28. For Tonight
28
FOR TONIGHT
Nick
Layla pulls up at six on the dot, the sight of her sports car kicking up my pulse.
Great. Just great.
I grab the handle of the passenger door and get in, feeling like I’m in a foreign country and I don’t speak the language.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi. I mapped out the stops. Put them in my GPS to crunch the traffic times. We should be able to pick up everything and have it back to your place by eight-fifteen.”
Well, Robot Layla is in the driver’s seat.
“Let’s get going then,” I say, following her cool lead.
With a tight nod, she pulls into traffic, heading toward Lexington.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, trying to read her. Her jaw tightens. Her hands curl tightly around the steering wheel. She stares straight ahead. Sure, she’s driving, but her body language doesn’t require a translator.
This is how we’re doing it.
Post country club.
Post rest-stop diner.
Post Raven run-in.
“How’s your week been?” I ask, hoping meaningless conversation will make the next two hours and fifteen minutes less uncomfortable than stark silence.
“Great. Super busy. Yours?”
Ah, so we’re at the peppy, short sentences stage. Got it. “Same. Non-stop. Can’t complain,” I say.
“Good. Good,” she says as she weaves through traffic, artfully changing lanes to dodge a cab in rush hour.
Goddamn, that’s hot, the way she maneuvers her car in the stop-and-start, honk-infested slog of New York City.
I clench my fists, wishing this were easier. But two minutes have passed, so there’s that.
“And things should be good for the auction too,” I say.
We talk about nothing but our tone reveals everything.
Too bad the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice make me want to spend more than the next two hours and thirteen minutes with her—I want to spend the night, and the next one too.
When she pulls over on Spring Street, she cuts the engine then says, “The Chopards are on the fourth floor. They have a vintage necklace, some other vintage jewelry too?—”
I cut her off. “David told me. I know.” Then I’m out of the car, heading to the lobby and meeting one of Rose’s parents’ friends.
A woman in her late sixties waits in the lobby. She wears a silk blouse and smells of Chanel No. 5.
“Thank you again for donating, Mrs. Chopard. David and I are so grateful,” I say as she hands me a box.
“So happy to help,” she says, then peers past my shoulder at the car waiting at the curb. “And how is that dear doing lately? Is Layla okay? I think of her so often.”
I’m thrown for a second, but then I put two and two together. This has to be about her father. Layla wouldn’t want me to reveal a damn thing, so I smile and say, “Layla is wonderful. Thank you again.”
When I return to the car, I set the box in the backseat.
“Thanks,” Layla says.
For doing my job? For helping my son? For not flirting with you? The only thanks I’d even want is for protecting her privacy, but I’m sure as shit not telling her about Mrs. Nosy Chopard.
“Sure,” I mumble.
We’re silent the rest of the way to the West Village, where I snag a couple of framed playbills from Crash The Moon . The director is donating a set of box seats and a backstage tour to his newest musical, a revival of Ask Me Next Year . I thank him for the playbills—those will go on the auction table to represent the big prize—then return to the car.
“Got ’em,” I say.
“Wonderful,” she says like she’s interviewing for a sorority.
Next, we head in silence to Chelsea. The popular romance author Hazel Valentine is donating several sets of her signed bestsellers. Her boyfriend is, too, since he’s also a writer. We swing by their place, where Layla double parks and then tells me to stay with the car. “I know Hazel. I want to say hi to her.”
Well, la-dee-fucking-dah.
Like I’ve been admonished, I stay in my seat, stewing. But when I peer into the side mirror, there’s a cop car trudging down the street.
Maybe he’ll give her a parking ticket. Maybe I’ll even let her get a ticket. Take that, Miss Silent Treatment.
I cross my arms.
The black and white inches closer.
Ah, hell. I can’t. I climb over the console, adjust the seat, then pull out. By the time I’ve circled the block, Layla’s waiting on the curb, her head tilted. I lean across and push open the door as she hops inside. “Cop?”
Are you kidding me? We’re back to one-word sentences?
“Yes. And I’m driving now,” I say as I hit the gas, because I need something to do. “I’m not a good passenger.”
She shuts the door. “Oh,” she says, and now she sounds admonished.
Good.
When she clicks the seatbelt in, she must adjust her mood since she gives me a plastic smile that’s straight out of a debutante handbook. “Thanks for doing that,” she chirps. “Three down, two to go.”
And now we’re back to the fake portion of the night. Fine by me.
“Almost done,” I bite out, and oops.
Did I sound like a dick?
Yes. Yes, I did.
