Chapter 11 Hayes
Hayes
“Do you see her?” Benny’s on tiptoe, elbow jabbing my ribs like a metronome. “Dad? Do you see her?”
I don’t.
Then I do.
Dark hair down, loose, and a little wild from the plane. Soft T-shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans that hug her hips and do things to my blood pressure. Sneakers. Sweatshirt tied around her waist.
She’s hesitant to scan the crowd at arrivals, then grins when she spots the stupid sign Benny made me hold.
Welcome Home from Prison, Layla!
She steps around a family reunion, and everything inside me first stills—then slams awake. It’s like somebody took jumper cables to a battery I’d quietly resigned as dead.
Shit, she’s pretty. Every time I see her I’m reminded of that fact.
Taller, too, or maybe it’s the confidence in her walk. No winter coat this time; not bundled up the way she’d been in Star Lake, where it was cooler. The masculine, caveman part of me catalogs her body: the curve of her waist, the slope of her throat, the way her eyes find mine and hold.
I clear my throat. “Welcome to Phoenix.”
Her eyes scan our sign. “Prison?”
Benny grins from ear to ear. “It was my idea. For shock value.”
Layla laughs, head tipping back. Airport noise drops to a hush in my ears. “I’m shocked, all right.” She gives my daughter’s hair a tousle, bag and carry-on being pulled along behind her. “I only did minimum security.”
Benny’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“No, you goof.”
Our eyes meet again.
We walk. I keep a foot between us and fail not to notice when her hand brushes mine anyway. Every accidental touch is a strike of heat; my rib cage feels one size too small.
This is not going to be good.
Haven’t fucked anyone in . . . Christ, I don’t remember how long. I gave up enjoying anything casual a long time ago—jerking off has always done the trick just fine.
Efficient.
Predictable.
The way her mouth shines after she takes a tube of gloss out of her bag and swipes it across her lips—my brain short-circuits, offering feral suggestions that do not belong within a hundred yards of baggage claim or my nine-year-old daughter.
“Was the flight okay?” I ask, because words are safer than staring.
“It was fine—short, thank God. No movie player in the back of the headrest, so I basically stared at the seat in front of me the entire time.”
I am a grown man.
I block for a living. I have discipline ingrained in my flesh. And yet with Layla walking next to me, laughing, dimple flashing like a green light, all I can think is how her T-shirt clings to her tits and how easily I could back her into my kitchen counter and bury my nose in the side of her neck—
We arrive at my truck. Benny buckles herself into the back, chattering away about her volleyball game tomorrow. School. Homework. Her favorite teachers. Bombarding her new best friend with any and all details buried in her little brain.
Chill the fuck out, I tell myself, a gentle reminder that I invited her here to make things simple. And fun. For Layla. For Benny.
Not myself.
My body, apparently, does not agree.
At the house I haul her bag to the guest room, give her a quick tour, then steer us to the kitchen, where I’ve lined up snacks in case she’s hungry and didn’t get food on her flight: salsa, tortilla chips, guac, a bowl of almonds.
Olives. Pickles. Finger food I had in the fridge. Sliced cheese and salami.
A veritable charcuterie spread . . .
“It’s not fancy,” I say. “But it’s food.”
I tried.
Layla’s eyes warm. “It’s perfect.”
I glance at the sky as it bleeds pink. “It’s not that late if you wanted to swim first?”
“Did someone say ‘swim’?” Benny shouts. “I vote yes.”
I lift a shoulder at Layla. “Up to you.”
She bites her lip. The dimple shows. “I did pack a suit.”
“Yesss,” Benny declares, sprinting down the hall to change out of her shorts and T-shirt. “I’ll get towels!”
“Hey,” Layla says, a wince in her voice. “Um—apologies in advance. I wasn’t able to find a more family-friendly suit. I bought the one I packed for a girls’ trip to Cabo, and it’s the only one I own at the moment, so . . .”
What is she trying to say? That her suit is skimpy?
Great. Just fucking great.
“Do you want one of my T-shirts?”
She looks me up and down. “I would drown in it.”
It’s just Layla and me in the echo of her apology.
“Well, don’t worry about it, then. Benny won’t think anything of your suit.”
Her smile tells me she isn’t quite sure she should believe me but doesn’t have the energy to argue, and we both disappear into our rooms to change.
I change fast—black trunks, T-shirt—then step onto the patio with the sky throwing gold and coral across the tops of the palm trees. The pool filter is humming, the desert air is warm; the stone under my feet holds the day’s heat but doesn’t burn as it would were it earlier in the day.
Benny explodes through the sliding kitchen door in a rainbow suit. “Towels are by the chairs! Grabbing floaties and foam noodles! Oh! Bluetooth speaker!” She is buzzing.
