Chapter 36 Layla
Layla
My hands will not stop shaking as I watch him go.
The rain makes a curtain of the block, blurring Hayes until he’s a figure in the distance, tall form and wide shoulders and . . . and . . .
My body forgets how to do basic things like swallow. Or blink.
Beside me, Grady is quiet.
He’s holding a brown paper bag like it’s a fragile animal and not a blueberry muffin bought because he wanted to give me space and hadn’t wanted to meddle in my business.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t move. He stands next to me in the drizzle, facing Main Street, ready to walk me back to work.
Say something, I tell myself. Don’t just stand here like a dipshit.
What comes out is “That was . . . a lot.”
“I mean . . .” he says softly. “You know.”
I muster a smile.
“So that was Hayes Fielder, hey?”
“Yup.” That was him.
“I didn’t realize the two of you were . . .”
“We’re not.”
His eyes flick sideways, weighing my expression. He doesn’t press further, but the silence feels loaded, like there’s a second half to the sentence he’s not saying:
Then why is he here?
Grady hums, low in his throat, shifting the muffin bag from one hand to the other, rainwater beginning to absorb through the brown paper bag. “You seemed surprised to see him.”
“Because I was,” I admit.
He nods at that. Drizzle runs down his jaw, and I wish he’d spit out whatever’s circling his mind. Is he jealous? Is he simply gathering information? His face is too calm, too steady, for me to pin it down.
Finally, he says, “What does he want?”
I hesitate. “To talk.”
“So he’s the type to fly across the country just to say hi?”
I swallow, the air thick. “Apparently.”
We start walking back toward city hall, side by side, his boots thudding against wet pavement. He’s close enough that our shoulders could brush if I shifted an inch, but he keeps his hands loose at his sides.
His next question is quiet: “Do you have feelings for him?”
The way he says it—it could be concern, or maybe a test. My heart jumps, unsure how to answer without betraying something. “I don’t know him well enough to have feelings for him,” I lie. “I just know I wasn’t expecting him to show up unannounced.”
That is an understatement.
In my wildest dreams, I would never have imagined I would inspire a man to board an airplane and fly to see me because he missed me and needed to look me in the eyes when we spoke.
“Surprises can be flattering,” Grady says after a beat. “And unnerving.”
Is he talking about himself?
We pass the bakery—warm sugary air drifting out the propped-open door—and I think of how easy it would be to duck inside and pretend my life is simple by stuffing my face with carbs, and not complicated because of men.
Then I think of Benny laughing at the fall festival, and her hiding in the playhouse before school and how terrified Hayes was to lose her. How tired his eyes looked today, and of Grady’s patience.
“I don’t want to make you feel like you owe me an explanation,” he adds. “I’m just trying to understand where I fall into this equation.”
I haven’t told him Hayes offered me a room key. Or that he’s staying up at the lodge . . .
And that I’m considering going . . .
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and turn to face him. “Grady. I like you . . .” Words bottleneck in my throat. I try again. “You make me feel amazing.”
A beat. Rain freckles the shoulders of his jacket. “But?”
I take his face in my hands and go up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “There is no but.”
For half a heartbeat he’s surprised; the paper bag crinkles as his fingers tighten. The drizzle beads at the corner of his lips, and I taste rain.
Salt. Sweet.
Relief.
Except it isn’t relief. Not really. It’s the high of choosing the easy thing for one second.
I press closer like I can make the last ten minutes disappear. If I keep kissing him, maybe my mind will be made up and we can all go home with our hearts intact.
His hands come up, not to hold me, but to cover mine and gently lower them from his cheeks.
He keeps our foreheads close so I can’t mistake his tone for anything but kind.
“Not gonna lie, that sort of sucked. It was a gut punch seeing that dude holding a coffee for you. I’ve never had that happen before. ”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I’ve never felt attracted to another man before either,” he says, deadpan, then huffs a laugh. “He’s so good looking in person.”
A startled bark of laughter bursts out of me. “Stop.”
“I’m serious. That jawline? Are you fucking serious?” This is the first time I’ve heard Grady curse. “I almost asked him to date me instead.”
He isn’t punishing me; he’s telling me the truth and then handing me an exit ramp.
“I hate that you had to see that,” I say. “I hate that I did that to you.”
“You didn’t do anything to me,” he says. “It happened, and I felt a certain way about it. That’s all.”
As if it were that easy . . .
He sobers. “Look, I like you, Layla. I find you very sexy and enjoy your company. I want the chance to see where this goes without pretending there isn’t history lurking in the background showing up to screw with your head.”
History isn’t even history; it’s a half-written paragraph waving its arms from page one.
End scene.
“You’re being so sensible about this.”
“I’m actually not,” he says, mouth quirking. “This is messier than I’d prefer, but at least we’re being honest.”
The word lands like a pebble in water—then ripples. I take a breath big enough to sting. “Full disclosure? He gave me a room number and wants to talk at the hotel.”
Grady clears his throat. “Okay.”
“That’s it? Just ‘okay’?”
“What do you want me to say, Layla?” His voice is even, not unkind. “I’m not auditioning for the jealous boyfriend role.”
“That’s not what I’m asking you to do.”
The brown paper bag crinkles when he moves his arm. “Here’s my boundary: I don’t do triangles. If you go see him, I’ll consider myself the backup plan. If you don’t, come over later, and I’ll cook you dinner and fuck you for dessert.”
Fuck me for dessert.
We still haven’t had sex, and now he knows the reason why.
It’s like a big, glaring exclamation point at the end of his sentence. Unspoken words he’s translated all by himself.
I’m mortified and impressed at the same time. “Why does that sound like an ultimatum?”
“It isn’t.” He shakes his head. “It’s clarity. Either option is allowed. I’m telling you what my option looks like if you pick me tonight: food, laughter, and yeah—the part where we finally have sex all night and don’t stop halfway there because you’re holding back on me.”
“I didn’t ask him to show up here,” I whisper.
“I know.” He tips the muffin bag toward me. “Here. Sugar will help get you through the rest of the day.”
Not likely. Still, I take the bag from his hands and pat him on the rear end.
We’ve reached city hall, and we pause at the bottom of the steps. I climb one and turn to face him so we’re nearly eye level, and put my hands on his shoulders.
“Say the words again,” I hear myself ask, because I am pathetic and needy and human. “Your dinner plans.”
He leans in just enough that I can’t mistake his tone for anything but desire. “If you don’t go to the lodge, come to my place. I’ll cook for you. I’ll get you naked. Suck on your tits. Take my time and make you come so hard your legs will shake . . .”
I didn’t know this version of him existed—the soft-spoken man with the dirty mouth who can also set a boundary without flinching. It short-circuits something in me in the best possible way.
It’s so . . .
“I—wow.” Brilliant, Layla. Pulitzer Prize–winning material.
He gestures to the grease-spotted bag between us like evidence of his good intentions. “Eat this. Do your work. Text me later.”
He tips an imaginary hat and turns away, leaving me staring after him wordlessly, watching as water darkens the back of his jacket, plastering it to his broad frame.
I stand there.
Why does this feel like the beginning of an ending to yet another unfinished story?