20. Layla
LAYLA
T hree days since Dad called me a whore in front of fourteen people. Three days since Bennett's jaw went granite-hard in my defense. Eleven unread texts from Dad blink on my phone like a guilty morse code:
Sorry.
Sorry.
Please talk to me.
Sorry.
I shove the phone deeper into Bennett's couch cushions and refocus on the lab results glowing on my laptop screen. Bennett's bare feet tangle with mine, his free hand resting possessively on my ankle while he reviews quarterly projections.
“Still hiding from your father?” he asks, thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin.
“He's the one who should be hiding,” I correct. “But I'm the one ignoring his texts, so I guess we're even.”
“You'll talk to him when you're ready.” His hand slides higher, fingers skimming my calf with practiced ease. “There's no timeline for forgiving someone who hurt you like that.”
“What happened after I left?” I've been dying to ask. “Did you say anything to him?”
Bennett's hand stills. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you had that look. The one you get before you destroy someone in negotiations.”
He's quiet for a moment. “I may have made my position clear.”
“Which was?”
“That speaking to you that way—publicly or privately—would have consequences.” His fingers resume their path up my leg. “And that what we have is real.”
“You told my father that?”
The words feel heavier once I say them aloud. It’s one thing to sleep with someone. Another entirely to be defended like this. Out loud. In a boardroom.
“Someone needed to.” His voice carries an edge. “Since he seemed to have forgotten you're a brilliant executive, not some opportunist trading favors.”
The weight of what he did hits me. “Bennett...”
He sets his laptop aside and tugs me toward him until I'm sprawled across his lap. “The whole office knows now. Apparently there's a betting pool.”
“Multiple pools,” I correct, needing to lighten the moment before I do something embarrassing like cry. “Jenna showed me her spreadsheet. Very thorough.”
“My assistant is taking bets on our relationship? ”
“Your assistant is monitoring the multiple betting pools to make sure it's done 'correctly'.” I trace patterns on his chest through his t-shirt. “Currently, the smart money's on us lasting three months.”
“Only three?” His hands slide under the shirt I stole from him, warm against bare skin.
“Your defense of me shifted the odds, apparently.”
“Even though no one was in the room to see it?”
“With the way my father sat with his head down for the rest of the meeting, I have a feeling they filled in the gaps.”
“Hmm. It wasn't my intention to cause gossip.”
“I think it's kinda hot that you had my back. No one's done that for me before.”
His eyes lock on mine. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”
“So…” I bite my lip and lean in a little closer. “How long are you betting on for the office pool?”
“I don't bet.” His eyes darken, hands tightening on my waist. “But if I did, it'd be longer than any spreadsheet can calculate.”
The words should terrify me. Instead, they send heat spiraling through my body like lit dynamite. I kiss him hard, pouring everything I can't say into the contact. He responds immediately, one hand tangling in my hair while the other curves around my hip, pulling me flush against him.
“No bra,” he murmurs against my lips when his thumb brushes my nipple. “Were you planning this all along?”
“Maybe I just like how your shirts feel,” I counter, gasping when he pinches lightly.
“Liar.” He echoes my earlier accusation, voice rough with want .
In one smooth motion, he flips us so I'm beneath him on the couch, his weight pressing me into expensive leather. The evidence of his arousal is obvious through his sweatpants, hard against my inner thigh.
“I really should be working,” I whisper, though neither my brain nor my body seems committed to that idea.
“Very important lab results,” he murmurs, already pushing the shirt up to expose my breasts to cool air and his heated gaze.
“Incredibly.”
When his mouth closes around my nipple, all thoughts of work evaporate. My fingers thread through his hair, holding him close as he lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other, until I'm squirming beneath him.
“Bennett,” I gasp, tugging at his hair. “Please.”
He looks up, eyes black with desire. “Please what?”
“Stop teasing.”
“But you're gorgeous when you're desperate.” His hand slips beneath my underwear, finding me already wet. The smug satisfaction on his face should annoy me, but I'm too far gone to care.
“I fucking love how wet you get for me,” he growls, sliding two fingers inside with practiced ease. “Tell me—are you like this in board meetings too?”
“Yes,” I admit, hips bucking as he curls his fingers just right. “Especially when you roll up your sleeves.”