“Quiet songs only,” I warn. “I’m not in the mood for a ton of noise.”
She groans like I’ve ruined her entire evening. “Fiiiine.” Then she cannonballs so hard the splash hits my calves. I can’t help it—I laugh.
The guest room door opens.
I make the mistake of looking.
Layla steps tentatively onto the patio, undecided about dashing back inside.
Bikini. Classic triangle top, tiny as a postage stamp, tied in bows that look one tug from surrender. Tie-side bottoms riding high on her hips, long legs going for days, the kind of high cut that makes rational thought go straight down the fucking gutter.
She still has her hair down, glossy and messy from her fingers, oversize sunglasses pushed on top of her head, lip gloss catching the last flare of the sunset.
Never would have thought a body like that would have been under that Fall Fest puffer coat.
“Whoa!” Benny shouts, rounding the corner, dragging a blow-up unicorn. “Layla, you look like one of those girls in Vegas!”
I have no idea what that means, exactly, or how she knows about sexy girls in Vegas.
Layla forces out a laugh and tries to cover herself by wrapping a towel around her waist but only succeeds in framing everything like it’s meant for me to stare at.
Tits.
Such beautiful tits . . .
She lifts a hand, the tiniest smile tugging at her lip. “Do I look ridiculous? I feel ridiculous.”
“No,” I say too fast. Too honest. “You look—” My jaw tics. “I like your suit.”
A lot.
My dick does too.
A lot.
“Thanks.” Another laugh.
She slips into the water with a hiss, arching her back as the cool blue hits her warm skin; my pulse trips over itself.
Benny’s already paddling figure eights around the unicorn, humming into the evening.
I follow, dropping into the deep end, and the world goes hushed except for the soft lap of water.
Blub, blub . . . blub.
Benny splashes her with zero remorse. “Teams!” she shouts. “Adults versus me!”
Layla cuts me a sideways glance, amusement and heat braided together. “Think we can take her?”
“Not a chance,” I say. “But you can bet your sweet ass she’ll crash early tonight.”
Layla and I share a look that’s more conspiracy than strategy and push off together. We don’t have a plan, unless “try not to drown while we’re distracted by each other” counts as one.
Benny fakes left, squeals right, and I go for the tag—miss by inches. Layla darts in, quick and sure, cornering Benny against the cove. For a second I forget to be impressed with the defense because Layla’s laugh flashes out, bright and surprised, and the sound hooks me like a hand in my shirt.
“Got her!” Layla crows.
“Traitor!” Benny wiggles free and dives under the unicorn. She pops up behind us, triumphant. “You two are terrible at this.”
“Disagree,” I say, eyes on Layla. “I think we’re excellent.”
Heat sparks in her eyes. She wipes water from her mouth with the back of her hand, then flicks a drop at my chest. “Focus. And take off that damn shirt.”
I hook a brow at her, then at Benny, then peel the soaked T-shirt over my head. It hits the surface with a wet slap. Layla’s heated gaze drags over me—quick, but not quick enough—and my pulse answers like a show-off.
“Better?” I ask.
“Yup.”
Benny jukes and sprays us both, and the game devolves into splash warfare. Layla feints, slips behind me, and plants her palms on my shoulders to use me as a shield.
The touch is small.
My reaction is not.
Benny launches a tidal wave at our faces, cackles, then abruptly announces, “Okay, I’m done,” in the same way she declares she’s tired and ready for bed.
She grabs on to the unicorn, tows it to the steps, and climbs out, water streaming off her tiny body. Her feet slap across the warm stone patio, and we watch as she takes a towel, dries off, and disappears into the house without so much as a farewell.
The pool is quiet.
We drift aimlessly. Ease toward the deeper end—and toward each other—inch by inch so we can talk without raising our voices. Layla wafts over, one hand holding her steady, clinging to the edge, while I stand, tall enough that my head and shoulders are above water.
She bobs.
My eyes wander . . .
Do not look at her boobs, do not look at her boobs, do not lo—
I look at her boobs.
There are droplets of water gathered at the hollow of her collarbone that refuse to fall.
I consider volunteering to lick them off.
“Sorry about telling you to take your shirt off before,” she says, smile tilting. “That was very bossy of me.”
Go ahead and boss me around as much as you like . . .
I watch as the drops at her collarbone finally give up and slide down her cleavage, and I track them like an idiot, openly appreciating her tits now as if I’ve never seen a pair before a day in my life.
Plus, her mouth is right here—close enough that if I breathe too loud, she’d feel it on her skin.
Don’t do it . . .
Don’t.
Don—