The Virgin Society Collection

25. Little Rich Girl

25

LITTLE RICH GIRL

Layla

After Nick parks the car in my nearby garage, he walks me to my home on Seventy-Third. We stop by the stoop of the brownstone next door. He looks up at my building with obvious admiration in his eyes.

It is, by all measure, a gorgeous building. One that most twenty-three-year-olds wouldn’t live in on their own.

And, really, I don’t.

After what he told me in the diner, I might as well slap a sandwich board on my chest— I’m a little rich girl .

It’s borderline embarrassing that I don’t pay for my beautiful, sunlit, sixth-floor one-bedroom by myself. I don’t pay for it at all. In Miami, I held back pieces of myself. I’ve still clutched tight the stories I don’t want to share.

But he opened the drawer to his past tonight, offering the unvarnished truth. And the more he gives of himself, the more I want to give him the real me.

All of me.

The desire to open up is almost rabid, like I have to exorcize words, and stories, and truths. This impulse is so new. I certainly didn’t look for this kind of connection with a person. I didn’t expect it. I even tried to avoid it.

And yet every time I’m with Nick, all I want is to get closer to him. I can’t physically. We have to stand a few feet apart, and I hate the distance. It’s the opposite of what I want as I succumb to this animal instinct clawing at me to share with him.

Even if we can’t be a thing, I want him to know the me without makeup. “I have a trust fund. My mother is disgustingly rich. My father was very successful. I’ve never struggled like that,” I say, the truth tasting saccharine-sweet for the first time. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes are soft, caring. “Don’t say that. Don’t apologize.”

“But I feel bad. I’m everything you don’t like.”

“Stop,” he says sternly as he wraps a hand around the railing behind him, like he needs it to hold him back from touching me. “You are everything I like.”

I don’t deserve that kindness. I didn’t earn it. “You must think of me as the poor little rich girl,” I say, as I wave a hand at the beautiful brick building I didn’t earn, the residence most New Yorkers would trade an organ for. This building is straight out of a silver-screen romance. “I didn’t even have to use my trust fund money for this. My father owned several apartments in this building. He was a defense attorney. The best in the city. The apartments were a real estate investment he made after a particularly good year at his law firm,” I say in another confession that feels almost shameful. Like, look how one percent of one percent I am. “Well, my mom owns the apartments now. Everything of his went to her. Including what was left of his law firm, Mayweather and McBride.”

There. I’ve inched closer to that awful truth too. I’ve breathed his name out loud to Nick.

His eyes fill with sorrow. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me. And you absolutely don’t have to justify your family to me.”

“But I feel like I do,” I say, and my voice is pitchy and it’s irritating me. It must irritate him. “I don’t want you to see me that way,” I say, desperation twisting up inside me like a coiled snake. I point at all these things. “I have this car, and this free home, and a house in the Hamptons, and even though I pay my own way with my app and my videos, I don’t really because I don’t pay rent. And you must think I sound like all the people who looked down on you when you worked at the country club.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, insistent. “How could I?”

“How could you not?” I ask, backing up against the railing on the first step, because I just can’t tempt myself with closeness.

But he lets go of the railing, moves closer to me, sets a gentle hand on my cheek. “I don’t hate money. I don’t hate people who have money. I only hate the way it changes people,” he says, and his warm voice is so kind, I want to wrap myself in it all night long.

All week.

All month.

But that’s pointless.

I don’t even know why I’m trying to prove myself to him. We can’t be together. We can’t be a thing. We are just two people who can’t stand next to each other on the street because we’re too forbidden. But the prospect of him walking away tonight and thinking for even a second that I’d have said those things to him that others did, that I’d have treated him like he wasn’t good enough, rips me apart. “Just because my mom wants certain things for me,” I begin, the words catching in my throat, stirring up emotions I don’t want to fully face—her wants, her wishes, her future dreams. “That doesn’t mean I’m like that,” I add. “I’m not looking for a rich guy. I’m not looking for a name, or a pedigree, or an Ivy diploma. I’m not looking for anyone.”

At least, I wasn’t.

Then I got to know him. And the desire to touch him turned into the desire to know him. And for him to know me.

So I stop before I reveal too much. But then, screw it. Tonight is for revelation. “I’ve already met the only man who interests me, but I can’t be with him,” I say, laying out my heart. “You, Nick.”

His expression darkens with dashed hope. “Same here,” he says, regretfully.

“So I don’t want you to think of me like those jerks in your past. Okay? I just don’t. I’m not like that.”

With surprising tenderness, he leans in and presses his forehead to mine, in spite of the risks. “I know, beautiful. I know who you are,” he adds softly, and I’m dying to rope my hands around his neck and kiss him passionately right here.

Instead, I grab the railing behind me, like he did before.

He must sense the tension in me, and how hard this is, since he backs away, resignation in those haunting hazel eyes. “If I stay here any longer, I won’t leave. I’ll toss you over my shoulder and kick down the door, then spend the night showing you exactly what I think of you,” he says with both heat and affection.

