12. Lyla
Chapter twelve
Lyla
“Mom, I am begging you to please stop shouting. It’s nine in the morning, and I just got to bed like four hours ago.” I wasn’t exaggerating. The walk home from Jake’s place was at least a forty-minute trek.
My mom sighed happily on the other end of the phone. “Late night with the boyfriend?”
“Ew. Jake’s not my boyfriend, Mom.”
Ah, fuck. I collapsed back onto my pillow and dragged my hands down my face. I threw myself into a relationship only two weeks ago and was already blowing it.
Mom didn’t miss a beat. Aaron Brooks was borderline hopeless when picking up anything about my personal life, but Mom? She was pretty good at snagging things before they flew over her head.
“Wait, what?”
“Jake is a friend, Mom,” I murmured as exhaustion began to take over my common sense. “People who date are allowed to have friends.”
After years of preaching to her that relationships were a waste of time, I knew she questioned my new relationship status. Mom would continue to give me the benefit of the doubt until it personally impacted her everyday life. That was the beauty of our relationship—she did a fair job keeping her distance until she needed to intervene .
“Have you talked to your father?” she asked.
I sat up, unable to find comfort among the mountains of blankets piled on my bed. Just the thought of having to say anything to my dad right now rattled my core.
“What?” I snapped. “Fuck no.”
Mom sucked her teeth. “Lyla Jean.”
I rolled my eyes at the woman’s response to a word she used as a filler in her everyday vocabulary. “Don’t Lyla Jean me. The man promised me my trust fund—the only reason I still engage with him—and forced me to have this bullshit lunch with him in Miami . Mom, who the hell goes to Miami in July ?”
She sighed again. “He does business there.”
I went into the kitchen for some hot green tea. I wasn’t falling back asleep anytime soon.
“He also does business in New York, and I heard Central Park is beautiful that time of year,” I argued, taking my anger out on the tiny bear-shaped honey bottle. “I’m just tired, Mom.” I didn’t bother to explain why. The longer I stayed on the phone with her, the more opportunities I had to get caught in the lie I constructed.
There was a knock on our door. I waited to see if any of the roommates crept from the shadows of the hallway and was surprised to be met with silence. It was rare I had the entire place to myself.
“Mom, I gotta go,” I said quickly. “I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, Jean Bean. I love you.”
Another knock came from the front door, and I padded across the kitchen, zipping up my sweatshirt jacket. I’m sure whoever was on the other side of the door wasn’t ready to see my nipples peeking through my tank top this early on a Monday .
“Yeah?” I yelled, throwing open the door.
Jesus. Mary. Joseph.
The guy from Opening Weekend stood on the other side of the door. The one who coined me as Stripper Pole Girl and witnessed my morning spiral into chaos. The one who took us to Grounds for Thought after we helped him move.
He placed his hands on his hips and peered down at me through thick, dark lashes. His light brown eyes had hints of gold around the iris. Were they like that last time? Was it because he glistened in sweat that I noticed how his T-shirt stretched along his shoulders? His broad shoulders. I almost buckled in the doorway when his tongue grazed the center of his bottom lip. He took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows, unsure what to do next since my awkward ass decided to stay silent.
I swallowed to give my voice the time it needed to gain composure. “Darren, what are you doing here?”
His smile grew wider. “Deacon, actually.”
“Fuck, yeah, your name is Deacon. I’m sorry.” I stepped aside so he could come in. “Your friend isn’t here by the—”
“I know he isn’t.” Deacon leaned his back against the counter. “Charlie is at my place. I talked to her before my run this morning.”
I winced at the thought of going any faster than my stroll a few hours ago. “Did you run here ?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not that far.”
“I beg to—”
“She told me you aren’t seeing anyone,” Deacon interrupted. His voice was gentle, but it didn’t lack urgency. “Have you found your fake boyfriend yet?”
An exasperated laugh escaped my chest. “Uhm . . . no, I haven’t. ”
I had forgotten about that little problem. I was too busy picturing how good he’d look with me straddling him on the couch. I averted my eyes from the bulge in his athletic shorts and reprimanded myself for being so childish. It wasn’t like I never encountered a gorgeous man in the past. Deacon was no different.
His full lips curved into a proud grin. “I’ll do it.”
I wasn’t sure what I expected him to say, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. The morning I met Deacon, I knew I had to cross him off as a potential calendar option. He was too nice.
“Deacon,” I said sweetly. “Humor me. Why are you offering?”
He pushed his lower back against the counter and closed the space between us. Even though he was covered in sweat, he smelled incredible—like cedarwood, and was it lavender?
“Because you can help me.” He smiled, leaning forward so his eyes were level with mine. “And I can help you.”