Chapter 20 Layla
Layla
Is it my imagination, or is he being weird?
He’s sitting too straight on the couch, when he should be relaxed. Smiles without showing teeth.
The house is quiet except for the dryer doing lazy laps. Pool lights throw a ripple of blue across the kitchen bay windows; somewhere outside a sprinkler hisses and clicks on.
He was fine before Skylar dropped Benny off and they had their quiet conversation . . .
Don’t poke at him, Layla. Don’t pry . . .
Whatever it was, IT’S None of Your Business.
“Are you sure everything is okay?” I blurt out, unable to stop myself, and instantly groan along with it. Jeez, Layla, that is one thing guys hate! Snooping!
“I . . .” He takes a pillow and sets it on his lap. “I’m not sure.”
Oh.
Ohh . . .
Why was I expecting him to lie and say, “Yes,” and then change the subject. Deflect. Say nothing is wrong.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I add quickly as heat climbs my neck.
He thumbs the corner of the pillow like he’s smoothing a crease that isn’t there. “It’s not . . . bad. Just a lot.” His eyes flick to mine and away. “Benny.”
My hand reaches for his. “Is everything okay? Did something happen while they were all at dinner?”
Hayes waffles, indecision etched across his brow. “Yes and no.”
My brain starts speed-scrolling through every possible subject a nine-year-old could announce over chicken tenders and fries, my mind coming up blank.
Did she announce I’m sleeping in the guest room? Did she tell Madison’s parents her dad and I kiss? Did she tell them she hates me and wants me to leave?
Wait.
Why am I assuming I’m involved?
This could be about Christmas. Or a sleepover. Or volleyball.
But if that was the case, he wouldn’t look so serious, would he? He’d be flirting and touching me and possibly kissing me with his hand up my shirt . . . He rubs his thumb along the pillow again, eyes on the seam.
“Nobody’s in trouble,” he says finally. “She’s happy. Perhaps too happy, maybe, putting the cart before the horse.”
“How is she putting the cart before the horse?” I’m still trying to add up what little info he’s given me.
He huffs a laugh that isn’t one. “Future tripping.”
“About . . . ?”
“Weddings.”
My brows rise into my hairline. “Excuse me?” In Benny’s defense, lots of little girls daydream and plan their weddings.
“She told Madison’s parents you’re going to be her new mom.”
Oh shit.
I was not expecting him to say that.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” he continues quickly. “I mean, she’s a child. She doesn’t realize that we’re just friends, you know? This is exactly what I was afraid of.”
Just friends . . .
The words linger, hitting places and emotions I did not know I was developing, given this trip to Arizona was supposed to be casual and fun—for Benny. Not for Hayes and me.
He is not wrong: We are just friends.
I keep my face neutral and nod as if I agree completely and my stomach and heart aren’t just a bit bruised. “She’s nine. Everything is a big deal at that age.” I force out a laugh. “Wait until she’s in middle school. Yikes.”
“I don’t want to feed into her imagination by playing house. I’m trying to do this parenting thing right.”
Feeding into her imagination . . . Right.
Once again, I can’t stop myself from being offended. Hurt.
He must sense the change in my face because he quickly adds, “That came out wrong.”
“Oh, did it? I hadn’t noticed.” I pull the blanket higher, buy myself a second to think. “For what it’s worth, I think she’s reading a room where two people like each other and wishing . . .”
Silence. An exhale.
“I’m not trying to minimize this,” he continues. “Or you. I’m trying not to sprint to a finish line and make a mess of it.”
A mess.
His dark, serious eyes meet mine. “I like you, Layla. I hate the way calling us ‘friends’ made you look.”
“This makes me feel twelve,” I confess awkwardly. “And I wasn’t my best self at twelve.” My hair was overstyled, my clothes weren’t flattering, and I went through an experimental phase with blue eye shadow. Yeah, not great.
Not to mention, boys didn’t like me the way they liked my friends. I wasn’t flirty or sexy, and I never let any of them put their hands under my shirt at parties.
I clear my throat. “Also, if middle-school Layla could see me now, she’d faint from joy that a handsome professional athlete touched her boobs.”
He smiles for real. “Tell her she’s crushing it.”
I wait for him to say something more, or reach for my hand. Put his arm around my shoulders. Let me know my feelings are valid and he’s not the only one reacting to this information.
Anything.
He reaches for the remote instead.
Wow.
Okay.
