6. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Layne
Barely five minutes had passed since I’d arrived at the restaurant/café I was supposed to meet Keaton at, and my head was already spinning. The small tables for two were occupied with patrons having lunch from the mouthwatering buffet right next to the entrance, their chatter and the noise of the coffee machine assaulting my senses. Not to mention the smells of different foods and drinks. While a healthy person would only notice all of this peripherally, it was pure torture for me. Shouldn’t have agreed. The hour-long train ride to Zürich alone had been too much.
Too late now as I sat at a table all the way at the back, staring at the door so I wouldn’t miss Keaton’s arrival. I’d deliberately chosen Hiltl Sihlpost because it was right next to Zürich’s main train station. The big hall was visible through the windows beyond outdoor seating and a pedestrian area.
Without taking my eyes off the door, I rubbed my sweaty hands on my jeans. I shivered—nothing unusual when I was nervous. Who would’ve thought meeting your potential husband could be so nerve-wracking? This was so crazy.
Lord, is this really Your will? If not, please close this door. My go-to prayer when I didn’t get a clear yes or no from God. So far He hadn’t interfered.
Much to my chagrin. I didn’t want to get married, especially not to a guy like Keaton had been. Could someone really change that much?
Or could I stomach being the wife of someone who never intended to be truly a one-woman man?
I glanced at my phone. He was already fifteen minutes late. I was starting to feel stupid, sitting at the table all alone without anything to drink or eat. Especially with newcomers frequently looking for a place to sit. I’d planned to wait with ordering till Keaton came, but maybe I should go ahead and get something. I couldn’t just block a table without consuming anything.
I placed my bag on it, so people would know it was occupied, then navigated around the other patrons to the cash register. Maybe this was God’s answer, that Keaton stood me up. I’d totally be fine with it. I’d just grab some takeout—including chocolate mousse, of course—and head back home.
And then, I’d rub it in Tripp’s and Jasmin’s faces for doing this to me.
Balancing my lemon-thyme-lemongrass tea on a tray, I snaked my way back to the table. Don’t spill, don’t spill, don’t spi—
Someone stepped into my path, causing me to jerk to a halt. Tea sloshed over the edge of the cup onto the tray. Eyes bulging, I stared at the white dress shirt of the guy. Oh no, had I splashed him?
“ Sorry, tuet mer leid. ” I looked up to offer the guy I’d nearly baptized with my tea an apologetic smile.
My breath caught. Keaton.
“No harm done.” He smirked down at me. “Good to see you, Rhyner.” Despite the aviator sunglasses he wore, I was pretty sure I caught a wink.
“Yeah, you, too.” Heat burned my cheeks. I felt like one of those cupcakes at the cash register—on display for everyone to eyeball.
“Where were you headed?” Keaton asked.
“Our table back there.” I nodded at it, grateful that no one had claimed it in my absence.
“Let me take this.” Before I could protest, he took the tray from me and sauntered to the table. Just like at Wentworth’s wedding, he wore slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And he oozed the same confidence out of every pore he had back then.
I followed him and was about to sink onto the chair I’d occupied earlier when Keaton caught my arm. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek without his lips touching me. His aftershave filled my nostrils. No clue what it smelled like, but something woodsy and crisp. Masculine.
“I meant it when I said it’s good to see you,” he said at my ear.
I almost rolled my eyes, but my treacherous body shuddered. Handsome and confident guys like him made me nervous. No idea why, but I just didn’t trust them.
Keaton drew back, then helped me sit before settling across from me. Ever the gentleman. “The meeting went long. That’s why I’m late.”
“No problem.” If he hadn’t mentioned it, I would’ve completely forgotten that I had to wait fifteen minutes. The smile I gave him to underline my words still felt a little shaky. “Sorry I already ordered.”
He took off his shades and hooked them into the neckline of his shirt. His electric blue eyes nearly knocked me out of my sneakers. Good thing I was sitting down. How had I missed that color last time? Probably because it had been dark, or because I’d been miserable.
“What did you get?” He pointed his clean-shaven chin at my tea.
“Um, lemon-thyme-lemongrass tea. Homemade, as far as I know.”
His watch caught the light of the low-hanging ceiling lamps. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. How much had that thing cost with all the gold? And what about his clothes? The way they molded to his muscular frame like a second skin, they had to be tailored. And there was that monogram, KLG , on his collar again. Probably his initials. What was his middle name?
I swallowed. Just how loaded was the guy?
“Do they have waiters here?” Keaton threw a glance over his shoulder.
“Oh, no. You have to order up front. What can I get you?” I stood, but he gestured for me to sit down.
“Need anything?”
I shook my head, and he wove his way past the tables with the attention of several patrons—especially female—trailing him. He wasn’t the only one wearing a suit as this restaurant was located in a business district, but his commanding presence dominated the place.