“Yes, we are,” she says, still peppy. Then, she stares out the window as the billboards flash by.
This errand is worse than I’d even imagined.
Over on Park and Thirty-Third, she snags a chess set—it’s a Staunton, so that’s the real la-dee-dah—then sets it in the backseat, before settling into the passenger seat again.
She smooths a hand over her black skirt. It’s a flowy little number that makes me think bad things.
What a surprise.
But I’ve made it this far. I can last through one more pickup. “Hugo’s, then we’re done,” I say. The wine expert and restaurant owner is donating a private dinner party at his restaurant, as well as a few vintages of his favorite wines. We’re picking up the wine bottles, and then we’ll be finished.
“Actually,” Layla begins, and her voice signals change of plans before she says the next thing. “Why don’t we drop all this stuff at your place since we’re close to it? And then I can handle the Hugo’s pickup solo since it’s near me.”
How fucking stubborn is she? Does she think she can go toe to toe with me in the bossy department?
Come at me.
“Yes to the drop-off. No to you picking up the stuff at Hugo’s solo,” I say, brooking no argument.
“It just makes sense, Nick. I live on Seventy-Third. It’s a couple blocks from Hugo’s. Then, I’ll just bring the wine to the auction,” she says, like logic matters right now.
When it definitely does not matter.
As I weave through traffic, I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’d have to park your car in the garage, then go to Hugo’s, then carry the wine to your apartment yourself,” I explain crisply as I slow at the light.
“And?”
Once I stop, I turn to her, my brows narrowed. “One, I told David I’d do this with you. And two, I don’t want you walking around the city at night, carrying a box of wine,” I say.
“I think I can handle it.”
“No doubt you can. But I’m still going with you, carrying the wine, and walking you home.”
“I can get myself home. I do it, like, gosh, every night,” she says, sarcastic.
And that pisses me off more. “But tonight, you’re not alone.”
“Guess what? Tomorrow I will be,” she spits out.
I grit my teeth, holding in my irritation as I drive down the road. But a few minutes later, turning on my block, I’m still a pot, bubbling over.
Trouble is, that’s not the kind of man I want to be. I can’t let this anger win. When I reach my building, I cut the engine in front of it and turn to Layla. “Just let me,” I say tightly.
Her eyes are icy. “You can’t protect me. You can’t save me from the city. You just can’t.”
“But I still want to,” I say, a new head of steam building inside me. “Why won’t you just let me? Why are you acting like this? Why are you so fucking…”
“What, Nick? Why am I so fucking what?” she challenges.
My god, this woman is older than her years. Tougher than her age. She’s not afraid of anything.
“Cold,” I spit out. “You’re so cold and so…cordial. And so Upper East Side.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that the issue? That I’m Upper East Side tonight?”
“Yes,” I answer, matchstick. Except, it’s not. I shove a hand through my hair, trying to rewind the night, to sort out my feelings, to fix this mess. “No,” I correct. “The issue is,” I say, then take a breath to collect myself, and when I do, the frustration steps back, and the hurt I’m feeling strides forward. “Why are you shutting me out?”
“You shut me out,” she counters.
“I had to,” I answer.
“I know!” she explodes, then immediately covers her face with her hands, shaking her head, muttering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her voice stutters, filling with tears.
In no time, I reach for her, wrap my arms around her. “Baby, I’m sorry too,” I whisper. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“I don’t want to fight with you either,” she chokes out.
I gather her closer, stroke her hair. She ropes her arms around my neck, tucks her face against my chest. “I was a bitch,” she whimpers.
“No, you weren’t. I was angry,” I admit.
“I was too,” she says. “It’s just so hard with you. Being with you. And not being with you.”
My heart squeezes painfully like someone’s grabbed it, twisted it in a fist. “Same for me.”
“I was just trying to make it through tonight,” she says.
“Me too,” I admit, pulling her impossibly closer.
She snuggles up against me as if she’s seeking the comfort I have to give, the shared apology in our touch.
“I just want…” She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.
I feel the same. “I know. I want that too.”
We stay like that for a few more seconds, letting the heated moment fade some more and turn into something softer, something tender. When I separate from her, she looks up at me, regret in her beautiful blue eyes. “If you still want to, you can walk me home.”
I run the back of my knuckles against her soft cheek. “Yes. I do. At least for tonight.” Then, since I don’t always follow the rules, I offer her a smile and add, “Why don’t we get a bite to eat at Hugo’s while we’re there?”
Her eyes flicker with secret happiness. “Let’s do it.”