9. Layla
LAYLA
“ T o survival!” I’ve barely made it two steps from the bar when Serena bails me up and claims her shot glass, almost spilling the tequila as she raises it over her head.
“To survival!” Audrey and I echo, clinking our glasses before tipping the clear liquid down our throats.
The tequila burns a path of liquid courage straight to my belly. I quickly bite into the lime wedge, my face scrunching at the tartness.
“God, I needed that,” I say, shaking off the tequila shiver.
“One more!” Serena pushes through the crowd and signals the bartender.
“No way,” I protest, but I'm already laughing, my stress melting under the tequila's warm glow and the gleaming Chicago skyline. Thirty-something stories up, the city stretches before us in a glittering tapestry of light and promise .
“Yes way,” Serena insists. “Corporate raiders don't get to ruin our Saturday nights.”
I cringe at the mention. “We're not talking about work, remember?”
“Then let's dance!” Audrey suggests, surprising us both. Usually the reserved one, she's already loose-limbed and flushed from one shot.
“Who are you and what have you done with Audrey Thornton?” I tease.
“I'm on vacation from being sensible,” she says with uncharacteristic boldness. “For exactly twelve hours. Then I have to figure out how to squeeze five months of development into ten days.”
I wince. “Sorry about that.”
She gives me a little grin and a shrug. “Anything for my bestie. But we’re not talking about work, remember?”
The second round arrives. We down our shots with exaggerated ceremony, and then Serena grabs both our hands, pulling us toward the rooftop's makeshift dance floor where the band plays something with a pulsing beat that vibrates through the wooden deck beneath our heels.
The emerald dress Serena insisted I wear clings to my curves as I move, making me feel powerful, desirable, and dangerously confident. For the first time since the meeting, I'm not thinking about acquisition documents or Bennett Mercer's cold stare across the boardroom table.
Until a strange prickle crawls up my spine.
I freeze mid-dance, skin suddenly electric with awareness. This is the first time tonight that I’ve felt it, and the sensation of being watched intensifies until I can't ignore it, forcing me to scan the crowded rooftop.
“What's wrong?” Serena shouts over the music .
“Nothing,” I shake my head, unable to spot anyone looking our way, but struggling to shake the feeling. “Just paranoid, I guess.”
“That's what the third shot is for!” She shimmies closer, already signaling a passing waiter with a tray of something dangerous and colorful.
Three shots in, and the dance floor becomes our kingdom. We move together in the easy rhythm of longtime friends, laughing at nothing and everything. The music pulses, the city twinkles, and for blissful moments, I forget about companies and contracts and complicated men with perfect jawlines.
Until one appears directly in front of me.
“Can I join you?” Navy Blazer Guy asks, already moving into our circle with practiced confidence and zeroing in on me.
He's attractive enough, with a strong jaw, kind eyes and an easy smile. A month ago, I might have welcomed the attention.
But now all I see is that he's not him. Not Bennett. His eyes aren't steel-blue. His presence doesn't command the air around him.
Damn it.
“Sorry,” I say, raising my voice over the music. “Girls' night.”
His smile falters only slightly. “Just one dance? It’d be a shame to waste that dress.”
“The lady said no,” Serena interjects, physically inserting herself between us. “Places to go, people to avoid.”
He backs away, hands raised in good-natured surrender, and disappears into the crowd .
“You didn't even give him a chance!” Audrey says, leaning close to my ear.
“Not interested.”
“Because of Mr. Mercer?” Serena asks, emphasizing his name while waggling her eyebrows dramatically.
“We're not talking about work,” I remind her, resuming my dancing with forced enthusiasm.
“Fine. I'm getting water,” Serena announces. “Guard our dancing territory with your lives!”
As she weaves through the crowd toward the bar, I close my eyes, letting the music flow through me.
The tequila has softened the edges of my anxiety, leaving behind a pleasant buzz and the freedom to just exist in this moment, in this dress, in this body that's been carrying too much tension for too long.
That's when I feel it again—that electric awareness, stronger now. A presence moving closer.
Strong hands settle at my waist from behind.
My breath catches. I should turn. Should push away. Should demand to know who's touching me.
But I don't.
Because somehow, impossibly, I already know.
The hands guide me, turning me slowly until I'm facing him.
Bennett Mercer.
More handsome than I've ever seen him in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to reveal unfairly sculpted forearms. In the low light, surrounded by music and movement, he looks like trouble and temptation wrapped in designer fabric.
“Mr. Mercer?” I hate how breathless I sound, how my body instantly responds to his proximity .
He doesn't answer. Just pulls me closer until we're moving together, his thigh sliding between mine as we find the rhythm of the music. His eyes never leave mine, intense and unreadable in the shifting lights.
This is madness. Complete insanity.
And yet I don't pull away.
His hand slides to my lower back, a possessive pressure that sends heat spiraling through me. My fingers find his shoulders—broad, solid, and exactly as I'd imagined.
