I can miraculously get all my shifts covered. Truthfully, I can’t really afford to take the week off, even if I could find someone to pick up my shifts. Now that I have an event to plan as well, I know I’ll be run off my feet. Tomorrow morning, I’ll stop in at the café and talk to Rachael about her catering business. She’s been struggling to find clients these days, her busy season being summer. If she’s booked out on Friday, I don’t know what I’ll do instead, but there’s no time to think about that. I have to find suitable furniture to rent and figure out where to store Leif’s current oversized, comfortable pieces. They won’t do for a large party. I need to source drinks, cutlery, dishes, decorations, children’s games, design and print invitations, think of lighting and heat lamps and tablecloths and, and, and... These are the things I think about while I do a late shift at the sports bar near my apartment, running drinks to tables and halfheartedly smiling at patrons as they try to flirt with me. I’ve been doing this for years—using my smile and bubbly persona to make sure I get decent tips at the end of the night. I’m not bad at it, exactly, but it always feels... fake. I hear the same jokes from patrons over and over again. I make the same jokes back. I make sure to remember customers and memorize their regular orders, and I ask about their families and hobbies. It pays the bills, but the truth? The truth is, the thought of planning Isla’s party fills me with so much energy and excitement that it doesn’t even compare. I could plan a thousand events on short notice, run myself down to the ground, and enjoy it a lot more than painting a false smile on my face and tolerating half-drunk men leering at me. One day, maybe. One day I’ll pursue something I want. For now, I need the money waitressing provides. So tonight, even as my mind tries to unknot all the problems I’ll have to solve for Isla’s birthday party, I put my patented Vapid Waitress Smile on my face and do my job. One of my regulars is a man named Joe. He always comes in on weeknights, makes sure to sit in my section, orders a couple of baskets of wings and a few beers, and tips generously. He wears this old, worn baseball cap that’s fraying around the edges, and he smiles every time I come up to the table. He works at the port as a teamster, and he’s built like a linebacker. I know a lot of the other waitresses think he’s cute. We’ve had lots of whispered, giggling conversations where they lamented the fact that he always searches out my section. One of the younger waitresses, Kylie, seems to be particularly infatuated with him. It’s unusual for him to be here on Saturday, and Kylie is making moon eyes at him from across the bar. She can have Joe. Tonight, I find myself comparing him to another man—a man who is utterly off-limits. Joe has a soft kind of musculature. He’s built like a teddy bear. He doesn’t have that lethal kind of strength that pulses in Leif. Joe’s scruff is always a bit untidy. He’s always nice, but he’s never said
anything interesting. In other words, he’s cute—but boring. Tonight, his hat is nowhere in sight and he’s wearing a button-down shirt. “You got a hot date tonight, Joe?” I ask, dropping off his beer with my usual smile. Truthfully, I don’t feel like smiling. I feel like going home, opening my laptop, and starting on one of the thousand items on my to-do list for the party. I’m energized in a way I haven’t been in a long time, and it feels like torture to have to work in this bar until one or two in the morning. Streaks of red appear on Joe’s cheekbones, his eyes sliding away from mine. “A man can’t wear a shirt?” I laugh. “Of course you can. You look very handsome.” Another patented bright, bubbly Waitress Smile. “Who’s the lucky lady?” Joe clears his throat, reaching for his beer. He takes a big gulp, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Well, that’s the thing, Layla. I was wondering...” My stomach sinks. I know that look. He’s about to ask me out, and it’s going to be horrendously, painfully awkward, because he’s taken my waitress persona as interest, and I’m going to have to find a way to reject him. “Um, excuse me?” A lady at the next table over snaps her fingers at me. “We’ve been waiting for our food for ten minutes while you’re standing there flirting. We haven’t even received our drinks yet. Can’t you do your job?” She raises her eyebrow at me, her too-tight top bulging with excess cleavage. I give her a slight variant of my Waitress Smile, this time with a hint of an apology in my eyes—all while raging on the inside. I hate when people snap their fingers at me, and I know for a fact that it hasn’t been ten minutes since I put in their orders. Two minutes, at most. Leif has been nothing but respectful, even though he’s used to ordering people around. He’s my boss, my superior, but when I stupidly blurted out my ideas for Isla’s party, he didn’t dismiss me. He listened. He’d never snap his fingers at me or sneer like this lady. Then again, she did just save me from rejecting Joe, so maybe I should be thanking her. “I’ll go check on the bar. Shouldn’t be long!” Scurrying away on aching feet, I lean over the bar and ask the bartender to rush the drinks for the rude lady. The back of my neck itches, and I can almost feel Joe’s eyes on me. As I wait for the bartender to pour the lady’s drinks— ahead of other customers that have been waiting longer, I might add—I bite my lip. This infatuation with Leif is ridiculous. He forgot about me when we first met. No matter what my stupid heart wants to believe, Leif doesn’t see me. Holding on to this crush will only hurt me in the end. Maybe I shouldn’t turn Joe down. Maybe I should date him. Isn’t he in my league? Wouldn’t he be the exact perfect type of guy for me to date? He’s nice. He has a job. He cares about his family.
For no decipherable reason whatsoever, my thoughts snap to Leif’s face when he said goodbye to me earlier today. His eyes were soft, but there was heat there. His shirt tugged at his shoulders, and I ached to feel the smooth hardness of his muscles. My body felt like fire and ice all wrapped in one. Joe has never made me feel like that. Then again, Leif is a fantasy. If I did sle ep with him— which would be a mistake, of course—he would forget about me immediately. And I don’t mean he’d set me aside and never pick me up again, like a toy. I mean he would literally forget. The way he did before. The rude lady’s drinks are ready, so I push all thoughts of Leif and Joe aside. I arrange them on my tray and bring them over to her, apologizing for the wait and resigning myself to a low tip from her when she rolls her eyes and snorts. When Joe gives me a sympathetic look, I wink at him. And later, when he pays his bill and asks me if I’d like to grab dinner sometime, I tell him I’d love to even though it feels like a lie.