Leif I should be at work already. On a normal day, I would’ve been gone an hour ago. As I sit on a barstool at the kitchen island with an empty mug in front of me, the houseke eper dusts the living room end tables and my assistant taps an email out on her phone. The house manager is gathering bills from last week and heading to the office to reconcile the expenses, and my daughter is swinging her legs as she eats a bowl of cereal. My mind, however, is on someone who should be arriving any minute. I thought of Layla all weekend—purely because of the party, of course. I sent her a guest list yesterday, and a few hours later, she had three options for invitations. When I chose one, she promised to have them printed by this afternoon. Her emails were brisk and businesslike, just like mine. But still... There was something. Something in the way my heart thumped when I saw her name pop up on my screen, in those seconds before I clicked to open her emails. Something in the way I read her name and scoured her messages for a hint—anything—that would tell me she noticed me the way I noticed her. Shaking my head, I turn back to the tablet in front of me. I have a meeting in two hours with the lawyers in charge of acquiring the properties in Newark for our new development. I should be pr eparing for that, but my mind ke eps slipping away, to shimmering golden hair, to long, long, long legs, to big blue eyes that see more than they should. The doorbell rings, and my heart takes off at a mad gallop. “I’ll get it!” Isla is already off her stool and sprinting to the door. She pulls it open before I can say anything, before I can get my heart to slow down to a reasonable pace. I turn toward the front door, looking across the vast expanse of my formal living room— And there she is. Endless legs clad in tight, dark-blue jeans, that ratty old jacket wrapped around her slim shoulders, and blond hair tied up in a high ponytail. She’s wearing the boots I bought, and I almost let out a purr of satisfaction. Layla greets my daughter with a brilliant smile. A strange pain pierces my chest again, like a sharp twist in the area of my heart. Frowning, I slip off my barstool and straighten my clothes. Layla smiles at something my daughter is saying, but I can’t quite hear any of it. All I see is the way my daughter holds out her hand for Layla’s jacket, and the slow, delicious way she strips it off to reveal a white peasant top. It’s loose and a little sheer and it makes me want to pull it down past her shoulders to run my lips over every inch of her creamy skin. Blinking, I clench my hands into fists until my nails bite into my palms. Then I can come back to myself—and that’s when Layla looks at me. “Mr. Sorensen,” she says with a nod. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning.”
“I’m on my way out,” I say, a bit more roughly than I’d intended. “We have a few things to discuss, though. Are you free this evening to stay back for an hour or so?” She nods, lush lips curling into a polite smile. I don’t want polite. I want the smile that lit her face when she talked about fairy lights and furniture and caterers. “Of course,” Layla says. “I’ll be here.” “Will you pick me up from school?” Isla asks. “I have swimming lessons tonight so I’ll have to go there before I go home. Harriet usually has a snack ready for me because I’m always hungry after school. Will you make me a snack too?” Layla’s smile softens into something more real, and a bit of tension unwinds in my chest. She nods. “Of course, Isla. I hear you like cheese and crackers most of all.” “And apple slices!” My daughter turns to me, bright- eyed. “Layla already knows what I like for snacks!” “Harriet made sure your r eplacement was well- informed,” I tell my daughter. “Now give me a kiss. I need to go to work.” Isla runs to me, throws her hands around my neck, and plants a loud kiss on my cheek. “Bye!” she says, then turns to Layla. “Will you braid my hair?” That same soft smile appears on her face, but this time it’s a little brighter. “Sure. A French braid?” Isla freezes, eyes going wide. “You know how to French braid hair? Harriet didn’t know how to French braid hair. She just did pigtails.” “I used to do it for my sister all the time. I could do two French braids tied into a bun at the nape of your neck if you want. If you have a pretty clip, we can use that too.” Isla practically vibrates with excitement. She rushes to Layla, grabs her hand, and starts tugging her to the stairs. “I have the perfect clip. It’s sparkly. I’ll show you. Let’s go!” The sound of Layla’s laughter wraps around me like a velvet rope, causing all kinds of sensations to erupt over my skin. I watch them head to the stairs, where my daughter gives me a wave and starts describing, in great detail, every single one of her hair accessories. My assistant, Regina, looks up from her phone with that look that sees everything. She arches one single eyebrow. “Is Elton out front?” I ask, my voice harsh. “We need to leave.” “He’s been double-parked for twenty minutes.” Regina strides across the lower level and shrugs on her jacket. “Now that I know what we were waiting for, it all makes so much more sense.” My houseke eper, Mary, snorts. I even hear a chuckle from the office where Darren is reconciling the household accounts. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I look at Mary, who continues dusting, unbothered by my question. My gaze shifts to the open door to the office, where Darren remains bent over the desk. Finally, I look at Regina, who still has that insolent eyebrow arched. I point a finger at her. “You’re lucky you’re good at your job, Regina, because you have no idea what respect means. None of you do.”
