Chapter 25
I’m so glad that Lincoln stops by the bakery truck almost every day. Our interaction at the football game yesterday was so … I don’t know. Intense? Is that the right word? It was full of something, and I need something to balance out the way my heart seems to be pounding around in my chest, making itself known. I need some cute small talk and a glimpse of his embarrassed smile. I need a normal interaction with him before our date at his house tomorrow night.
Date. It’s not a date. It’s hanging out and celebrating. My daughter will be there.
When I see him in line on Monday morning, I’m glad to be sitting in the truck with some separation between us. That way I won’t be tempted to lean in and kiss him when he orders. Zora texted me last night and asked what I want to say to the people calling her for comments on my relationship with Lincoln. I reiterated that we’re just friends and we’re still saying no comment.
People love you guys together, she’d texted. I’m happy to keep them thinking that. Then she’d sent a follow-up. Let me know when you guys are ready to confirm the relationship.
The way she’d said it, like it was a given, made my heart race almost as much as Lincoln’s farewell kiss.
Is it a given? Am I okay with that?
Would I even be able to say no to him if it’s a possibility?
I can’t keep from glancing at him every chance I get while I take orders from the three people in front of him. Things aren’t too busy, so Astrid is helping Mila in the back for a minute. That means I’ll get a second to talk to Lincoln.
Astrid sits down at her station just as Lincoln gets to the front of the line. She waves at him, and he returns the gesture with a friendly smile of his own. “Morning, Astrid,” he says. And before the jealousy can prick too much, he turns to me, his smile widening. “Morning, Layla.”
My cheek tingles as I remember the soft kiss he left there after the game yesterday. “Good morning, Linc.” I do a quick survey of our customers. There are a handful of people milling around, but no one seems to be in a hurry. The bearded health nut is nowhere to be found, thankfully. The customers are looking at the menu board, and there are a few people discussing the notice we put up about people letting us know about anything strange.
“Great game yesterday,” Astrid says before I can say anything.
I force myself not to scowl that she’s chatting with him. Lincoln and I aren’t dating. I have no claim, and I certainly haven’t told Astrid about my growing feelings for him. She can’t be blamed for what she doesn’t know.
“It was so cool to watch a game from that suite. I’ve never done that before,” she goes on, clapping her hands in front of her face. “Well, I’ve only been to a couple live games, but that was definitely cooler than any other game I’ve been to.” She beams at Lincoln.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” His response sounds polite. Or am I just reading into what I want to hear?
Astrid glances at me. “Everyone online is saying you two are dating since Layla wore your jersey.”
I’ve changed my mind. I hope one of those customers idling by the menu board steps up. Soon. Astrid’s question is a clear attempt to see if we actually are, and I don’t know how to answer that. We’re just friends doesn’t feel like the full truth anymore, despite me reiterating that to my agent.
I chuckle and avoid the question by turning to Lincoln. “What are you having this morning?” I ask in my most chipper voice. Am I being too friendly? Did that sound flirty? I can’t help glancing over at Astrid, and she’s staring between us, waiting for one of us to reply to her statement about our relationship status. “Mila made sugar cookies,” I go on, and I’m rambling. “She made a cheesecake frosting that’s mwah.” I put my fingers to my lips in a chef’s kiss gesture.
Lincoln grimaces. “Uh, no sugar cookies for me today.”
I cringe. “Still too soon?”
He laughs, and having his full attention warms me. “I didn’t even eat one of them before, but I can’t help feeling anxious when I think about it.” His cheeks pink a little bit, like he’s embarrassed to admit that he’s bothered by the thought of poisoned cookies.
“I don’t blame you,” I reassure him. I lower my voice further. The other customers are still out by the menu board, but it’s always better to be careful. One of them could be the culprit. None of us have any idea who’s stalking Lincoln—or Mila, I guess. “Has Dillon gotten back to you about the muffins?” I ask.
