Chapter 7 Layla
Layla
“Mr. Grumpy?”
I’ve heard of worse nicknames to call a person, but still swallow my laugh. Hide my grin behind my water glass—again—but it pops out anyway, along with a hiccup. Which would be more embarrassing if he hadn’t already heard my stomach at a full gurgle.
I give up trying to have any dignity in front of this man.
With no need to impress him or flirt with him because There is no Way I Am His Type in any Way, Shape, or Form! I find freedom in being myself and nothing but my full self, so help me God . . .
Next to me, Hayes’s glare is like a thundercloud. Clearly he hates the nickname, though a tame one, or maybe he just hates the idea of his daughter announcing it at a dinner table in mixed company.
Either way, I can totally see it.
Mr. Grumpy, indeed.
It fits.
He wears the broody look well, broad shoulders and sexy scruff and down-turned mouth . . .
Rawr.
Benny pats his forearm as she grins at me. “Don’t worry, he’s a nice grump.”
“I’m not—” he starts to protest but stops, because he is indeed a decent guy when it comes to his daughter. I’ve only known them a short time, and anyone can see she’s the center of his universe—or he wouldn’t have brought her with him this weekend.
“Let’s pause a second,” Benny announces. “I have to use the little girls’ room. If the server comes back, can you ask for another kiddie cocktail, please? And see if it can have a ton of cherries.’” She slides out of her velvet-covered chair and gives us a pointed look. “No secrets while I’m gone.”
I fake zip my lip.
No secrets.
“We’ll sit in silence,” I promise, crossing my heart and holding my hand up, Scout’s honor. “You won’t miss out on anything.”
Her FOMO is real. With a nod, Benny saunters off, head held high, braids swinging, giving us one cursory backward glance.
I wiggle my fingers at her. Lift my fork and resume eating, not sure where to rest my eyes. An uncomfortable silence settles between Hayes and me before he clears his throat, reaches for his beer, stops halfway to his mouth. Sets the glass back down.
“We don’t have to”—he gestures between us—“talk or whatever.”
“That’s one of my best skills. Not talking,” I lie, because talking is what I do best and why I’m in this mess in the first place.
I’m chatty.
Personable.
Charismatic.
It’s been a blessing and a curse my entire life! And there is a hulking, broad-shouldered pothole across from me named Hayes Fielder, and I am determined not to drive my personality directly into him at eighty miles an hour by filling the space with babble!
Life is hard.
The corners of his gorgeous lips twitch at my announcement at the same time our server glides past with an empty tray; Hayes lifts two fingers without looking away from me. “Excuse me—hi, sorry. The kiddie cocktail for my daughter? Can you make sure it’s heavy on cherries?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Fielder.” The server bobs his head enthusiastically in the presence of a celebrity. “Extra cherries. Got it.”
“She’ll check,” he murmurs to me once the server goes, voice softer, meant just for the two of us. “They’re her favorite part of the cocktail.”
I don’t blame her. I love a delicious cherry too!
“I get that impression,” I say, trying not to melt at the affection tucked inside his gruff tone. “Is there a number that satisfies her? Like, what’s her cherry quota?”
“Three is a score.” He spears a neat square of steak he’s cut with his knife, pausing before lifting it. “More than that would make her face melt off.”
Hayes pops the meat into his mouth. Chews. Swallows.
“Benny is blunt,” he begins by way of apology. “It’s always just been me, and her two grandmas as female influences. She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“I like blunt,” I tell him with a sip of my water. “Saves time. Cuts down on bullshit.”
He sets the steak knife parallel to his fork and looks at me—really looks at me good and hard. Drawing a mental blueprint. Scanning my face, eyes. Mouth. Assessing me in a way that has my spine straightening under the weight of it; I let it.
Meet his eyes like I actually have courage.
As if I am used to dealing with men like him.
Slowly, Hayes nods. “I bring her everywhere because I don’t like leaving her. People say I’m overprotective. Maybe I am.” His gaze drops to his plate as he says, “But she knows where I am. And I know where she is. That’s all that matters.”
The honesty nudges something soft in my chest. “‘Overprotective’ reads as ‘caring’ from where I’m sitting.”
He tilts his head, like he wants to believe me but has learned to audit compliments. “Her mom’s not around. So if I screw this up, there isn’t a net.”
“Oh.” I rest my fork, the room fuzzing at the edges for half a second. “That’s a lot to carry.” I want him to tell me so badly where Benny’s mom is and what the story is behind her absence.
“It is what it is.” He shrugs. “Her, uh. Mom died giving birth to her.”
Oh . . . My mouth opens. I press a hand to my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, soft enough that it barely makes it across the table. “I didn’t know.”
“No one does because it’s not anyone’s business.” He pauses a beat. “We were twenty-two.”
Twenty-two. At twenty-two I was graduating from college and using cardboard boxes and plastic totes as furniture and debating about whether or not to get a cat. Hayes was becoming a father and a widower in the same hour. The math makes my chest ache.
The dining room hum recedes to a faraway buzz. I can see him holding himself still, a man who has learned that if he doesn’t move, nothing leaks.
“Bernadette,” I say, because it’s something to hold on to. “It’s a beautiful name.”
“Her mom picked it.” A ghost of a smile. “Said if she ever had a girl, she wanted a name that was old and timeless and unique. It wasn’t my first choice, but I wanted to honor her memory.”
Makes sense. “Were you married?”
Hayes chuckles. “No.” He offers no further explanation.
Not married.
