Chapter 15 Hayes
Hayes
Today we’re going hiking.
After breakfast muffins and coffee chatter, I arranged to have the nanny drop Benny at school so Layla and I can get started before the heat wave hits the valley. I hand over a lunch box, kiss the top of my kid’s head, and try to look like a man who slept.
News flash: I did not sleep. The evening kept playing on a loop in my mind.
Dry humping Layla like a teenager? Check. Showering at midnight to chill myself the fuck out? Check. Checking to make sure all the doors were locked for the second time? Check. Telling myself I made an ass of myself? Check, check, check.
Having her here contradicts every rule and expectation I’ve set for myself since Benny was born: Do not bring any woman into our lives that is not going to stay in it.
Last night I was stupid.
So no, I didn’t sleep. I did a skin-care routine, folded laundry that didn’t need folding, texted the nanny to confirm the morning schedule, and lay there trying not to be the man who rewrites his own rules because of a pretty smile and dimples.
But the thing about rules is they’re only as good as the reason you made them. Mine were about protecting Benny. About keeping the crazies and chaos out. Layla doesn’t feel like either of those things; she feels like the opposite.
She’s not looking for me to take care of her. She’s not looking for a handout, or clout, or to accidentally get pregnant for a hefty payout and child support for the next eighteen years.
Layla returns to the kitchen after saying goodbye to Benny, padding in black biker shorts and a tight cropped yoga top, hair in a knot at the top of her head, clean face, freckles on display—which is somehow the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen. Sneakers dangle from her fingers. “Ready?”
I nod, because my voice isn’t trustworthy.
Three minutes later we’re in the truck, windows cracked for the cool that hangs on before the sun gets mean. She scrolls through a playlist, settles on something bright and upbeat, and hums along.
I grip the wheel and make peace with the fact that I’m already happier than the man I was last week.
Sneak a peek at her.
She catches me looking and grins. “What? Do I have muffin on my face?” Layla swipes at her skin, and I face the road, doing my best to ignore her boobs and thighs and smooth skin.
Just kidding. I look again.
She’s smiling out the window like the desert told her a good joke. The sun hits the curve of her cheek, and I have to face front before I miss the turn.
“Do you have a prehike ritual?” she asks. “Or do you just grunt it out?”
That way of putting it gives me a chuckle, and despite myself, I laugh. She’s really fucking cute. I’m not used to women like her.
Uncomplicated and real.
“We’re gonna grunt it out, unless you want to stretch and shit.”
“Stretch? To hike?”
I nod. “Yeah, absolutely. You’ll see people at the base of the trail stretching out their quads and whatnot, so if you want to do that, I can lead you through some exercises.”
Layla pulls a face. “Um no, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” But I wouldn’t mind bending her over and working out her hamstrings or legs . . .
She smiles sly at me. “Look at you, Mr. Osha.”
“Safety is sexy.”
We roll into the trailhead parking lot. A few early birds are doing exactly what I predicted—lunges, toe touches. A couple holding a plank for Instagram. Layla clocks them, then looks at me like I’ve betrayed her with facts.
“Shit,” she says, popping her door open. “If I cramp, know I died too stubborn to listen to you.”
The climb is steady and slightly more brutal than I remember. Gravel crunches, birds chatter, desert sage lifts a peppery smell each time we brush past. We move in the same rhythm without talking.
When the path narrows, I fall in behind her, palm hovering at the small of her back on the off chance she slips and loses her footing. She’s sure footed, though, careful without being timid, and something in my chest loosens another notch . . .
I admire her calves.
Ass.
The sweat on her exposed skin.
Halfway up we stop in a sliver of shade. I hand her a bottle; she drinks in neat swallows, eyes on the valley opening below us.
“About last night,” I start, because I didn’t sleep and because honest feels safer than silence. “If I made it weird—”
“You didn’t,” she says, eyes still on the horizon. “Trust me.”
I nod. “Good.” Cool. Great.
“Yup.” She caps the water and tucks it away in my bag, mouth curving into a secret smile. “I loved it.”
I loved it.
Heat blooms under my sternum like I swallowed the fucking sun.
“Yeah?” I manage like I’m fourteen again, getting all googly eyed and idiotic over Stephanie MacBee, the first girl I jerked off to by closing my eyes and imagining her naked. She always had me stuttering.
Layla tips her head. “Oh yeah.”
Okay then . . .
We continue upward. The trail tilts up, switchbacks drawing us higher through desert plants and boulders and rock. When the narrow path widens again and the top of the cliff is visible, she reaches back without looking and finds my hand—threads our fingers.
Simple gesture.
I stare at our hands.
Then up at her ass in front of me, letting her guide me to the summit.
The view punches open—wind blows over us, lifting the sweat, cooling us instantly. A curl has wriggled free at her temple, and I reach forward to smooth it behind her ear.
“Thanks.”
I nod, wanting very much to kiss her.
On the overlook we sit on warm stone, knees touching on purpose. I split a protein bar, watch her chew, watch her watch the desert landscape far below, relishing the pleasure on her face that she hiked a mountain and succeeded.
I gaze out over the horizon as we ignore the people who have also reached the summit, most of them taking photographs and selfies.
“I’ve never had anyone spend the night with us.”
Beside me, she nods. “A woman, you mean?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “As you’ve probably noticed, it’s because Benny gets attached. I, um—think she understands we’re friends and that you are returning home in a few days, once you’ve soaked in all the sun.”
