11. Layla
LAYLA
“ S o let me get this straight.” Serena's face fills my phone screen, her perfectly shaped eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Your dad went full helicopter parent and forced Bennett to keep you on?”
I adjust my position to hide the chaos of my desk, covered with papers scattered like confetti after a particularly violent parade. “That's the short version.”
“And now you're playing nice with Mr. Wrong Number every day?” Her grin could power half of Chicago. “How's that working out for your lady parts?”
“Serena!” Heat floods my cheeks. “It's barely been a week, and we’ve been in the same room twice. We agreed to keep it professional, and that’s what we’re doing.”
“Right. The two people I watched grind it on the dance floor last weekend can keep things professional.” She takes a deliberate sip from her mug, the words ‘ I'm not arguing, I'm just explaining why I'm right,’ emblazoned in hot pink.
“I suppose we could reframe it as—what? Corporate team building? ”
Just thinking about that dance floor burns hotter than all the tequila I drank. I can still feel his hands on my waist, his thigh between mine, that growl in my ear… Oh god. My thighs clench involuntarily.
“That was a mistake caused by too many shots,” I say. “It won't happen again.”
“That's what they all say before it happens again. And now you're stuck working with him for a whole year.” She fans herself dramatically. “If I were you, I’d bite clean through my lip just imagining the things he could do to me, both on and under , that board table. I mean, I’m only a bystander, but the way he moves says he’d be amazing in? — ”
“Three hundred and forty-two jobs are riding on this, Serena.” I have to cut her off before I combust.
“Seems like there could be other things riding too,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.
“New subject!” I check the time desperately. “The NeuraTech demo starts in fifteen.”
“Fine, but drinks this weekend are non-negotiable. Audrey's in. You're going to spill every dirty detail about working with that sex god in a suit.”
I end the call before she can see my face flame brighter.
And before she tricks me into admitting what we both know is true.
Being near Bennett every day without touching him will its own special torture.
Like being on a diet in a chocolate factory.
We might have agreed to keep things simple between us, but the dreams I keep waking up in a mess from have very different agendas.
Focus, Layla. People need their jobs. Not your hormones.
There’s a knock on my door, and Audrey pokes her head in. “You ready? ”
“Definitely.” I grab my tablet and follow her out, relieved for a distraction from my thoughts. “How's it going in the lab?”
“Chaotic? But we got the prototype running without any major fires.”
“Really?”
She laughs. “You sound so shocked.”
“I'm just so used to things going wrong,” I admit. “Like a recall making us target practice for a company like Mercer.”
“It's too early to celebrate,” she warns. “But the initial tests are promising. We're getting clearer signals than expected.”
“More than what we had at the last milestone?”
“Twice as good! Although, to be honest, I might be running mostly on adrenaline and cold brew at this point.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, I triple-checked the data. I'm as confident as a person who hasn't slept in seventy-two hours can be.”
That does get me excited. I feel lighter than I have in weeks, or maybe just more hopeful. If we can get this demo running for Bennett and his team, maybe we can change the narrative. Maybe we can buy more time.
The lab smells like electronics and anxiety when we arrive. Audrey rushes straight over to the prototype, making microscopic adjustments while, Emily—the R&D director—arranges documentation with military precision.
“Tracking system still holding?” Audrey mutters without looking up.
“It’s a miracle, but yes,” Emily confirms. Her hair’s up in a wildly crooked bun and she’s got three pens jammed behind her ear, but her hands don’t shake at all.
“Good. This needs to be flawless.” I straighten already-straight chairs because my hands need something to do. “We really need to impress these Mercer guys.”
“From what I’ve seen, one of them is clearly impressed with you.” Audrey glances up, her knowing smile making me want to hide.
“What’s going on?” Emily looks between us, her interest immediately piqued.
“Nothing,” I quickly answer before Audrey’s grin can turn wicked. “She’s exaggerating. Their team was just… engaged during the integration talk.”
“Oh, OK.” She puts her head back down and I shoot Audrey a warning glare.
She just giggles and returns to the prototype just as the lab door opens.
Logan shuffles in first, nose buried in his tablet like it contains the secrets of the universe.
Bennett and Caleb follow, and my ovaries practically stage a revolt.
Charcoal dress pants. Rolled sleeves. That little throat-clearing thing he does when he's focused.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
“Ms. Carmichael.” His voice is all business, but I swear his eyes linger on my lips for a fraction of a second. “Thank you for arranging this.”
“Of course.” I gesture to my colleagues, trying not to notice how his cologne makes me want to climb him like a tree. “Dr. Emily Morgan, R&D Director, and Audrey Thornton, lead engineer.”
Logan heads straight for Audrey, and they immediately start speaking in tongues—something about neural pathways and algorithmic responses. Caleb watches closely, cataloging everything.
Bennett moves closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My nipples tighten traitorously under my blouse.
“This is the market disruptor you mentioned during our first meeting.” His breath ghosts over my ear.
“It is.” I force my voice steady.
“I thought it was five months away from clinical,” he says, very quietly, just for me.
“It was. Audrey and Emily compressed the timeline.”
His gaze flicks to me, sharp enough to cut. “With what resources?”
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the bustling engineers a few feet away. “Mostly human sacrifice. Some sleep deprivation. And a lot of creative borrowing from old projects.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Approval? Attraction? The urge to bang me against the nearest wall?
Stop it, Layla.
Emily claps her hands. “Let's begin!”