Groaning, I plopped back down in my seat. Why had I chosen a self-service restaurant? He’d probably never had to get his own drink his entire life.
Good grief, what was I doing here? This was a mistake.
With my hands still shaking slightly, I clutched my warm tea. I took a sip and looked around. Two women a few tables away quickly diverted their gazes.
They were probably wondering what a man like Keaton wanted with a woman like me. I was wearing jeans and a hoodie —the complete opposite of his tailored clothes. His haircut had probably cost more than I had in my bank account.
Actually, my account was empty. Or more so eighty thousand Swiss Francs in the red . . .
Keaton came back with a coffee, and once again, my gaze homed in on his expensive watch. I forced myself to look away, racking my brain for something to talk about. Was it rude to blurt out ‘What are the terms’?
“Tell me about yourself,” Keaton said as he settled back in his chair. Unlike me, he didn’t seem to have problems with making small talk.
“There’s not much to say.” Wow, that sounded pathetic. Except that it was true. I was anything but interesting. Not anymore.
“Oh, come on. Everyone has a story.”
I wanted to turn the tables and grill him, but it was too late. “Well, Wentworth may have already told you that I have a chronic illness. There’s not much I can do except lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.”
Keaton took a sip of his coffee. “He mentioned something. What exactly do you have again?”
“ME, short for myalgic encephalomyelitis.”
“Never heard of it.”
He wasn’t the only one. Not even the majority of doctors had, even though millions of people all over the world suffered from ME.
“It’s a chronic state of exhaustion. Neuroimmune or neurovascular, or something. Not even doctors really know.” I shrugged. “But there’s more to it than just being exhausted.”
“Such as?”
“Post-exertional neuroimmune exhaustion or PENE, meaning the symptoms worsen after even minor physical or mental exertion. That’s why pacing is so important.” Which I wasn’t doing right now. “Then there’s muscle and bone pain, difficulty focusing, nausea, headaches . . . It depends.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
It wasn’t.
Those blue eyes took me in. “You don’t look sick.”
I got that all the time. A lot of people with “invisible” illnesses got miffed when someone said that, but I didn’t care. After all, it was the truth. The thing was that people only saw us when we were feeling somewhat okay, or we wouldn’t be able to go outside. Hardly anyone saw us at our worst.
“I know.” I smiled. “Enough about me. What about you?”
Keaton lounged back in his chair. At least one of us felt comfortable, even if it wasn’t me. “I’m a brand manager and ambassador at Lincoln Grady Distillery.”
“What exactly do you do?” Although the job titles rang a bell, I had no idea what they entailed.
“I manage everything that concerns the company’s image: market presence, customer service, social media, and so on. As an ambassador, I represent the company and our products. Sometimes online, sometimes I visit interested parties on site.”
Sounded complicated. “Interesting. And that’s your parents’ company?”
A barely noticeable shadow darkened his eyes. A sore spot? “As of right now. I’m planning on taking over.”
“Not bad.” He certainly seemed competent to run a company.
He shrugged. “Nothing special.” Then he pulled out his smartphone.
A little irritated, I took another sip of my now cold tea. Being on the phone while in the middle of a conversation was impolite. Maybe it was important business stuff.
As Keaton typed, my attention shuffled to the warning signals my body bombarded me with. My head was pounding, my back muscles burned because I’d been sitting for way too long, and nausea churned in my gut. I shouldn’t stay much longer. In fact, I shouldn’t have come at all.
“Sorry, my pilot.” Keaton slid his smartphone back in his slacks. “He wanted to know when we’re taking off.”
I blinked violently. Pilot? Flying? Did that mean he had a private jet?
As much as I was dying to ask, I kept my mouth shut.
Keaton took another sip of his coffee. “As much as I’d like to know more about you, Layne, I’m on a tight schedule. Let’s talk about the reason why we’re here.”
Fine with me. “What are your terms?”
“You can live with me and help yourself to whatever you need. And you’ll have your own bank account, so you don’t have to ask me for money. In return, you escort me to events.”
I kneaded my hands under the table. “What kind of events?”
“Invitations from customers, charity, marketing, family. Anything.”
“I don’t know if I can do it,” I admitted. “Being on my feet and socializing is very exhausting for me—”
“How long do you manage?”
Hmm, that was a tricky question. “Maybe forty-five minutes? And once a week at most. I need a lot of time to recover and rest.”
“Then we’ll never stay longer than forty-five minutes, and if you notice that even that’s too much, we leave early. We won’t go out more than once a week.”
The knot in my stomach loosened a little. That didn’t sound so bad. “What about the living situation? I need a lot of quiet.”
“I’m rarely home because I work from morning till night. You have your own room on your own floor. Do you need anything else?”
Stunned, I shook my head. “No, that’d be ideal.” I almost breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God.
“That it?”
“Um, there’s one more thing.” I bit my lower lip, forcing my gaze to meet his. “The physical aspect.”