25. Bennett
BENNETT
O ne month after Lisbon, I'm doing something I've never done before: staring at my calendar like it personally insulted me.
There has to be a way to move the Patterson meeting without Patterson thinking I've lost my mind. Which, let's be honest, I probably have.
Not cancel—I'm not that far gone—but shift things around to create a full afternoon free.
This shouldn't be rocket science, but my schedule's been crazy busy since Nakamura’s crisis last month.
Between that and the Carmichael integration, Layla and I have fallen into a routine that's starting to feel like we're ships passing in the night.
Late nights at my place after she escapes her office. Or me showing up at her shoebox apartment when I finally break free from mine. Then incredible sex followed by a few hours of sleep before we both rush back to our corporate prisons.
I want more. I want what we had in Lisbon—time without someone calling with an emergency every five minutes.
“You realize this is weird, right?” Jenna says from my doorway, arms crossed like she's about to stage an intervention. “In seven years, I've never seen you voluntarily create personal time during business hours.”
“It's not personal,” I lie. “It's strategic.”
Her eyebrow shoots up. “A delivery from Neiman Marcus is strategic?”
Shit. “You weren't supposed to sign for that.”
“The doorman called during your budget meeting. Said the boxes wouldn't fit in the service elevator.” She steps into my office, closing the door with the discretion that makes her worth every penny I pay her. “Five boxes, Mr. Mercer. From the women's department.”
I lean back, trying to look casual instead of like a man who just got caught planning a surprise. “I have contractors coming to the penthouse this afternoon. Some custom work I need to oversee.”
“Right.” She nods slowly, clearly not buying it. “Hence the schedule rearranging.”
“Exactly.”
“The three o'clock with Patterson can move to next Tuesday. The investor call could be handled by Caleb, though I wouldn't recommend it unless you want him to bore them into a coma.”
“I'll take the call. Move Patterson.”
“Done.” She turns to leave, then pauses. “She must be something special.”
It's not a question, so I don't answer. But after Jenna leaves, I find myself thinking about it anyway.
Special doesn't even come close .
The past month with Layla has been like someone rewired my brain.
What started as an inconvenient attraction has turned into something I can't compartmentalize.
She's invaded my thoughts during board meetings.
I catch myself smiling at my phone when she texts.
I've started timing my mornings around whether she stayed over.
We haven't put a label on it. But it's real. Real enough that I'm rearranging my untouchable schedule and having ridiculously expensive clothes delivered to my penthouse. I used to think my suits were expensive before I let a personal shopper loose in the women’s department with my credit card.
My phone buzzes.
Layla:
Board meeting from hell finally over. Your place tonight?
I type back fast:
me:
Yes. Can you be there by 5?
Layla:
5? That's crazy early for you. Should I call a doctor?
Me:
Everything's fine. Just want more time with you.
Layla:
Now I'm really worried. Bennett Mercer leaving the office before 8? What's wrong?
She knows me too well already.
Me:
I'll be home by 4. See you at 5.
Three dots appear, disappear, reappear. Finally:
Layla:
It's a date. A very mysterious one.
A date. The word sends something warm spreading through my chest, which should probably worry me.
The investor call runs long. Patterson’s assistant calls twice. Three separate crises demand my immediate attention. By the time I make it home, it's 4:30, and the deliveries are spread across my bed like evidence of temporary insanity.
I work fast, the way I approach everything.
The new built-ins were finished yesterday—I had an entire section of my walk-in closet transformed to fit a second wardrobe.
Now I fill it like I'm organizing a hostile takeover: dresses by color and occasion, blouses and skirts by season, shoes arranged by the personal shopper I'd hired with strict instructions to match Layla's style.
It's too much. I know it's too much. But I've never done anything halfway.
At 4:58, the elevator arrives. A moment of panic hits me—which is not normal—as I realize I'm about to get caught red-handed, still arranging cashmere sweaters.
“Bennett?” Her voice echoes through the penthouse.