We move like our bodies remember something our minds haven’t caught up to. His thigh brushes mine. His hand slides lower on my back. My fingers curl around his shoulders, drawn in without permission.
Everything else disappears—music, people, reason. There’s only the press of his body against mine, the way he watches me like I’m the only thing in the world worth knowing.
“What are you doing here?” I finally breathe into his ear.
“Watching you.”
“Why?”
His hand trails up my spine, and I shiver. “Because I can’t seem to stop.”
My chest tightens. His fingers graze the nape of my neck, threading through my hair, angling my face up toward his. His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there, like he's contemplating something. Like he's about to… Oh god.
He dips his head, lips grazing past mine to pause at my ear. The heat of his breath nearly makes me collapse with want.
“Did you give that guy the wrong number too? ”
The words drop like a stone in my gut.
I freeze. A flush creeps up my neck. His expression doesn’t change, but the warmth between us vanishes like it was never there.
“I need some air.”
I slip from his arms and push through the crowd. He follows, of course he follows. When I reach the bar, I grab the edge like it might hold me upright. Bennett slides in beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine.
“It was my mother's,” I blurt out, unable to bear the tension another second.
He blinks. “What?”
“The number. It wasn’t fake. I just… flipped two digits. I was nervous, and I gave you hers.”
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. “Your mother.”
“Yes.”
The bartender appears before I can elaborate. “What can I get you?”
“Tequila,” I say. “A double. And I should probably drink some water too.”
“Macallan 25,” Bennett adds. He glances at me. “Also a double. On my tab.”
The bartender nods and disappears, leaving us in a strange pocket of stillness in the crowded bar.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes. No. I mean—it’s the truth. Our numbers are nearly identical. I had no idea until last night. My mom showed me the texts and it all clicked.”
He sips his newly delivered scotch, eyes never leaving mine. “Your mother showed you the texts?”
I pick up my tequila and down it on one gulp, needing the burn to settle my nerves. “She thought you were a guy she met online. I didn’t even know it was you until I saw the photo.”
“And that’s when you figured it out.”
“That’s when I realized why you never called. And why you looked at me like I kicked your dog in the boardroom.”
His jaw tightens. “So you're saying this was all just... a comedy of errors?”
“I’m saying it was a mix-up. Not a con. I wasn’t playing you. I didn’t know who you were at the festival. I didn’t know about the deal.”
Silence stretches.
“You realize how this looks,” he says.
“I do. But it's the truth.” I take a long sip of water, nerves making my fingers tremble slightly.
A muscle twitches in his jaw, and something I can't read passes over his face as he downs the last of his drink.
“It doesn’t change anything.”
The words land with a dull thud. “What?”
“The acquisition. The company. None of that changes because of...” He glances at me, frowns and just shakes his head.
“I know.” My voice is quiet. “I just didn’t want you thinking I lied.”
He places his empty glass on the bar and turns to me with that unreadable look again.
“I appreciate the clarification.”
That’s it? That’s all?
“Right.” I finish my water a little too forcefully. “Well. Mystery solved. Festival Girl isn't a manipulative bitch. Just a klutz who gets sweaty around hot guys, and messes up her own phone number. Thanks for hearing me out, Mr. Mercer. ”
I turn to go, but his hand catches my wrist, his grip firm but gentle.
“Layla.”
Just my name. But it hits somewhere low in my stomach.
I turn back.
“I didn't think you were a manipulative bitch,” he says, voice dropping to something intimate only I can hear. “I thought you were a complication I didn't need.”
“And now?”
He looks at my mouth.
“Now I’m reconsidering.”
“Ms. Carmichael!”
Caleb Kingsley's voice cuts through the moment. His timing as impeccable as always.
Bennett drops my wrist. The loss of contact is immediate and jarring.
“Mr. Kingsley,” I say, schooling my expression. “Nice to see you again.”
“Please. Call me Caleb. We're not in the boardroom.” He looks between us, amusement obvious. “Hope I'm not interrupting. I was on a call, and it took a little longer than expected.”
“Ms. Carmichael was just clarifying a misunderstanding,” Bennett says smoothly.
Caleb lifts a brow. “Really.”
“Really,” I echo, a step already creating distance between us, like my body knows this moment is over. “And now I should get back to my friends before they assume I've been abducted. ”
“Of course.” Caleb smiles. “Enjoy your evening.”
I glance at Bennett one last time. His face is neutral again. Back to business.
“Goodnight, Mr. Mercer.”
“Ms. Carmichael,” he replies with a nod.
I walk away, pulse racing, cheeks hot, head spinning. The tequila's buzz has nothing on the intoxication of his touch, his proximity, the memory of his body against mine on the dance floor.
He believes me. Or he's starting to.
And for one suspended moment in rooftop air, I really think he was going to kiss me.
The terrifying part?
I would've let him. Worse, than that. I wanted him to.