18. Bennett
BENNETT
M y phone buzzes for the third time in two minutes. Tokyo. Or Caleb. Or any of the dozen fires that need my attention. I reach for it, then freeze.
Layla's arm tightens across my chest, her mumbled protest warm against my skin.
The entire Mercer Capital empire can wait.
I set the phone aside and study her in the morning light. Hair wild across my pillow. Makeup smudged. One leg tangled with mine, the sheet barely covering her. She looks thoroughly debauched.
Perfect.
She shifts, pressing closer, and her eyes flutter open. Confusion gives way to recognition, then to a slow smile that hits me directly in the chest.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
Her hand traces lazy patterns on my chest. “What time is it? ”
“Six-thirty.”
“Early.” She stretches against me, every inch of skin sliding against mine. “Plenty of time.”
“Time for what?”
Her answer is to throw one leg over my hips, straddling me in one smooth motion. The sheet falls away, revealing her naked body in the pale light.
“Layla.” My hands find her waist automatically. “We should probably talk about?—”
She rolls her hips, and my words die in my throat.
“Talking is overrated,” she murmurs, leaning down to kiss my neck. “I prefer action.”
“I noticed that about you.” My grip tightens as she continues her slow torture. “Very goal-oriented.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her teeth graze my pulse point. “And right now, my goal is to make you forget every responsible thought in that brilliant head.”
“Mission accomplished.”
She laughs, the sound vibrating through both our bodies. “I've barely started.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise.” She sits up, hands braced on my chest. “Unless you have objections?”
I flip us in one motion, pinning her beneath me. Her surprised laugh turns into a gasp as I press against her.
“No objections,” I say roughly. “But if we're doing this, we're doing it my way.”
“Control freak.”
“You love it.”
“Maybe.” Her legs wrap around my waist. “Prove it.”
Twenty minutes later, we're both breathless and tangled in sheets that will definitely need changing. Layla's face is buried in my neck, her body still trembling with aftershocks.
“OK,” she pants. “You proved it.”
I laugh, surprising myself. When's the last time I laughed in bed? “Glad you approve.”
“I've lost count of how many times you've made me come in the last twelve hours.” She props herself up on one elbow.
“I can send you the spreadsheet report later.”
“Please don’t. I just want this to be…easy. No counting.”
I pull her close and nuzzle into her neck, kissing her gently behind her ear. “To be honest with you, I’ve lost count too.”
We laugh and grin at each other like idiots. This should feel strange. Banter and comfort don’t always come this easy. Instead, it feels like something clicking into place.
My phone buzzes again. Then again.
“You should probably get that,” Layla says, though her hand sliding down my stomach suggests otherwise.
“Probably.” I don't move.
Another buzz. This time hers joins in.
“OK, the universe is being very clear,” she sighs, rolling away to grab her phone from the nightstand. “Oh shit.”
“What?”
“Seven missed calls from my assistant.” She sits up, sheet clutched to her chest. “And twelve texts. Mostly variations of 'where are you' and 'your father is calling everyone looking for you.'”
“Tell her you had an early morning meeting.”
“At six forty-five? ”
“Very early.” I pull her back against me. “With a very demanding colleague.”
“Bennett.” But she's smiling. “I need to go home and change. I can't show up to the office in yesterday's clothes.”
“Why not?”
She gives me a look. “Because unlike you, I don't keep spare suits at the office. And because people already think we're sleeping together.”
“Technically, we are.”
“You know what I mean.” She tries to look stern but ruins it by playing with my chest hair. “We need to be discrete.”
“We are being discrete. You're here, not at the Four Seasons with a camera crew.”
“Your bar for discrete is concerningly low.”
I kiss her shoulder. “Stay for coffee at least. I have a machine that makes it as good as a barista.”
“Of course you do.” But she's already melting back against me. “One coffee. Then I really need to go.”
“Deal.”
Thirty minutes later, she's showered and wearing one of my dress shirts, perched on my kitchen counter while I operate the infamous coffee machine. Her legs swing freely, and I find myself standing between them, unable to resist touching her.
“This is very domestic,” she observes, accepting the perfect cappuccino I hand her.
“Disappointed?”
“The opposite.” She takes a sip and moans in a way that makes me reconsider letting her leave. “Oh my god. I take back every mean thing I said about your fancy coffee maker.”
“I'll buy you one.”
“Bennett.” Her tone shifts to warning. “No expensive gifts. That's not what this is.”
“What is this?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She sets down her cup, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. “This is us trying. One day at a time. Without grand gestures or complications.”
“I don't do things halfway.”
“I know.” Her thumb strokes along my jaw. “But maybe you could try doing them... three-quarters of the way? For me?”
“Three-quarters.” I pretend to consider. “That's a significant reduction in efficiency.”
“I'll make it worth your while.”
“Deal.”
She kisses me, soft and sweet, tasting like expensive coffee and possibilities. When we break apart, her eyes are warm.
“I really do need to go.”
“I know.”
Neither of us moves.
“Bennett.”
“Five more minutes.”
“You're worse than a snooze button.” But she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. “Two minutes.”
“Four.”
“Three, final offer.”
“Deal.”
I make those three minutes count .
By the time she finally leaves it's nearly eight. I should feel rushed. Behind schedule. Instead, I find myself humming in the shower. Actually humming.
When I catch myself, I stop abruptly. Then laugh at my own ridiculousness and start again.
I'm still in an unusually good mood when I stride into Mercer Capital at eight-thirty. The security guard does a double-take when I nod at him.
“Morning, Mr. Mercer. Beautiful day.”
