Chapter 6 Hayes
Hayes
What is supposed to be a classy, quiet, exclusive atmosphere feels like I’m walking in a spotlight with a nine-year-old holding a microphone.
I want to pull Benny aside, march her to the restroom, and tell her to knock it off. But What Would Be the Point? She’ll just smile up at me with that mischievous glint in her eye and pretend innocence.
Then the second I sit back down, she’ll start in again.
This is what Benny does. Push, prod, and needle with the youthful enthusiasm she throws at every single thing she does.
Except right now, she’s unknowingly doing it at Layla’s expense.
And mine.
The second we’re seated around a small table in the back corner of the dimly lit restaurant—Benny between us again, of course—she’s back at it, firing off questions. “Do you cook? Ever been on a date that went horribly wrong?”
Heat creeps up my neck. My grip tightens on the menu in my hands. “Bernadette, stop. You’re being rude.”
She only glances at me. “We’re getting to know her.”
Layla hesitates. “You know what? I think I’ll use the restroom. Please excuse me.” She pushes back her chair and stands, napkin on the chair as she crosses the room and heads toward the toilets.
I go straight for my daughter. “You need to knock this off right now. We are not going to date Layla.” I shake my head. “It’s not happening—and don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
Benny’s shoulders move up and down as she innocently inspects her fingernails. “It’s not a crime to ask questions.”
“That isn’t the point, Benny. You’re not asking normal questions. You’re interviewing her.” I breathe in. I breathe out. “We met this person today. Give her a break.”
She’s probably climbing out the bathroom window as we speak to escape us. Wouldn’t blame her. If I had the option, I’d be halfway down the alley by now too.
Benny retrieves a little chunk of bread from the basket and goes about buttering it. “You like her.”
My eyes bug out of my skull. “Excuse me?”
“You like her,” she repeats, pulling off a hunk of crust and jamming it into her mouth.
“I don’t even know her.”
Benny smirks. “Doesn’t mean you don’t like her.”
I lean back in my chair, scanning the restaurant just in time to catch Layla coming back from the restroom. And damn it all—she’s different now. She’s more put together, glowing under the soft light; a new braid drapes over her shoulder, flirty and sweet.
I lower my eyes to the front of her sweater. It’s cream colored, simple, and makes her skin look warm—and outlines the shape of her breasts.
Do not stare at her tits . . .
Layla is cuter than she has any right to be, which makes this circus with my daughter a whole lot worse.
A grumble leaves my chest. “Do me a favor, Benny. For the next sixty minutes, eat your food and please try to have manners.”
She gasps dramatically, clutching at her chest like I’ve wounded her. “You want me to sit here in silence?”
“Do your best.”
My child has the audacity to snort. “Dad—do you know how much torture silence would be?”
“Be polite and behave. You can sit through dinner in silence.”
“Dinner with your future wife,” she mutters under her breath, shoving more bread into her mouth as if it’s the only meal she’s had today.
I gawk at her. “What did you just say?”
Her smile is all teeth. “Nothing.”
My jaw works as I gape at her, but before I can lay into the little menace, Layla is sliding back into her chair with the kind of calm that makes me wonder if she overheard any of our argument. She smooths her napkin across her lap, eyes flickering between the two of us. “Everything okay?”
“Peachy,” I bite out.
Benny beams, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk with a face full of acorns. “Dad was just telling me to sit in silence for the rest of dinner.”
I gape at her in horror. “That is not what I said.”
All she does is shrug.
Layla bites the inside of her cheek, clearly fighting a smile. “You know,” she says gently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Conversation is usually encouraged at supper clubs.”
Benny peacocks triumphantly at her ally. “See? She wants me to talk.”
I open my mouth to protest, but snap it shut. I am powerless against her devious ways.
“Ignore him,” my daughter informs our guest. “He’s always crabby when he’s hungry.”
I feel my jaw tic. “I am not crabby.”
My eyes snap to Layla, and sure enough, she’s covering her mouth with her napkin, shoulders shaking.
“Sorry,” she says between muffled laughs. “I shouldn’t be laughing.”
Benny lights up, delighted. “Yes, you should. He’s hilarious when he’s mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I bark, which only makes them giggle harder.
Now they’re feeding off each other as I sit, scowling into my menu, barely registering any of the items. Steak, steak, where is the goddamn steak listed?
“This is not funny,” I grind out.
“It’s kind of funny,” Layla says, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling.
Benny slaps the table, nearly toppling her water glass. “See, Dad? Layla thinks you’re funny.”
The waiter materializes at the table, pen poised, professional smile in place, shooting a curious gaze toward our table guest. I can only assume they know one another. “Have we decided?”
“Yes,” I snap, desperate to move things along. “Steak. Medium rare.”
Benny leans across me to point at the menu, breadcrumbs dusting the tablecloth. “Can I get the mac and cheese? And fries? And—oh, wait—do you have milkshakes?”
The waiter blinks and shakes his head. “We have a chocolate torte.”
“Perfect!” she says, like that’s the same thing.
The waiter flicks his gaze to Layla. “And for you, Layla?”
She smiles. “The salmon and asparagus, please, Mark. And ice water is fine.”
Polite. Of course she would be easy and uncomplicated.
Unlike so many of the women I’ve dated in the past, or the wives of my friends, with their overdone hair and makeup and wardrobes that cost a bloody fortune.
Who substitute everything on a menu and make adjustments to basic things to purposely be difficult.