“In here,” I call back, giving the closet one last look.
Her footsteps approach. “Where's 'here' exactly? Your place is huge—” She stops in the bedroom doorway, taking in the scene: me standing in the expanded closet, surrounded by designer tags and empty boxes like some deranged personal shopper.
“So this is why we've been at my place the last few nights.”
I gesture at the new section, hoping I look smooth instead of manic. “Making space for more joy in my life.”
Her expression softens at the callback to Lisbon. She steps closer, fingers brushing the hanging clothes. “Are these... for me?”
“I noticed you've been bringing the same overnight bag for weeks. Seemed practical to have some things here.”
“Some things,” she repeats, running her hand along a row of silk blouses. “Bennett, this is an entire wardrobe.”
“I may have gotten carried away.”
“May have?” She turns to face me. “There are at least twenty pairs of shoes here.”
“Twenty-four,” I correct automatically. “The personal shopper said variety was important.”
“Of course she did.” Layla laughs, the sound that's become my favorite notification tone. “So you're telling me I never have to wear the same thing twice when I sleep over?”
“That was the general idea,” I say, stepping closer until I'm right behind her. “But don't feel pressured. You can tell me to return anything that doesn't work.”
She shakes her head, turning to face me. “This is insane. You know that, right?”
“It's efficient. Now you don't have to plan ahead or rush home for clean clothes.”
“Efficient,” she repeats, shaking her head. “Only you would frame a grand romantic gesture as a productivity hack.”
“Is it working?”
“The efficiency or the romance? ”
“Both.”
She laughs again. I'm becoming addicted to that sound.
“Don't answer yet. There's more.”
“More?” Her eyes widen. “Bennett, what did you do?”
“I told you, I don't do things halfway.” I take her hand and lead her through the living room to the door I've been nervous about all day. The one beside the windows overlooking the city.
“Your library?” she asks as I pause at the door. “Did you buy me books?”
“Better.” I open the door and watch her face.
She gasps. The room is split between my piano in one corner and a full art studio in the other—drawing table, easel, shelves stacked with every art supply known to humanity.
“Bennett...” Her voice trails off as she steps inside, fingers trailing over the neatly organized pastels and paints. “Is this for me?”
“Yes.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her move through the space like she's in a dream. “I thought it might inspire you to start creating again.”
“I... I don't know what to say.” She turns to me, eyes bright. “This is incredible.”
“I want you to feel at home here, Layla. Your creativity deserves space to breathe.”
“Home?” she repeats softly. “You want me to feel at home here?”
“I do. Do you like it?”
She steps closer, sliding her arms around my neck. “It's pretty spectacular. In a completely over-the-top, billionaire boyfriend kind of way. ”
Boyfriend. The word hits me like a shot of good whiskey, warm and slightly overwhelming.
“So you'll stay?” I ask, arms circling her waist. “More often?”
“I've stayed three nights out of the last seven. The other four, you were at mine.”
“That's not an answer.”
Her expression grows serious. “What are you really asking?”
This is where words usually come easily. I've talked my way through billion-dollar deals with less anxiety than I feel right now. But standing here with Layla, surrounded by evidence of how completely she's taken over my life, I find myself speechless.
I gesture helplessly at the art supplies, toward the bedroom full of clothes, the drawer of lingerie I'd had someone else select because apparently I've lost all shame.
“This,” I finally manage. “I'm asking if you want this. I want you here. With me. More than just overnight bags and borrowed shirts.”
Her expression melts into something that makes my chest tight. “Bennett Mercer, are you asking me to move in with you?”
“Yes,” I say, relieved she put it into words. “Not all at once, if that's too fast. But more than we've been doing.”
“This is... a lot,” she says carefully. “We've only been together for a little more than a month.”
“I know.” I take her hands, feeling more exposed than in any business deal I've ever made. “But I also know what I want. I want to wake up with you. I want to come home to you. I want more than stolen time between meetings. ”
Her eyes search mine. “What about work? The acquisition? My father?—”
“We'll figure it out,” I interrupt. “I'm not saying we announce it to the world. Just... be together. More.”