I manage a smile, a small thanks for that sexy and warm sentiment. “I wish you could.”

“I wish I could too,” he says, in a sad whisper. Then he shakes his head, huffs out a breath. “I should get going.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I’ll see you…around.”

I swipe a hand across my cheek, then nod as resolute as I can. “See you?—”

But I swallow the word when I hear a familiar voice call out: “Layla!”

I snap to attention at the sound of Raven. Her voice is coming from behind me but crawling up my spine.

This is not how I should feel about a friend.

Putting on a false face, I turn around to see my business school colleague staring curiously at me, then at Nick.

Did she see Nick’s forehead touching mine?

Did she hear his sweet nothings?

Or my confessions?

My stomach twists. “Hi, Raven,” I say brightly, way more cheerfully than I normally would. “What are you up to?”

She swings a purple boho purse over her shoulder. “Just finished a date. It wasn’t too bad. And you?”

She looks at Nick, and my neck goes hot.

The implication. Dear god, the implication.

But I’ll have to squash it with a lie.

“We were just picking some things up for the auction,” I say, trying but likely failing to mask how uncomfortable I feel.

I’m a liar.

I can hear my father’s murderer saying those words to him the week before his death. The accusation so loud, so vitriolic, it seeped through the phone call in my father’s home office. Then, I recall the worry I felt when I asked Dad after he hung up, “Is everything okay with Joe?”

“Just a disagreement,” my father had said. “It happens in business.”

I try to shake off the terrible memory of a week later when I opened the door to my home.

Clearing away the past, I gesture awkwardly to the handsome man by my side. “This is,” I begin, pausing to collect my thoughts better.

But Raven’s eyes shine with recognition. “You’re the guy from the conference!”

Great. Nick must think I blabbed to Raven about banging him. “Nick Adams,” he says, with a professional grin as he extends a hand. “Strong Ventures now. Nice to meet you.”

He’s a pro at navigating weirdness. He’s dealt with uncomfortable social situations since he was seventeen. But I can’t let him manage this one solo. “The guy who keynoted in Miami,” I jump in to clarify as she lets go of his hand. Raven has no idea Nick and I were a thing that night.

“Right. I heard you were great,” she adds, and it’s not her fault, but she still makes it sound like I kissed and told.

“His speech was great,” I add, and why am I not better at this? I know how to fake it when my mom sends me on dates. Why can’t I be more smooth right now when I need it most? When my insides are jumpy and my heart is too tender?

“That’s the word on the street. Anyway…” Raven’s gaze flickers from Nick to me. And I know, I just know I’ll be getting a text from her later asking what’s up.

“Nick and I are doing some work on planning David’s fundraiser. Picking up auction items,” I say, finally explaining myself. “For A Helping Paw. The one you’re donating to.”

“Yes, thank you. We appreciate that,” Nick adds.

“Oh, right. You’re David’s dad,” Raven says, then she shakes her head, like she’s admonishing herself some more. “I really should have gone to your keynote. But you know what? I’m going to download it from the conference app tonight and listen to it on my morning run.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” Nick says smoothly.

“I know I will.” Raven comes in to give me a quick hug. “Details,” she whispers in my ear, then waves a hand and saunters down the street.

When I return my self-conscious gaze to Nick, I feel foolish. I feel young. I feel…like a little liar.

“I should go,” I say so I don’t do another risky thing tonight.

“Me too.”

I turn to head into the lobby, then stop. “I never said a thing to her. About us,” I whisper. “I need you to know that.”

“I know that,” he says, then sighs heavily, and drags a hand over the back of his neck, like whatever’s coming next pains him to say. “But Layla?”

He doesn’t even have to say the next thing. We can’t do this again.

Forget tender. My heart feels bruised. “I know we can’t do this again, Nick. Good night.”

Then I run past the doorman and into my building, up the elevator, into my apartment. I shut and deadbolt the door quickly, turning on the lights, refusing to look back.

I have to move forward.

When Raven texts me a few minutes later, I vow to take the first step in moving on. From my bureau, I grab a tank to wear to bed, then I click open her text. But I already know what it’s going to say. And I’m right.

Raven: Did I pick up on a vibe with the hot daddy? Because I’m pretty sure I picked up on a vibe.

I curse under my breath as I sit on the edge of my red chaise longue. Then, I ignore the kernel of guilt wedging itself into my chest as I tap out a reply.

Layla: Ha! Would it be terrible if I said I wish? I mean, the man’s hot and all, but he’s more like a mentor.

There. It’s true enough.

Raven: Ah, got it. Well, maybe in another life. Let’s catch up soon! You owe me some clubbing time.

Layla: I do! And you can cash in. Can’t wait to see you in the Hamptons.

I toss my phone on my bed, far, far away where I won’t have to tap out any more lies. A true enough lie is still a lie.