I chew on the inside of my cheek and learn nothing more about him or what he wants or what he’s thinking in that big brain of his. He doesn’t move closer. The space between us might as well be a Grand Canyon’s worth of space.
“I’m gonna get water. You want?” I ask, already standing and moving toward the kitchen.
“Sure,” he says, eyes on the television.
This is the Hayes Fielder they show in the media: the hardened, stubborn, broody version of him.
In the kitchen I run the tap too long, stare at my reflection in the dark window.
“Layla,” I ask it. “What are you doing?”
I swallow. I Do Not Beg Men to reassure me! He either likes me or he doesn’t. I did not suck his dick so he’d propose marriage to me. I do not hand-hold adults!
“I think I’m going to head to bed,” I tell him instead of getting the water I promised. “That hike did me in.”
He sits straight, finally giving me an ounce of attention. “Layla—”
“It’s okay.” I give him a small smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “We can talk tomorrow. Or not.” Whatever.
“That’s not—I just . . .” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, searching for words that don’t show. “Yeah, okay. Tomorrow.”
“Night, Hayes.”
“Night.”
I make it to the guest room before the hurt crests in my chest and threatens tears. Close the door. Sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my suitcase in the corner of the room.
There’s lingerie packed that I hadn’t had the nerve to wear. Too presumptuous.
Now I know how right I was about that.
Ha.
I scrub my makeup off, pat my face dry, my skin glowing. Moisturizer. Toothbrush. Pull on soft cotton shorts and a skimpy tank top. Hair down. Phone on the nightstand face down, because I am not doomscrolling through his brooding silence.
I crawl into bed. Click off the lamp. Sigh into the dark, replaying the scene down in the living room—Hayes’s careful words, the distance between us, the way he reached for the remote instead of me.
What’s he doing down there? Has he gone to bed yet? Does he want me to leave? Should I go?
The minutes pass as an eternity.
“What am I doing here?” I whisper out loud to myself.
This was a mistake—a stupid, misguided mistake. I could be in my own apartment, in my own bed, not smelling his detergent, not daydreaming about holding his hand or kissing him or him coming back to Star Lake to visit me.
I should leave. Book an earlier flight. I could be—
A floorboard creaks outside the door.
A soft knock.
“Layla?” His voice is low, wrecked around the corners. “Can I—” A pause. “Can I talk to you?”
I stare toward the ceiling one more second, then throw back the sheets and sit up. Carpet under my feet. I cross the room and crack open the door.
“I handled that all wrong.” He wastes no time getting to the point. “All of it. I feel like a fucking asshole.” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry.
The words seep into the cracks of my exterior and begin to work their magic, thawing me.
Technically, he has every right to feel the way he’s feeling: Confused. Panicked. Unnerved. Not that I want to assign emotions to him, but you get my point.
Far be it from me to judge.
“You dad so hard,” I hear myself say. So hard he leaves no room for himself. “I can’t change that—nor do I want to.”
It is what it is.
Perhaps dating a single dad is harder than it looks.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
I step back. Yes.
In the short time I’ve known him, I’ve begun longing for him. Longed for his hands on me . . . And my skin.
“I used the word ‘friends’ as a shield,” he says, stepping over the threshold of the guest room and crossing to the overstuffed chair in the corner. “It’s not true. I don’t just see you as a friend—I like you. A lot.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Say more.”
“When Skylar told me Benny said you were going to be her mom, and I heard the two of you upstairs during bedtime, the thing I felt most was guilt. As if I’ve been depriving my daughter of normalcy her entire life by keeping women at a distance.”
That makes so much sense. I nod. “I get that.”
“I have no idea what I’m fucking doing.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his pajama bottoms.
In the dark, with only the hall light to guide me, I close the distance between us, cupping his jaw in my hands.
“You’re protecting her,” I enthuse. “That’s not a crime. But you don’t have to starve yourself to feed her.”
His lips twitch.
I frown. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not starving myself, remember? I’ve eaten a few times today, including eating out your—”
My eye roll stops him from finishing his sentence. “Can you not bring up going down on me? This is a serious conversation.”
Jeez, what is wrong with men? Giant Perverts.
“Yes, serious.” Hayes clears his throat, chin nuzzling my hands. “Message received.”
“Listen—we just met. You barely know me, I barely know you. I’m not asking for a ring, or a toothbrush in your drawer, and I’m not going to leave tampons under your sink. You can relax.”