His laugh vibrates against my skin. “I knew it. I've caught you staring.”
“Like you're any better.” My voice breaks as his thumb finds my clit. “That pencil skirt had you practically drooling.”
“Because it hugs your ass perfectly.” He increases the pressure, the pace, driving me toward the edge with devastating efficiency. “Made me want to bend you over the conference table.”
The image—Bennett losing control in the middle of a meeting, claiming me in front of everyone—pushes me closer to release. My nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure builds, coiling tighter with each stroke of his fingers.
His phone rings, sharp and intrusive.
We both freeze.
“Ignore it,” I plead, so close I could cry.
He glances at the screen. “It's Caleb.”
“So?”
“He knows not to call this late unless—” The phone rings again, more insistent.
With a muttered curse, he withdraws his hand and answers. “This better be life or death.”
I watch his expression shift, tension creeping into his jaw as he listens. Whatever Caleb's saying, it's serious enough to break through post-make-out haze.
“When?” Bennett asks sharply. “How bad?”
His free hand rakes through his hair—a rare tell. My stomach drops.
“Send me everything. I'll be there in thirty.” He ends the call, already rising.
“What's wrong?” I sit up, pulling the shirt down.
“Deal's imploding.” His voice is pure CEO now, all traces of playfulness gone. “Someone leaked confidential information. I need to contain this before market open.”
“That's...” I check the time. “Four hours from now.”
“Which is why I need to go.” He's already heading toward the bedroom. “This can't wait.”
“What can I do?” I ask, following him .
He pauses halfway to the bedroom, surprise flickering across his face before something softer replaces it. He crosses back to me, cupping my face in his hands and pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“You can stay here and get some sleep,” he says gently. “Let me handle the corporate warfare.”
My instinct is to argue. To insert myself into the problem like I always do—fix it, lead it, own it . But this isn’t mine to fix, and the realization makes me keenly aware of how different our worlds really are. His is huge and mine fits into one tiny part of his whole.
“Actually, I should head home,” I say, already gathering my laptop. “My plants are probably staging a revolt by now. Four nights away is pushing it, even for succulents.”
“You sure?” He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
“I’m sure. Go save your deal, Mercer.” I push him gently toward the bedroom. “We’ll finish this tomorrow.”
He disappears into the bedroom while I finish gathering my things. The shower runs and I try not to imagine water sluicing over those shoulders, down that chest...
Get it together, Carmichael.
Bennett emerges ten minutes later in a Tom Ford suit that's probably bespoke, looking every inch the corporate shark.
“Be careful,” I tell him, straightening his tie unnecessarily.
“It's a hostile takeover, not a street fight.” But his expression softens. “I'll call as soon as I can.”
“You'd better.”
“Tell the doorman to get you a car.”
“Yes, sir! ”
One more kiss, and then he's gone. I follow a few minutes later, the elevator ride feeling longer than usual. The doorman doesn't even blink when I request a car. Apparently, I'm already a regular.
“Have a good evening, Ms. Carmichael,” he says, holding the door when my car arrives.
The driver tries to make conversation about the late hour, but I'm too distracted to engage beyond basic politeness. The city blurs past, all lights and shadows, while I wonder what kind of crisis pulled Bennett away. Who's trying to sabotage his deal? How bad is it?
My apartment feels strange after four nights away. Like I'm visiting rather than coming home. Even my plants look judgmental, drooping slightly despite being succulents.
“Don't look at me like that,” I tell my favorite cactus, giving it water. “I've been busy.”
My phone buzzes.
Serena:
Still alive? Starting to think you've been abducted by very attractive aliens.
I check the time—barely ten. The night stretches ahead, too quiet after the controlled chaos of Bennett's presence. Without overthinking it, I hit call.
“She lives!” Serena shouts in lieu of greeting. “I was about to file a missing persons report.”
“Want to grab a drink?” I ask. “I'm suddenly free.”
“On a weekday? Who are you and what have you done with workaholic Layla?”
“I'll explain over wine. Our usual place? ”
“Give me twenty minutes. I'll see if Audrey can escape the lab.”
I change into jeans and a sweater, something that doesn't smell like Bennett's cologne. The effort feels like putting on armor. Like I’m bracing for questions I don’t want to answer… or ones I finally need to.