Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“He was a firefighter for forty years. Retired at sixty-five.”
“Did your mom work?”
“She was in dispatch. That’s how they met. He cooked for their first date. He still likes to cook for her.”
Layla purses her lips as she opens the tofu. “That sounds nice,” she says, but then she stops opening the container, almost like she’s flummoxed by it.
Trying to figure out why she seems off, I ask, “Are you not used to people cooking for you?”
She shakes her head. “My friends and I don’t cook much. And my mom kind of stopped after—”
When she doesn’t finish, I stop chopping, my spine tingling with concern. “Is your father…not around?”
I put the knife down. It feels wrong to hold it right now.
She draws a deep breath, like she needs fuel. “He,” she begins, then she takes another fueling breath, staring at the tofu, only the tofu. “He was killed six years ago.”
Oh, shit.
My sweet, hurting Layla. Instantly, I close the distance between us, wrap my arms around her. “I’m so sorry, Layla.”
She sniffles against my chest but then just nods. “Thank you.”
I don’t know what she’s thanking me for—the hug, the question, or something else. But I don’t think now’s the time to ask. Not when she wraps her arms around me too, circling them around my waist, squeezing. It’s one of the first times we’ve touched that’s not sexual. That’s just comforting. I’m surprised by the tenderness and her clear need—a need that I can fill.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask gently.
I can feel her swallow against me. She shakes her head. “No. But thanks for asking.”
She lets go. Backs away. Studies me like I’m a curio in a shop. “You didn’t look me up?”
The question comes out with a touch of wonder.
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t want to—” I stop myself before I say become obsessed with you. “Rely on what others say. I’d rather know you from you.”
She gives a faint smile. It seems both sad and happy. Maybe like her thanks. “That means more than you can know, Nick.”
My heart aches for her. Absolutely aches. I’m naturally curious. Anyone would be. And I want to ask what she means by killed—like by a car, a plane, or something more sinister. But I do the math. She takes Krav Maga. She wears all those rings, which could easily be self-defense rings. I don’t think her father was killed in an accident.
But clearly, she values privacy. Now’s not the time or place to ask for details she may not be ready to share, now or ever, especially since she grabs the conversation with her own question, making her needs clear. “Will you tell me more about your mom and dad? All my friends tell me about their parents,” she says, and there she is again.
The Lola I first knew. Playful.
“I can,” I say as I file away all the new details I’ve learned about the other side of Lola—the Layla side.
I can start to see how complex her relationship is with her mother. How much she values friendships. How she uses humor and charm and smarts to dance away from the things she doesn’t want to discuss.
How she’s let me in a little bit more every time I’ve seen her.
And I want to know more of her.
As a friend?
No.
But it’s all we can have.
“I’m just a guy from the other side of the bridge,” I begin as I resume cooking then tell her more about my gruff dad, my no-nonsense mom, the rough-and-tumble public high school I went to, and the two-bedroom apartment we grew up in where I shared a room with my brother.
Soon I serve her dinner at the kitchen island, wishing I were spending the rest of the evening with her.
Especially since she tells me more about her favorite people. “And Ethan’s in a band. Do you want to hear his newest song?”
“I do,” I say.
“Good because I play it for all my friends,” she says, a grin on her gorgeous face again. “But it’s kind of alt. Can you handle it?”
I roll my eyes. “We are not that far off music wise.”
“You like polka, right?” she teases.
I narrow my eyes. “I’d like to spank you for that.”
Her eyes spark. Maybe she wants a spanking. Maybe I want to give her one. But now’s the time for music rather than kink, and she hits play on the song.
It’s sultry and sexy, full of longing.
I don’t tell her I’m feeling unfriendly as I imagine the song playing in a club, pulling her close, kissing the back of her neck, and whispering sweet, dirty nothings in her ear, then taking her home and letting all those dirty nothings keep us up all night.
When David returns an hour later, I’ve given myself a medal for restraint. Look at me, world. I’m aces at resisting my son’s friend.