The server slips by to refill our waters. I say thank you too brightly and take a sip I don’t need. My brain, unhelpfully, decides to offer a confessional in return.
“I was engaged once,” I blurt.
His brows lift, his faint smile reappearing. “Oh yeah?”
“For about thirty seconds.” I laugh. “Don’t know what I was thinking, saying yes to a guy when we were twenty years old, but there I was . . .” Shrug. “He was nice. Good on paper. Bad in practice.”
“What made you say yes?”
“Expectation.” I grimace. “Guilt. Everyone around us was coupling up, and the jackass asked at a bonfire surrounded by cell phones. I didn’t want to be the villain of someone else’s Instagram story by saying no. Can you imagine that shit going viral?”
Why am I telling him this?
Dear God, Layla, be quiet.
His mouth tips. “You changed your mind?”
“The next morning I woke up and realized I was a version of myself I didn’t like. One who never said no and agreed with everything and ugh—no. I hated that about myself.” I twirl my straw. “I never want to be anyone’s little housekeeper.”
“Fair enough.” He grunts. “Did he take it badly?”
“He cried.” I pull a face. “Which, like—valid reaction. But then he asked if we could still have a friendship ceremony. So.” I open a palm. “Here we are. A few short relationships since, but nothing that stuck.”
There is literally no need for me to bring up Blake, my latest ex-catastrophe, who slept with the town’s only dentist.
Total dickhead.
Hayes’s laugh is surprising, a warm vibration I feel in my ribs. Yummy. Delicious. Deep and so so sexy. “Friendship ceremony? That sounds fucking stupid.”
I laugh too. “Oh good, you agree.”
We’re both grinning like idiots. I don’t look away from Hayes because I am shameless and enthralled by him and also because his mouth is doing that unfair curve again. The table feels smaller. The noise of the room fuzzes out.
He settles his glass, knuckles grazing the table. “So what do you want instead of that,” he asks, strong jaw tilting. “If not housekeeper or friendship bride.”
“A team,” I say with authority because I have thought about this no less than a million times. “A cocaptain. Someone who tells me when I’m wrong and hands me a hoodie when I forget mine.”
And wants to have lots and lots of sex.
My eyes drop to his broad chest. His large hands.
His gaze tracks mine to his hands. He knows exactly where my thoughts went; I can tell by the slow, devastating pull of his mouth. One finger taps the rim of his glass, lazy, like he’s giving me time to look my fill.
They flex, veiny and wide and—
“What else?” he asks, rougher now.
“A guy who—”
“And I’m backkk!” Benny materializes as if on cue, sliding into her chair with the subtlety of a parade. “What did I miss?”
The spell snaps. I blink; Hayes leans away a fraction, clears his throat, and somehow manages to look both guilty and innocent.
Benny eyes us suspiciously. “Why are your faces red?”
“Are they? That’s weird,” I say.
“Spicy fries,” he counters at the same time, plucking one off his plate and wiggling it in the air.
His daughter narrows her eyes, but then they light up once she spies her cocktail. “Seven cherries. Sweet!” She fist pumps.
“Bragging rights,” Hayes tells her, recovering his equilibrium much quicker than I do, his knee bumping mine under the table. I freeze but don’t move away.
He doesn’t either.
“Why is Dad smiling like that?” Benny inquires, plucking a cherry out of her glass. “You look sus.”
“I’m not smiling,” he insists, forcing a scowl onto his face.
“Mm-hmm.” She swivels to me. “Was he being charming? He tries sometimes. Like a wittle baby deer learning to walk.”
“I would never accuse your dad of having charm,” I say gravely.
“Gee, thanks,” he mutters, lips twitching again.
Benny clocks it and points triumphantly. “Aha! A microsmile. That’s your ‘I’m pretending I don’t like this, but I do’ face.”
“Eat your fries,” he rumbles.
“Gladly.” She pops another cherry into her mouth. “So what are we doing after this? Hot chocolate? Ice skating in the town square? A nighttime walk through downtown, strolling hand in hand?”
Where is she coming up with this?
“Bedtime,” Hayes counters.
She mopes. “Booo!”
“Counterproposal,” I say, leaning conspiratorially toward Benny. “Hot chocolate, and a short victory drive down Main Street to see the twinkling lights. Then—” I slice a hand through the air. “Back to the hotel before we turn into pumpkins. You’ve had a long day, and I have to be up at five.”
“Gross.” Benny groans.
“Tell me about it.”
We finish up and add whip cream on top of our cocoa order. I steal fries. Hayes pretends not to notice but slides the ketchup closer in my direction like a true gentleman. He catches the server’s eye and takes the check; the whole motion is attractively competent.
Outside, the air is crisp enough to bite. Benny marches ahead toward the truck as Hayes falls into step beside me, shoulder grazing mine as we walk.
Of course it does, the man is massive.
We pile back into my truck, then lurch onto Main Street. Twinkle lights drape from pole to pole, storefronts offering a warm glow. The bookstore is already closed, as is the bakery, whose window is fogged with fake snow, and the antique shop’s brass pumpkin greets us as we drive past slowly.
Quaint. Peaceful.
Dare I say magical?
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” I tell them. “Tomorrow all the streets will be closed for the festival.”
And I won’t have time to see either of them. I’ve put June Wilder in charge of the Fielders, given that she’s on the committee and is so organized she probably sleeps with her clipboard. Second in command and fully competent.
In fact, I hope they’ll leave me alone next year and put her in charge . . .