For twenty minutes, she guides them through the neural interface while Audrey demonstrates on a mannequin. The prototype translates tiny movements into surgical precision that makes Logan practically vibrate with excitement.
“This isn't just medical!” He's actually bouncing on his toes. “Think robotics, remote surgery, space applications?—”
“That's the dream,” Audrey says, glowing under his enthusiasm.
“Timeline?” Bennett cuts in, all business again.
“With proper funding and enough staff? Three months.”
“Cost?”
I hand him our projections, fingers brushing his. The contact sends electricity straight to my core. “Twelve million. Conservative ROI of eight hundred million over five years.”
He scans the numbers with a concentrated furrow of his brows that makes my knees weak. “This is… doable.”
Relief floods through me like champagne bubbles.
“Logan, full technical review. Work directly with Ms. Thornton.” Audrey practically floats at the assignment. “Dr. Morgan, maintain the current timeline, and you’ll have your staff and funding.”
His eyes find mine, pinning me in place. “Ms. Carmichael. My office. One hour. Bring the go-to-market strategy.”
And just like that, it's done. No committees. No endless debates. Just decisive action that makes my pulse race for all the wrong reasons.
“Understood.”
As the others scatter, I somehow end up walking beside him. His hand hovers near my lower back, not quite touching but close enough to make my skin tingle.
“That went well,” I manage.
“Strong tech.” A pause. “Your father's design?”
“The concept, yes. Audrey made it actually work.”
“Smart, keeping it quiet.”
“Frustrating,” I counter. “If you'd seen it earlier?—”
“It wasn’t working earlier.”
“But if you'd known?—”
“Wouldn’t have changed the burn rate. Or the numbers.” His eyes lock onto mine. “But since you were so eager to show it off, I assume this means you'll make the meeting on time.”
He's gone before I can blink, leaving me standing there like I've been hit by a very attractive truck.
Mercer Capital's top floor is a temple to minimalism and money. Everything gleams—the floors, the furniture, the assistant who leads me to Bennett's corner office.
He's backlit by afternoon sun, focused on his screen with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“Thanks, Jenna.” He doesn't look up as she leaves.
I sit, placing my portfolio on his desk with hands that definitely aren't trembling. “The full analysis. Including every way this could explode in our faces.”
“Good.” He opens it immediately, skimming through the pages. “Where does your father stand on this?”
“He’s nervous after the recall. Wants to focus all our efforts on developing it as a surgical tool.”
“You think your father's vision for NeuraTech is too limited?”
“Not limited. Just... narrow.” I choose my words carefully. “He wants one perfect application. I see a platform that could revolutionize how humans interface with technology.”
“Ambitious.”
“Realistic. With the right partners.”
“And you'll fight for that vision?”
“I already am.”
Something shifts in his expression. For the next two hours, we dive deep into strategy, dissecting market opportunities with an intensity that feels like foreplay.
Every challenge I throw, he catches and returns with interest. Our ideas build on each other, creating something bigger than either could alone.
Halfway through, when I lean forward to point out a crucial market projection, his eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second. The air thickens between us.
“The Asian markets,” I push through, voice only slightly breathless, “could triple our initial projections.”
“Show me.” His voice is rougher than it was five minutes ago.
And I do, somehow maintaining my train of thought even though he's looking at me like he wants to devour me along with the data.
By the time we surface, the sun has shifted, painting his office in shades of gold.
“I should go.” I gather my materials reluctantly.
“Thank you.” He stands when I do, old-fashioned manners that make my heart skip. “This was... illuminating.”
At the door, I turn back. “Why did you really accept Dad's ultimatum? You could've fought it. Gotten rid of me right away. I know you wanted to.”
“You know the company.” His tone is carefully neutral. “Continuity matters.”
“That's not the only reason.”
His eyes darken. “Maybe I wanted to see what would happen.”
“With NeuraTech?”
“Among other things.”
The air between us crackles. I grip the door handle harder.
“Right. The prototype.” My smile feels brittle. “That's what this is about. ”
“Obviously.”
“Good day, Mr. Mercer.”
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
“Layla.”
I pause, not trusting myself to turn around.
“The green dress.” His voice drops an octave, and my heart kicks up.
“What about it?”
He lets it hang, like a challenge, and I feel every inch of skin that dress had once covered now burning under the memory of his gaze. I almost drop my folder. Instead, I clutch the edge of the door, knuckles white.
“What about it, Mr. Mercer?”
He’s silent just long enough to make me wonder if I imagined the whole damn thing. Did I? I turn to face him and he’s staring openly, something raw storming behind his eyes.
He opens his mouth, closes it. A microscopic shake of his head, like he’s saying to himself, ‘ No, don’t say it, don’t you dare, control yourself.’ But then he lets out his breath and the words pass his lips anyway.
“It looked good on you.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or combust. “That’s very… professional feedback.”
He doesn’t smile or even seem to breathe, but I swear his pupils dilate. “See you tomorrow, Ms. Carmichael.” The way he says it is a promise I shouldn't want him to keep. But I do.
I flee before my body can override my brain. In the elevator, I slump against the wall, pulse racing like I've run a marathon. My legs are actually shaking. From words. From three little words and the way his eyes went dark when he said them.
I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache he's left between them. Again.
Twelve months of this. Twelve months of pretending I don't want him to bend me over that pristine desk.
This is going to be the longest year of my life.
And I'm definitely going to need better underwear.