Astrid gasps next to us, and we both turn toward her. Her expression is aghast. “Someone else got sick?” Her face is so pale, and she’s blinking rapidly. Is she sick?
I shake my head and remember that she and Mila went into the truck before Officer Brady suggested that Lincoln keep buying stuff from the bakery truck to lure in the perpetrator but to be careful about it. She’s worried, just like the rest of us. I shake my head. “No. Lincoln’s going to be taking the stuff he buys over to Landon’s friend so that the police can try and catch whoever’s doing this in the act.”
Astrid sags with relief. “That’s a very good idea,” she says. She looks around, expression anxious, like the culprit could be anywhere. And I guess they could be.
But seriously. This is my time with Lincoln.
Which is so dumb to think. I’ll have an entire evening with him tomorrow, so there’s no need to be selfish about the ten minutes he spends at the bakery truck this morning. Maybe I should dunk my head in cold water. There must be some way to get the image out of my head of the way he looked when he opened the door the other night at the hotel. Mamma mia, he’s like some kind of movie character but real. Thinking like this should worry me. I know what it’s like to date a movie star.
Deep in my heart, I know this isn’t the same. Lincoln Knight is an actual superhero. Phantom Hex is just a character.
“Yeah,” Lincoln says, pulling me back to the conversation about the poisoner. “Hopefully keeping up the routine gives Officer Brady some leads. Maybe they’ll be able to get fingerprints or something if we find out something’s been poisoned again.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Astrid says absently. She’s still looking over the customers. We need to catch the poisoner soon so we can all quit worrying.
Lincoln turns back to me. “The muffins were clean,” he says with a shrug.
“I guess that’s good news.” But it also means there’re no leads yet. I hate that this is hanging over all of us. I cut a glance to Mila, baking away in the back and lost in her passion. She scoops some batter out of a bowl and tastes it, smiling to herself and then tossing the spoon into the small sink with a clatter. This situation has been stressful for her, and she’s threatened on more than one occasion to close the bakery truck down until whoever’s trying to poison her customers is caught.
Lincoln glances at his watch, and my heart sinks. Tuesday night, I remind myself.
“I saw cherry vanilla mini German pancakes on the board?” he says. “I’ve got to try those. My mom used to make German pancakes when I was a kid. They’re my favorite. I’ll take four.”
“They’re delicious,” I say approvingly, tapping his order into my tablet.
“Just don’t forget to be careful with them,” Astrid admonishes, getting up to box up the order. Her gaze is fixed on something across the street, and I follow it, but all I see are people walking down the sidewalk, some pausing to look over toward the food truck.
“Of course,” Lincoln assures Astrid. It might be just me, but his smile looks a little forced. The kind you give a little kid when you pat them on the head and say, Definitely no monsters under the bed.
A woman about my mom’s age steps up behind Lincoln. Lincoln must notice the movement, because he glances over his shoulder and then steps aside for her.
“Is someone stealing from Mila?” the woman asks, her tone indignant, as she gestures back to the sign.
I glance at Lincoln, unsure how to answer without lying. “There, uh, has been some tampering with her ingredients.”
“That’s despicable,” the woman says. She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I bet it was that guy who has the barbecue truck. You know the one that’s a couple down when Sweet Kisses parks with all the other trucks? He’s always grumbling about Mila stealing his customers like he even makes the same thing.” She rolls her eyes.
Well, that’s something to tell Officer Brady. I know the truck the woman is talking about. Still, I’m careful not to lob accusations when I don’t even know the guy. “We appreciate your loyalty. What can I get you this morning?”
Astrid passes Lincoln’s box to him just as the woman asks for a dozen of the sugar cookies, so Lincoln waves and heads away.
I’m only half concentrating on taking the woman’s order as I watch him. Especially when a short guy in jeans and a T-shirt stops Lincoln and holds out his phone. Probably asking for a selfie, which is confirmed when the guy holds it out and leans toward Lincoln. I’m too far away to see if he tries to tamper with Lincoln’s box, but Lincoln must be on the same wavelength. As the man is walking away, I catch Lincoln holding up his phone as though he’s looking at a text. I’d be willing to bet he’s snapping a picture of his own. That’s two possible leads, just when I thought the case might be going cold.
