24. Layla
LAYLA
B y the time we land in Lisbon, we've christened the bedroom, the sofa, and the surprisingly spacious shower. I've lost count of how many times he's made me come, each orgasm more intense than the last. I'm boneless and glowing.
“Welcome to Portugal,” he says as we step off the plane, Mediterranean sunshine washing over us.
I'm wearing a dress that’s been hiding in my wardrobe for years without having an occasion to wear it, about to have lunch in a country where I don't speak the language, with a man who casually flies to Europe for dates. My life has officially become unrecognizable.
“We have about eight hours before we need to head back,” he continues, sliding his hand to the small of my back. Even that simple touch makes my skin tingle with memory.
“What's the plan?” I ask, sliding on sunglasses against the bright light.
“First, lunch.” He guides me toward a waiting car, sleek and black against the tarmac. “Then perhaps some sightseeing. I thought you might enjoy the historical architecture.”
The driver takes us through sun-drenched streets lined with azulejo-tiled buildings, their blue and white patterns catching the light. The scent of fresh bread and coffee drifts through the open windows as we climb toward the coast.
The restaurant perches on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. It's small, intimate, with a terrace offering breathtaking views of azure water crashing against rocks below.
“How did you arrange this so quickly?” I ask as we're seated at the best table, champagne already waiting. The server greets Bennett by name, clearly expecting us.
“Money opens doors,” he says simply. “But in this case, it's more about connections. The owner's an old friend.”
Of course he has friends who own cliff-side restaurants in Portugal. I'm learning that Bennett's world has no boundaries.
The food is extraordinary. Fresh grilled sardines with lemon and herbs.
Some kind of seafood stew that makes me close my eyes in pleasure.
Local wines that taste like sunshine. But what strikes me most is Bennett himself.
The sharp edges from Chicago have softened.
He laughs more freely. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.
“You're different here,” I tell him, stealing a bite from his plate. When his fingers brush mine reaching for his wine, I'm instantly back on that plane, remembering how those same fingers felt inside me. The thought makes my cheeks warm.
“Portugal has that effect,” he says. “Hard to maintain corporate intensity when you're eating fresh fish by the ocean.”
“Tell me something no one else knows about you,” I say, leaning forward. “Something that's never made it into a business profile.”
He considers this, swirling his wine. “I failed my driver's test. Twice.”
“You're kidding.” I stare at him. “Mr. Perfect-Control failed a driving test?”
“I was seventeen and overconfident.” His smile is self-deprecating. “Thought I knew better than the instructor. Took a corner too fast and knocked over three traffic cones.”
I laugh, delighted by this glimpse of teenage Bennett. “What else?”
“I'm terrified of horses.”
“Horses? Why?”
“Summer camp when I was twelve. Got thrown and broke my collarbone.” He touches his left shoulder absently. “Never got back on.”
“The great Bennett Mercer, brought low by a pony.”
“It was a very large, very mean horse,” he protests, eyes laughing.
“What about you?” he asks. “What secrets is Layla Carmichael hiding?”
I bite my lip, considering. “I applied to art school before engineering. My portfolio was actually accepted.”
His eyebrows rise. “I didn't know you were an artist.”
“I'm not, really. Not anymore.” I trace the condensation on my water glass. The acceptance letter had been tucked in my desk drawer for months before I finally threw it away. “My father convinced me engineering was more practical. He wasn't wrong, but sometimes I wonder who I might have been.”
The admission feels like confessing to a crime. I've never told anyone about that acceptance letter, not even Serena.
“Do you still draw?”
I shake my head. “Not in years.”
“Why not?”
The question pierces something tender. “I guess I figured if I wasn't going to do it professionally, why bother?”
“That's sad.” His voice is gentle. “Some things are worth doing simply because they bring joy.”
The observation surprises me. Bennett's entire life seems built around productivity and purpose.
“What about you?” I ask. “What do you do simply for joy?”
“I play piano. Not well, but it settles my mind.”
“Classical?”
“Mostly. Some jazz. My mother taught me before she died.”
The casual mention catches me off guard. He's never spoken of his family.
“How old were you?” I ask gently.
“Sixteen. Car accident.”
“I'm so sorry.” My chest tightens at the pain in his voice. “And you’ve lost your father too?”
He nods. “I was twenty-two when that happened. But it was a long time ago now.” He shrugs, but I see the tension in his jaw.
“Still.” I reach across the table, squeezing his hand. “That's young to lose both parents. ”
“After my mother died, I was angry at everything.” His voice drops. “The driver who hit her car. The doctors who couldn't save her. The world for taking her away. My father tried, but he was broken too. Worked double shifts, came home exhausted, barely speaking.”