“Excellent,” Mark says, jotting it down. “I’ll put that right in.” He disappears, and for one blessed moment I think maybe—maybe—the table will settle.
It doesn’t.
“Dad, you should tell Layla about the time you went on a date with that one lady who told you she loved you during dessert.”
I choke on my drink.
Layla’s lips twitch, her fork paused midair. “During dessert?” she asks carefully, like she’s not sure if she wants to hear the rest.
Benny nods eagerly, delighted. “Yep. Halfway through cheesecake, she told him she was in love. They’d only been out twice.”
“Three times,” I correct automatically, then curse myself for taking the bait. Shit, now I’m locked into providing more details.
Another of Layla’s laughs escapes, and I swear the sound makes the back of my neck prickle as my eyes stray to the loose strand of hair catching on the corner of her glossy lips.
What the fuck am I doing . . . stop looking at her mouth.
Benny leans toward her, conspiratorial. “He didn’t call her again.”
“Obviously,” I mutter, glaring at my daughter. “Announcing undying love on a third date is—”
“Romantic?” Layla supplies, eyes sparkling.
“Insane,” I shoot back. “This is why I don’t date.”
Layla tilts her head. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in love at first sight?”
“No.” The answer is out of my mouth before she’s even finished asking. Firm. Absolute.
Her brows lift, amused. “That was fast. Not even gonna think about it first?”
“Nope. It’s fantasyland bullshit.” I pause. “Do you?”
She studies me before leaning back in her chair. “I’m not sure. I mean . . . maybe it’s not love, but there’s something to be said for instant connection.”
Benny—not to be forgotten in this conversation—whispers loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. “Dad hasn’t met the right person yet.”
Layla’s lips part as if she’s going to offer her opinion on that statement, but instead she lets out the tiniest laugh, shaking her head. Her braid drops over her shoulder, silky strands catching the candlelight, and for a second I catch my breath.
Is that a fucking thing?
No.
It’s not.
She isn’t . . .
Layla isn’t the kind of woman who inspires fantasies. She’s simple and normal and has freckles on the bridge of her nose.
All I know is I’m noticing the curve of her mouth, the way her eyes sparkle like she’s in on a joke no one else caught, the way she looks more real than anyone I’ve sat across from in a long damn time.
I hate that I’m noticing.
And if Benny notices me noticing? I’m screwed.
My spawn reaches for another dinner roll like a raccoon who’s discovered a garbage buffet. “So, Layla. What’s your instant-connection checklist? A spark? The way a guy says hello? Dad says hello like ‘HELL-low.’” She drags the syllables into a grunt. “It’s very romantic.”
“Can you not make me sound like a caveman?”
“Well, stop sounding like one.” Benny pushes, wanting desperately to rope her new friend into commonalities. “What’s the first thing you notice about someone?”
Layla thinks for a beat, then shrugs lightly. “Their smile, probably.”
My child immediately swivels toward me, loud groan accompanying her frown. “Dad doesn’t smile. Ever. So, check that off the list.”
“I smile,” I argue.
“Only at me. And dogs.”
“That counts,” I say, affronted.
“No, it doesn’t,” Benny says, buttering her roll. “That’s like discount smiling. Not the real kind people fall in love over.”
“Someone could totally fall in love with my smile,” I continue arguing, stopping myself short because what the fuck am I doing? I don’t want to fall in love. I don’t want—
“Smile once,” Benny demands. “Let us see.”
I smile.
“Dad! That’s not a smile, that’s . . . that’s . . . You look like a serial killer,” Benny finishes, recoiling theatrically in her chair. “It’s so bad.”
Layla’s hand flies up to cover her mouth, but it’s too late—the laugh slips through anyway, soft at first, then louder.
“Do it again, Dad.” Benny waves her little hand around as she bosses me. “With your eyes this time. Less teeth. More human and less Beast.”
I grit my molars, which only makes my so-called smile worse.
“Yikesss.” Benny drags out the word. “If that’s the best you’ve got, no wonder you’re single.”
My jaw tics. “I’m single because I choose to be single.”
I have plenty of options! Women throw themselves at me, ask anyone on my team!
Benny snorts so loud the couple at the next table turn their heads to get a look at the Loud Talker. “Yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that.”
Layla is openly laughing, cheeks flushed, shoulders shaking. “Honestly? You do look constipated.”
“Maybe I am,” I snap, wanting this entire day to be over. “You two are conspiring against me.”
Eventually I’m spared more suffering when Mark and another server bring our meal. I notice Layla sneaking peeks at me as she busies herself with cutting her vegetables, the small grin on her mouth revealing a dimple in one of her cheeks.
A dimple? Fuck.
What’s she trying to do, kill me?
I focus on my steak like it’s the most important thing I’ve ever cut into. If I don’t, I’ll end up staring at her again like some kind of idiot.
“Dad, stop glaring at your food. You’ll scare Mark away, and I would like to ask him to refill my kiddie cocktail.”
“I’m not glaring.”
“You totally are,” she argues. “Layla, tell him.”
Layla glances up, cheeks pink, lips twitching like she’s holding back more laughter. “You do look a little intense.”
Benny giggles. “That’s why his teammates call him Mr. Grumpy.”
I freeze. Slowly turn my head toward the daughter who just betrayed one of my most well-kept secrets. “How the hell do you know that nickname?”
Her eyes twinkle over the top of her glass as she takes a dainty sip. “I have my ways.”
Layla presses her napkin to her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Mr. Grumpy?”
Christ.
I’m never going to live this down.