My hands move from his face to his shoulders, fingers pressing into the tense muscles flexing there.
“I am relaxed,” he lies, eyes on mine. “Tomorrow we tell her the truth in a kind way. That you’re not going to be her new mom anytime soon. Grown-ups take their time, and we haven’t even known each other a week.” He pauses. “You’ll help me say it, right?”
“Obviously.” I tip my head. “The person who uses the word ‘friend’ the most amount of times wins.”
He laughs. “I’m not doing that.”
“Oh come on—I love a little healthy competition.”
“I’m not calling you my friend. Tried that, didn’t work. Felt shitty.”
“Is that so . . . ?” My fingers begin playing with the sleeve of his T-shirt in the dark, relishing the warmth of his skin.
“It’s so.” His voice drops, honest in a way that makes my chest feel too full. “Calling you my friend felt like lying to both of us. And to her.”
I go very still. “What would you call me, then?”
“Someone I want to do dirty, sexy things to. Someone I want to have sex with for hours on end. Someone I want to introduce to my friends.”
My face heats up, and I’m thankful for the dim lighting. “Friends don’t do most of those things.”
“Exactly.” I feel his gaze drop to my mouth.
“If you’re trying to take things slow, it’s not working.” My thumb strokes the warm flesh above his neckline. “And you’re doing nothing for my self-control.”
“I’m not trying to.” His knuckles graze my hip—barely there, enough to set every nerve on alert. “To be clear.”
Noted. “What else do you want?”
Hayes laughs. “To finish what we started. To get naked.”
“Oh—is that all?”
He answers with a kiss that is relief and hunger, and a growl he can’t quite swallow.
I open for him without thinking twice, without hesitating.
I taste him—toothpaste and lust and want and something that makes my knees go weak—and I chase it, fisting his tee, dragging him closer until his chest is a wall against me.
Our tongues clash.
Greedy.
Sloppy.
Delicious.
He tastes like trouble, and I want every drop.
My back finds the wall, and he crowds in, thigh sliding between my legs, the pressure exactly where I’m aching. I gasp into him; he kisses me harder like he’s staking a claim, fingers skimming my waist and slipping under my tank top, a slow, possessive drag that leaves sparks in their wake.
“Mmm, boobs,” he breathes, mouth tracing my cheek, my jaw, back to my mouth like he can’t stand the distance. “More.”
He lifts my chin and takes me again—hungry, ruinous, perfect—until thinking is a luxury I can’t afford and the only thing that matters is the hot slide of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the way he groans when I tug his hair and pull him closer.
Messy.
Addictive.
His hands slide from my boobs to my rib cage, down to my ass, and he pulls, lifting me up. I yelp against his mouth when my feet leave the floor, arms flying around his neck. He laughs—low and wicked—and I feel it everywhere as he gathers me close, my legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.
“God, I love your ass,” he murmurs, palms full of me as he turns.
His mouth never leaves mine. We bump a doorframe, both of us grinning into the kiss like thieves, and then his knees hit the mattress.
He plops me down.
Steps back, pulling his T-shirt off and tossing it.
Crawls onto the mattress toward me, hands going to the waistband of my sleep shorts. Tugs them down over my hips.
I’m not wearing panties.
“Jesus, Layla.”
He slides my shorts the rest of the way off, slow, like he’s unwrapping something he intends to worship, gaze raking up my legs as he crawls forward on his knees. Licks my pussy.
He settles at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders wedged between my thighs, hands sliding under my ass, lifting me to his mouth, tongue teasing lazy circles as I gasp his name.
“Hayes . . .”
“Layla,” he murmurs into me, the word a vibration I feel everywhere. “Sweet. So fucking perfect.”
He kisses me there—and it’s deliciously obscene—parting me with his thumbs and dragging his tongue in a deeper stroke, savoring. Sucking.
My knees try to climb his shoulders. He pins me open, possessive and worshipful, and the heat in my belly tightens.
“More?” he asks, breath hot against slick skin.
“Yes,” I manage. “Please.”
I’m begging now.
He sucks some more, gently at first, then greedy, and I swear I can feel him smiling.
Unable to stop myself, I rock against his mouth, fucking his face; he holds me there, feeding me sensations until I’m dizzy with want, until the room narrows to tongue and heat and the rough sound he makes every time I shiver.
I tug his hair—helpless, wanton—and he groans, deeper, and seals his mouth over my clit.
Sparks.
Fireworks.