I listen, sensing he rarely shares this part of himself. His thumb traces my knuckles, anchoring himself to the present.
“I promised myself I'd never let that happen again. I needed to be the one in control, the one making sure everything worked. And that’s what pushed me into finance—into this world where I could take something broken and fix it.”
“So you built a wall,” I say softly, my heart aching for him, for that boy who lost so much too young. “A wall around your heart.”
“Yes.” He leans back, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “But then you came along and crashed straight through it. I’m still trying to figure out how to rebuild.”
“Rebuild while keeping your heart open, I hope?”
“Exactly,” he admits, his expression shifting as if the weight of our conversation just settled heavily on his shoulders. “You're an enigma, Layla. Turning my whole world upside down and making me question everything I thought I wanted.”
“Does that scare you?” I ask, wanting to understand how deep this really goes. “The idea of feeling more than just in control?”
“It terrifies me,” he says flatly, but there’s a spark in his eyes that suggests he doesn’t mind being terrified. “But I think I need the fear to remind me what it means to really live.”
The admission hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us is ready to explore.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Then again. I ignore it, but Bennett notices.
“Everything OK?”
“Probably Audrey wondering where the hell I am.” I turn the phone face down. “The real world can wait a few more hours.”
His smile is grateful. “Good. Because I'm not done corrupting you yet.”
After lunch, a private guide shows us through Lisbon's historic neighborhoods. We wander narrow cobblestone streets, climb to ancient viewpoints offering panoramas of the city's seven hills. The heat radiates from old stones, mixing scents of jasmine and salt air.
Throughout it all, Bennett keeps me close. His hand on my lower back as we navigate crowds. Fingers intertwined as we walk. When he points out architectural details, his breath against my ear makes me shiver despite the warmth.
“One more surprise,” he says as afternoon melts into evening. We're in Alfama, the oldest district, where music spills from doorways and the scent of grilled sardines fills the air.
He leads me down a narrow alley that opens into a small square. A historic building stands before us, lights glowing warmly from within.
“What is this place?”
“A fado club. One of the oldest in Lisbon.”
Inside, the space is intimate. Maybe twenty tables arranged around a small stage, walls lined with photographs of singers past and present. But it's completely empty.
“You bought out the entire club, didn’t you?” I ask, incredulous.
“Just for a few hours.” He shrugs like it's nothing. “I wanted you to experience this without distractions.”
A small ensemble waits on stage, consisting of a classical guitarist, a Portuguese guitarra player, and a woman in traditional black who must be the fadista. They begin to play, the woman's voice rising in a haunting melody that seems to reach inside my chest, stirring something I can't name.
“It's beautiful,” I whisper. Even without understanding the words, I feel the ache in every note.
“Fado means 'fate,'” Bennett says, his voice low beside me. “The Portuguese believe some things are written in the stars. Unavoidable no matter how we fight them.”
“You understand what's she singing about?”
“I do.”
“Explain it to me.”
“It’s love. The kind that arrives unexpectedly and changes everything.” His eyes find mine in the dim light. “She's singing about surrendering to feelings that can't be controlled, can’t be denied.”
Something unspoken passes between us. This connection we share, is it also fado? Fate neither of us sought but can't escape?
After several songs, the tempo changes to something more rhythmic. Bennett stands, extending his hand.
“Dance with me.”
“Won’t that seem odd when we’re the only ones here? ”
“Just means there's no one here to judge.”
I take his hand, letting him lead me to the small space before the stage. His arm circles my waist, drawing me close as we begin to move.
The fadista's voice swells around us, passionate and plaintive. Bennett's eyes never leave mine as we sway together.
“I never do this,” he murmurs, lips close to my ear.
“Dance?”
“Take days off. Fly across oceans on a whim. Neglect responsibilities.” His hand tightens at my waist. “But with you...”
He doesn't finish the thought. Doesn't need to. I understand because I feel it too. I feel this pull that defies logic, that makes me step away from everything I've always been.
“Let's not think about tomorrow,” I whisper back.
His answer is to pull me closer, press his forehead against mine as we move to the music, suspended in a moment that feels both fragile and eternal. Maybe this is fate. Or maybe it’s just us, finally letting go.
“Layla.”
He whispers my name across my lips and kisses me. Soft and searching, different to how he’s kissed me before. Like he's trying to memorize the taste of this moment.
The kiss deepens, enveloping us in its warmth as the music swells around us.
I lose myself in the soft press of his lips, the gentle caress of his hands that hold my waist securely.
For just a moment, the rest of the world fades—no corporate chaos, no looming responsibilities—just this intimate space where it's only Bennett and me. Nothing else.