“What’s the total?” the woman says, snapping my attention back to her.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. I rattle off the price, still furtively watching Lincoln walk away. For the case, of course.
I can’t believehow much I miss Margot when I have to work all day away from her. I lie on my bed with her when I get home and try to convince her to snuggle with me. The problem is that she’s too busy. She doesn’t even have the decency to miss me as much as I missed her. I steal kisses from her soft, chubby cheeks every chance I get though, even as we play a hide-and-seek game on the bed with her small stuffed teddy bear that Mila got her when she was first born. It’s navy blue and has a little Rays sun logo on the chest, and it’s uber soft. Every time Margot “finds” it, she rubs her face in the bear.
The doorbell rings about an hour after I get home, and I wish again that I’d bought the video doorbell that I keep meaning to. Then I could decide if it’s worth opening before alerting whoever’s there that we’re home.
Margot squeals with delight at finding the bear just a few feet away from her, and I know whoever is on the other side of the door knows we’re home. I transfer her and the bear to the rug and head for the door, leaning in to check through the peephole.
My jaw drops in utter surprise to see You Know Who himself standing on the other side of my door. Not Voldemort, if that’s what you were thinking. I swallow and take a deep breath. Number One Jerk rings the doorbell again, and the door is thin enough that I catch a grunt of annoyance. So he’s pretty much still the same.
I pull open the door, standing in the small gap that I’ve made. “What do you want?” I ask.
He flashes me that same charming grin that I fell for when we met—the one that lights up his face, making his blue eyes sparkle and women in general swoon. “Hello to you too.”
I stare at him, unaffected by his America’s sweetheart act, and let the silence stretch between us into awkward.
He clears his throat. “Can I come in? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
Everything in me tenses. My stomach, my chest, my pinky toe. I think maybe even my eyelids. Margot is behind this door. Margot, the sweet baby girl he hasn’t cared a thing about for months, still doesn’t, that I know of. He thinks he can just waltz in here and into her life as a second thought? Absolutely not. The day he meets Margot will be a day I’m prepared for.
Is there a part of me that longs for her to have the father she needs? Yes. But I want a man who will dote on her, who will follow her around when she’s learning to walk because he can’t stand the idea of her falling. A man who will get his fingernails painted and his hair done like all the green flag guys on TikTok.
“No. You can’t come in.” It surprises me that my voice is firm, given how tight unwanted emotion is in my throat. “What do you want?”
Mr. Charming (not) glances around the hallway and spots the doorbell cameras on at least three of the doors in this hallway. The one at the end of the hall, about ten feet from us, probably gets a perfect shot of his face every time he looks that direction. “This isn’t very private,” he says under his breath.
I arch an eyebrow. “Then maybe you should have called first and arranged for me to meet you somewhere private.”
He looks around again, and I almost laugh to think that apartment number 105 is getting plenty of shots to sell to the paparazzi thanks to his paranoia. I cannot wait to see what the gossip accounts say about this. Love triangle? Is America’s Hero trying to steal Lincoln Knight’s girl? I bite back a laugh.
“I need to talk to you,” he reiterates. “Please, let’s go inside.” He gestures to the door of my apartment like it’s his, and he’s graciously asking me in.
“No,” I repeat.
He huffs and clenches his jaw. “Is the baby sleeping or something?”
The baby? Anger surges through me. Not only has he ignored Margot’s existence, he’s forgotten that she’s a girl. That she has a name. I told all of this to him on the day she was born in a text message to him that he never responded to, yet I saw the read receipt.
