Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Layla:
Tomorrow? Way too soon.
Hayes:
Monday it is. No bringing up the fart.
Layla:
No promises.
Hayes:
So . . . that means you’re coming?
Layla:
Sure. I’ll come to Arizona.
Chapter 11
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.