She bites her lip, and I can see her analyzing everything—the complications, the risks, the potential fallout. Always thinking, my Layla.
“OK,” she says finally.
“OK?”
“Yes, Bennett. I'll stay more often. Though I should warn you—I'm terrible at keeping my stuff in designated spaces.”
“I'm aware. I'll manage.”
“Will you?” She raises an eyebrow. “You, who alphabetizes your spice rack and color-codes your ties?”
“For you,” I say, brushing my thumb along her jaw, “I can adapt.”
Something shifts in her expression. “Those might be the most romantic words you've ever said.”
I should laugh it off. Pull back to safer ground. But standing here with her, surrounded by proof of how thoroughly she's invaded my perfectly ordered world, I can't bring myself to retreat.
“It's true. I find myself adapting constantly lately.”
“Like what?”
“Like clearing my schedule for mysterious deliveries. Like keeping almond milk in my fridge even though it's an abomination. Like actually sleeping through the night instead of working until three a.m.”
Her fingers spread across my chest. “Terrible sacrifices.”
“Worth it,” I murmur. “For you. ”
The words reveal more than I intend, but I don't regret them.
“Though,” I add, “you might need to apologize to my housekeeper. She's the one who'll deal with your clothes migrating through the penthouse.”
Layla laughs. “Your housekeeper already likes me better than you. Last week she told me I bring life to this 'museum' you call home.”
She studies my face like she's seeing something new. “What's happening here, Bennett? Between us?”
It's the question we've both been avoiding. I could deflect, give her the non-answers that work in boardrooms.
Instead, I tell her the truth.
“I don't know. I only know I think about you constantly. That my day gets better the moment you walk into a room. That I've started measuring time by when I'll see you next.”
Her breath catches. “Those sound like some big feelings.”
“Apparently I have those.” I pull her closer. “Shocking as that may be.”
“Your secret's safe with me.”
“Good. Because the truth is...” I pause, the words unfamiliar. “You're it for me, Layla.”
Her eyes widen. “I am?”
“Mm-hmm. I've never wanted someone in my space the way I want you here. I want afternoons and weekends. I want dinner with no phones allowed. I want what we had in Lisbon, but here, in real life. Every day.”
She's quiet for a long moment. “That's... a lot of wanting. ”
“Too much?”
“No,” she says quickly. “Just unexpected. Bennett Mercer admitting to human emotions. Stop the presses.”
I laugh despite myself. “Let's keep Wright Media out of it.”
“Good idea. I'd hate to see those headlines.” She puts on a news anchor voice: “'Corporate Shark Grows Heart: Local Woman Blamed.'”
“That's not how I'd put it.”
“No? How would you put it?”
I consider this. “Man discovers what he's been missing.”
Her expression softens. “That's... surprisingly sweet.”
“I contain multitudes,” I say, then grow serious. “So we're doing this? You'll stay?”
“I'll stay,” she confirms, rising on her toes to brush her lips against mine. “Though I'm keeping my apartment for now. Until we see how this goes.”
“Practical.”
“One of us has to be.” Her smile takes any sting from the words.
“Although,” she continues, stepping closer until her body's flush against mine, “I'm not sure I’ll need all those clothes. Half the time I'm here, I'm not wearing any.”
Heat shoots through me at her words, at the deliberate press of her hips. “Excellent point.”
“In fact,” she murmurs, fingers working at my tie, “I'm wearing too many right now.”
“Easily fixed.”
I capture her mouth, backing her toward the bedroom, expensive gifts forgotten as we fall together onto the mattress. Her laughter against my lips is the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
Worth every adaptation. Every sacrifice. Every moment of uncertainty.
“I love your logic,” I murmur against her neck as she pushes my shirt off my shoulders.
“I have my moments,” she breathes, and that laugh—God, that laugh—makes every crazy thing I've done today worth it.