“No. Your daughter is not sleeping.” How did I not see how entitled he was, even before the Phantom Hex part? This guy is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, even if I don’t regret for a second having Margot in my life. Was he like this before? He’s not trying to charm me right now—I’ll give him that. When he wants to lay it on, he could sell Kryptonite to Superman. So what’s his endgame right now, and why does he want into my apartment if he hasn’t come to his senses and realized that dumping me was as stupid as turning down the Phantom Hex would’ve been?
“Layla?” a voice asks from behind Jack, and he stiffens.
I peer around him. (He’s refusing to turn around like the paparazzi has stalked him here or something.) It’s my neighbor, Isabella. We’ve chatted a couple of times because she has a toddler and a four-month-old, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to develop our mom friendship like I want to.
“Everything okay?” she asks, her brows furrowed. She’s stepped halfway out her door, and she’s holding a baseball bat in one hand.
“Layla, just let me in, please,” Phantom Father hisses at me.
“It’s fine, Isabella. Thanks.” I give her a big grin. She can only see the back of Jack’s head, so she probably hasn’t recognized him. But I know she’ll be watching on her doorbell camera now, and I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about America’s Hero showing up on my doorstep.
She nods at me and shuts her door.
“Layla,” Jack insists.
Before I can say no yet again, the door to the stairs down the hall slams, and Jack turns toward whoever’s coming home and lowers his cap a little. I peer around the door frame to see Lincoln walking toward us. His eyes meet mine with immediate concern. Everything in my body relaxes at seeing him, and heat rushes to my cheeks as I realize it.
I am falling hard for Lincoln, and I never meant to. Does he feel the same way or are we just friends?
“Layla?” He says my name the same way Isabella did, with the same concern, and yet everything about it is different. Like how heat spreads through my body as I picture Lincoln shifting past me into the apartment to watch Margot while I take care of Jack. Isabella would have done the same thing for me if I’d asked, and yet … Lincoln is the man I picture when I think of someone doting on Margot. Not Jack. Not for a long time.
“Lincoln Knight?” Jack’s tone is surprised as he blinks up at Lincoln. The Phantom Hex movie does a good job of making Jack seem tall and muscled. And he is muscled. He just has nothing on Lincoln. Lincoln also towers over Jack, probably by at least six inches. I’m used to the large difference in our heights, so I can’t explain why when I look at him next to Jack, it’s comical.
“What’s up?” Lincoln asks me, his tone relaxed but questioning. His gaze is taking in the fact that one of the most famous actors in America is standing on my doorstep, and that I am standing in a small gap in the door and haven’t invited him in.
“Just waiting for you,” I say brightly, like I was expecting him to show up. Jack stiffens again as I open the door and shift for Lincoln to come in. “Mind checking on Margot for me?” I ask. I’ve glanced over my shoulder at her a couple times since Jack showed up, so I know she’s still playing on the rug with her toys and practicing her worm crawl.
“Of course.” He brushes his hand along my shoulder as he passes by me, and I can’t help watching him head over to the rug, where he drops onto his stomach and starts chatting with Margot. She turns her attention to him, beaming and inching her way toward him with his encouragement.
I turn back to Jack reluctantly. I don’t think he’ll push this much longer, because every minute is a chance that another neighbor is going to show up and start taking actual pictures with their phones. And more chances for my neighbors to discover Jack Williams in the hallway and use their doorbell cameras to catch all of this and make some serious cash. I hope it’s in the thousands.
“What do you want?” I ask again, making sure my voice is chilly.
“There are some things we need to discuss,” he says, his tone brisk like mine. In private dangles off the sentence even though he doesn’t say it. “How I can help you,” he says when I still don’t move.
“Then act like a normal human who isn’t used to everyone being at his beck and call and text me to set something up.”
“Layla—”
I shake my head. “I’m good, Jack. I’ve been good. I don’t need someone to help me. I’ve got everything handled. This apartment. Food for my daughter. I don’t need taking care of.”
His gaze narrows, and he looks around the hallway again. Yeah, I hope he’s worried about what they’ll record too. He shoves an envelope at me and strides off.