“It is, isn't it, Marcus?”
His mouth opens slightly. In three years, I've never responded to his small talk.
I'm waiting for the executive elevator when Jenna appears, tablet in hand and usual efficiency in place.
“Good morning, Mr. Mercer. The reworked Tokyo contracts are on your desk for signature. Caleb needs five minutes before the nine o'clock to review the Carmichael meeting agenda. And—” She stops, head tilting. “Are you smiling?”
“No.”
“You're definitely smiling.”
I school my features back to neutral. “We fixed a major crisis yesterday, and this latest acquisition is proceeding smoothly. That's satisfying.”
“Uh-huh.” She follows me into the elevator, studying me like I'm a bug under a microscope. “Should I cancel your usual morning workout? Since you already seem... refreshed?”
I give her a sharp look. She maintains perfect innocence.
“The nine o'clock is in the main conference room?”
“Yes, sir.” She's still watching me suspiciously. “Coffee's already set up. I also took the liberty of having breakfast brought in since it might run long.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Jenna.”
She actually fumbles her tablet. “Did you just say thank you? Without me having to remind you about basic human courtesy?”
“I always say thank you.”
“You absolutely do not.” She recovers her tablet, swiping through screens. “Also, about the Nakamura integration. You want me coordinating directly with Mr. Cruz?”
“That's what we discussed.”
“Is that... wise?” She chooses her words carefully. “He has a certain reputation.”
“Dominic's excellent at what he does.”
“I'm sure he is.” Her professional mask doesn't slip, but something flickers in her eyes. “I just prefer to work with people who are... predictable. Structured. Mr. Cruz seems rather... intense.”
I bite back a smile. “You can handle intensity.”
“Of course.” She straightens. “I just wanted to confirm the arrangement. He's already sent seventeen emails about the integration timeline. Since six AM.”
“That sounds like Dominic.”
“Seventeen emails. Each one color-coded.” A tiny furrow appears between her brows.
The elevator opens onto the executive floor, saving me from further interrogation. But as I head to my office, I hear her mutter, “Who color-codes emails?”
Caleb's already in my office when I arrive, feet up on my desk, scrolling through his phone.
“Feet,” I say automatically .
He doesn't move. “You're late.”
“It's eight thirty-five. The meeting's not until nine.”
“You're usually here by seven.” He looks up, eyes narrowing. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
“You got laid.”
I move to my desk, forcing him to drop his feet. “I slept well after a stressful day putting out fires.”
“No, this isn’t your 'I crushed my enemies' face. This is... is that satisfaction? Actual human contentment?”
“Don't be dramatic.”
“Don’t lie to my face.” He leans forward. “Who is she?”
“We have a meeting to prepare for.”
“Deflection.” His eyes widen. “Holy shit, Bennett. You did it, didn't you? You actually slept with Layla Carmichael.”
I keep my expression neutral, but it's too late.
“Jesus Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don't know whether to call you an idiot or give you a high five.”
“Neither would be appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” He laughs, short and sharp. “I think we left 'appropriate' in the rearview mirror when you bailed her up at the rooftop bar.” He studies me. “At least tell me that you’ve got it out of your system now and can move on?”
My silence is answer enough.
“Of course you don’t.” He shakes his head. “Because you don't do anything halfway. So what is this? A relationship? Are you actually dating her?”
“I don’t know what this is.”
“You don’t know.” He leans back and scrubs a hand over his face. “Are you removing yourself from the Carmichael team, then?”
“I can handle myself in a professional setting.”
“Can you? Because yesterday you missed fifteen million dollars in the Tokyo deal. That's not handling shit. That's woefully distracted. I can’t protect you from your own board if this becomes a pattern.”
“That won't happen again. My head is clear, and I have this under control.”
“I fucking hope so.” He watches me carefully.
“Look, I'm not judging. I'm genuinely happy you finally pulled the trigger on this thing between you two. But I need you to seriously think on this—can you be in that room with her and still function? Or do I need to run the meeting while you stare at her like a lovesick teenager?”
“My focus is fine.”
“OK. I believe you.” He stands, straightening his suit. “Just try not to smile at her like that. It's disturbing. Like watching a shark try to look friendly.”
“Get out of my office.”
“There he is! I was worried we'd lost the old Bennett forever.” He heads for the door, pausing to look back. “For what it's worth? Happy looks good on you. Disturbing, but good.”
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with the realization that if Caleb noticed, others will too. I need to be more careful. Less…happy. I try to force the smile from my face and my phone buzzes.
Layla:
Made it to the office. Had to tell three people I took up running this morning to explain the wet hair and glow.
Me:
Glow?
Her:
Your fancy shower has magical properties. My skin has never looked better.
Me:
Just the shower?
Her:
Other activities may have contributed.
Me:
Anything in particular?
Her:
There was this guy. Big CEO energy. Insatiable.
Me:
Sounds like trouble.
Her:
The best kind.
Me:
I liked waking up next to you.
Her:
Me too. More than I probably should.
Me:
Not exactly according to plan.
Her:
The best things never are.
Me:
You heading to the meeting?
Her:
I have to. It starts in five minutes and I hear the big boss will be there. Real ogre vibes.
Me:
Can’t imagine who that would be.
There's a long pause before her next message.
Her:
You make it really hard to act normal.
Me:
Likewise.
I'm still smiling when I set the phone down.
This goes against every rule I've built my life around.
No distractions. No complications. No mixing business and personal.
But right now? I don't care. For the first time in a long time, I'm letting myself want something just because it feels right.
And I'm not going to talk myself out of it.