“Please,” Regina says, her hand on the doorknob. “If you wanted to be surrounded by yes-people, you wouldn’t have hired any of us. You certainly wouldn’t have hired that pretty new nanny, either.” “It’s temporary. Harriet will be back in a week, and Layla will be gone.” “Sure she will.” Regina opens the door. “Come on. Your lawyers charge us for their time whether you’re in the room or not. I’d rather not line their pockets for twiddling their thumbs.” “I get no respect around here. None.” Mary lets out another snort, her eyes twinkling when they meet mine. “Have a good day, Mr. Sorensen.” “Are you sure you don’t need either of us to stay back tonight, too?” Darren says, appearing in the office doorway. “Maybe as chaperones?” “I should fire every single one of you,” I grumble, pulling on my wool peacoat and wrapping my favorite cashmere scarf around my neck. There’s no heat in my words, though, and I find myself glancing at the stairway one last time before I leave my house and go to work. The lawyers tell me they haven’t made any headway with the elderly couple in Newark. They’ve refused all our generous offers to buy them out, and now there’s a rumor they’ll be hiring their own law firm to fight. Apparently the old man actually answered the phone this morning and said as much, between insults and accusations of corruption. “Not to worry,” Barry, the partner at the law firm, says. “There’s no way they can out-litigate us. They’ll waste a lot of money and time on legal fees, and we’ll end up buying the house at a bargain. It could actually turn out to our advantage.” “To your advantage, I’m sure,” I answer, glancing pointedly at my watch. “How much are you charging per hour again?” Barry just laughs. He picks up a stack of papers in front of him and taps them on the table to straighten them. “We have it all in hand, Mr. Sorensen. All you need to do is ke ep the city council happy and you’ll be starting the demolition as per schedule, in March.” My blood feels hot—the thrill of the hunt. This development is the first my company is pursuing outside of the state of New York. If I can make it work in New Jersey, it’ll give me a template to expand the business to other states. The growth potential is huge, and I can almost taste success on my tongue. The elderly couple should take what we offer. They could retire in Florida and live out their days under the sun. This is what I live for. Or at least, it’s what I live for in my professional world. When I’m not with Isla, I’m the aggressive businessman who’s built this company from the ground up. I love closing a deal. I love hard negotiations. I love winning. It sometimes feels strange to go home to my daughter after a day being the CEO. I have to turn into a completely different man to be a father to my daughter. And if I’m going on a date with a woman, I slip into another compartment in my life to seduce and charm her, completely s eparate to the father or the businessman I am elsewhere.
With Layla, it feels different. She sees me as a father, but I act like a CEO. I want her like a man wants a woman, but I love seeing her soft smile and the way she speaks to my daughter. It’s... confusing. I’m so used to s eparating the various aspects of my life that seeing Layla blend them makes me uneasy. That discomfort sticks with me all morning. Once gone from the lawyers’ offices, Regina tells me of various other business meetings and engagements. It’s a day like any other, but it isn’t. I’m no longer excited by the prospect of making money, of negotiating lucrative deals, of finding opportunities where other people see only loss. Today, my thoughts drift to my home. To the woman who’s there, planning a surprise party for my daughter. The one who has already designed invitations and promised to have a caterer organized by this afternoon. The woman who could look at my living room and see a completely different space—one where a kids’ party with a Swan Lake theme could happen. “Leif?” I blink, then look up from my desk. Regina’s standing across from me, tablet cradled in her arm, stylus held aloft. “I’m sorry,” I say, “my mind wandered. What did you say?” “I asked about the Lusso project. The project managers tell me that they’ll be ready for a final unveiling within six weeks. That’s three weeks ahead of schedule. All but one apartment has already been sold.” Lusso means luxury in Italian. We built the Lusso tower on the south end of Central Park, refitting and expanding a tired old commercial building. Even with one of the units yet to be sold, I stand to make a tidy profit. To finish ahead of schedule and under budget is a victory—but I feel nothing. Nodding, I wave a hand. “Good, good.” My eyes drift to my screen again, where a new email from Layla has arrived. This time, she’s attached a proposed menu from her caterer friend, and all I can say is I’m impressed. Small bites, cocktail foods, as well as larger plates and a whole array of desserts, all paired with various wines. “Typically, you meet with the project managers and congratulate them, Mr. Sorensen,” Regina says, drawing my attention back to her. “Last time a project finished ahead of schedule and nearly fully sold, you took your management team out for dinner and drinks and gave them bonuses.” “Set up whatever you need to set up, Regina. Just put it in my calendar and I’ll be there.” Frowning at me, Regina pauses for a moment, then nods. “And clear my schedule for Friday. I’m celebrating my daughter’s birthday.” With that, I turn back to the menu on my screen and make notes, a de ep, drumming excitement welling up in my core at the thought of the woman waiting for me when I get home.