Layla is quiet. “It’s been a relaxing twenty-four hours.”
I feel my brows go up. “Has it?” Because I’ve been a walking ball of fucking stress—nothing relaxing about having her under my roof.
“No.” She laughs. “I was being sarcastic.”
Oh.
Right.
I try again to make light conversation. “How old did you say you were?”
She turns her head to look at me. “Twenty-nine.”
“I’m sorry, was that rude?” I have no idea if asking a woman her age is socially acceptable these days.
“I’m not offended.” She bites into the protein bar, then hands it to me. “What about you, Grandpa?”
“Thirty-one.” I scratch my jaw. “Practically fossilized in NFL years.”
“Please. You’re, like, grade A prime rib.”
“Damn. I’m flattered.”
Layla rolls her eyes as if she thinks I’m full of shit and couldn’t possibly be pleased by her compliment.
“What?” I ask her. “Do you think women tell me how good looking I am on a daily basis? Because they don’t.” I hesitate. “And the last time one of my coaches complimented me on anything other than my stats, or reps, was never.”
Her hand reaches over, and she pats my thigh, fingers lingering over my hamstring. I flex my leg to impress her.
She laughs. “You did not just flex your leg muscles.”
Guilty. “Of course I did.”
“Color me surprised by the fact you’re so easily impressed by simple praise.”
“Put that on my bio,” I say. “Weaknesses: Benny. Strengths: doing the most when a pretty girl touches my leg.” I am two seconds away from shaking my leg like I have an itch being scratched.
Woof.
“Pretty?” She arches a brow, but her mouth can’t stop curving.
“Dangerously,” I say, deadpan. “I’d make out with you right now if it wasn’t already hot as fuck.”
We pass the rest of the bar back and forth. The wind’s steady enough to cool us but not so windy we actually feel cool. A hawk drifts across the sky like a hang glider.
“I’m not great at . . . talking,” I admit after a minute.
“And I get chatty, so that evens us out.”
I contemplate these next words carefully. “What is it exactly you’re looking for, Layla Monroe?”
Okay. Not exactly subtle.
She doesn’t flinch or balk at the random question; she watches the hawk until it’s a dot and then finds my eyes.
“Honest answer?” she says. “I don’t know what I’m looking for. Not yet. I do know I want to like my life. I want work I’m proud of, people who show up for me, a house with a yard.” A breath. “And I want kids. Someday. I always pictured lots of noise, especially around the holidays.”
She studies my face, then asks, “Is that off the table for you? More kids?”
I look past her down into the gulch to buy myself a beat before responding.
“I didn’t think I wanted more kids,” I admit.
“Benny has always been enough, and for the longest time it was about survival.” I laugh, remembering how fucking panicked I was when she was a baby.
Every day I thought I would fuck something up, but, somehow, we managed.
“I keep Benny steady, keep the schedule tight, keep the house calm. I write the rules and live inside them.” I rub the back of my neck, shifting my gaze to her face.
Her legs. The ground. “I’m now realizing some of those rules were about fear, not reality. ”
“Fear of what?”
“Losing ground under her feet. Under mine.” I glance into Layla’s beautiful face. “Losing someone after letting them in.”
“Do you mean . . . losing them like you lost her mom?”
Yes.
No.
“Honestly, Benny’s mom and I probably weren’t going to last. If she were alive, I’d be wiring child support, splitting holidays, grabbing Benny every other weekend when I wasn’t on the road. We were two decent people who weren’t right.”
I watch a chipmunk dart from one rock to another. “What wrecked me wasn’t losing her. It was becoming the only net under a six-pound human who didn’t know I was guessing.” I had no idea what I was doing.
Her knee bumps mine. “You’re allowed to want more than living to survive.”
“I’m starting to.” I hold her gaze. “Doesn’t mean I’m making a promise I can’t keep. Just that the doors aren’t welded shut anymore.”
“I definitely want a family.” Layla says again.
“If the person’s right, I’m not a no,” I answer, crushing the wrapper for the protein bar and stuffing it into my bag for safekeeping until we can hunt down a trash can. “I love the idea of making babies. The version where you can’t walk straight afterward.”
Sweaty, dirty fucking.
Layla’s head snaps toward me, eyes flaring, red blooming high on her cheeks over what was already pink. For a second, the whole ridge goes quiet—just wind, sun, and the reckless thing I said hanging between us.
And now I know she’s visualizing sex.
With me, specifically.
She licks her lips, casting her gaze around, not sure where to look or what to say.
Shit. Was that over the line?
Jesus Christ—I spend way too much time with grown idiots who grunt and speak in innuendos and too little time with mature, classy women.
“I like it when a man says exactly what he wants, in plain language so there’s no guesswork,” Layla says slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Makes it easier to decide if I want it too.”
“You do?” It comes out rough.
She turns her face and looks me directly in the eyes. “I do.”
Wind skims the ridge. I drag a palm over my thigh, pressing it down to stop it from shaking.
“Then I’ll keep my language plain,” I manage. “I want to fuck you.”
A tiny nod. “Good.”
I pull her in, cupping her face with my big palms, and kiss her—it’s salty from our sweat and sweet from the chocolate bar. Hot from the sun.
Heat rushes up my spine; everything narrows to the soft catch of her bottom lip and the way her fingers fist in my shirt like she’s bracing for weather.
“Hayes?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m going to make you beg for it.”