Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Layla

“I need a drink like you wouldn’t believe.”

“And here I thought you came to visit me because of my winning personality.”

My best friend Quinn owned a bar less than four blocks from my office. O’Malley’s was a local pub that her dad had owned as far back as I could remember. After he decided to move to Florida a few years ago, Quinn kept it running while he had it up for sale. Six months later, she’d discovered what her dad had loved doing his whole life and decided to keep the place herself.

For the most part, it was an old man’s day bar. But it was the perfect place to come hang out after work—no young guys to assume a woman sitting alone at the bar was looking to get laid. It was a good thing I was a workaholic, or I could’ve easily spent all my time in this place and become a different type of -holic instead.

Quinn pulled two shot glasses from the rack and reached down below the bar for a bottle of something. Seeing no label, I knew what she was trying to feed me.

I covered the tiny glass with my hand. “No way. I had a headache for a week after drinking that stuff.”

“It’s a new batch.”

“You made it?”

Quinn smiled proudly. “Sure did.”

“Then no thanks.”

After watching one too many episodes of Moonshiners, Quinn had decided she could make her own liquor. She could—only it was undrinkable and tasted like nail polish.

Quinn pouted and poured herself one before reaching for the private stash of my wine that she kept behind the bar. “Busy day at the office, honey? Wait, let’s start with the good stuff. Have you ended your drought and slept with the new guy you’re dating yet? What was his name again?”

I traced the rim of my wine glass with my finger. “Oliver. And, no. But we have a date tonight. He’s meeting me here in an hour.”

She arched a brow. “You don’t sound too excited about that.”

Quinn knew me. We’d been inseparable since February 2nd of fourth grade. That was the day I’d been sent down to the principal’s office to bring the new girl to class. She’d had on mismatched socks and carried a bullfrog in her cracked lunchbox—her peanut butter and jelly had been squished at the bottom of her backpack in a brown paper bag.

I sighed. “I am. Maybe not as excited as I should be, but I do enjoy spending time with Oliver.”

Quinn put her elbows on the bar and rested her head atop her hands. “Spit it out. What’s going on? You were all excited about the first date you had with this guy a month ago. Wait…let me guess. Halitosis? Talks about his mother all the time? Stuffed animals in the back window of his car?”

I laughed. “Nothing like that. It’s just…well…I sort of took on a new client.”

Quinn’s eyes lit up. She’d married her high school sweetheart at nineteen, so she lived vicariously through me—not that she’d gotten to hear anything exciting over the last year.

“The client’s a he, I assume?”

I nodded.

“Well, keep going. What does he look like?”

“He’s tall, has the most stunning green eyes—the kind of color that keeps you warm in the winter while you trudge through snow because it reminds you that spring grass will grow again soon.”

Quinn’s brows drew down and her smile grew quizzical. “That’s an awfully elaborate description. Go on.”

“Bone structure like a Greek god, lean and muscular body, droolworthy forearms, and he totally reeks of confidence.”

Quinn let out a dreamy sigh and closed her eyes. “Veiny forearms?”

“Some. Enough to tell you he works out a lot, but not so much that it looks like putting in an IV would cause a geyser to spout.”

She opened her eyes. “I have this theory. People say big feet means big dick. But I think it’s all about the forearms. They’re basically a visual substitute—thick and veiny forearms, oh God. Skinny forearms, is it over yet?

I laughed. “I’ll have to take one for the team and test that theory.”

Quinn’s face was suddenly crestfallen. “He’s married? Is that the problem?”

“Actually, turns out he’s not.”

“So why are you meeting Oliver here and not the new guy? What’s his name?”

I looked her straight in the eyes. “Grayson.”

Her forehead scrunched. “Grayson? Like the asshole?”

I nodded my head slowly and waited, knowing she’d figure it out.

Her eyes grew to saucers. “Your new client is Gray? Prison guy?”

I tipped my wine glass toward her before taking a healthy gulp. “One and the same.”

For the next hour, I caught my friend up on the last ten days, since Gray had waltzed back into my life. There was a lot to tell—the presentation, dinner, flowers, our trip—his marriage. Luckily she already knew the rest of our history, which also meant she knew how devastated I’d been when I’d discovered he was married and ended things. So I didn’t have to explain what my heart felt like now, how conflicted I’d been.

“So what happened after you arrived home from your trip?”

“Nothing.” My shoulders slumped. “I haven’t heard from him.”

Gray had kept to his word about giving me space. In the eight days since we’d been back, I hadn’t heard a peep from him, other than a short email exchange after I’d sent over the draft of the partnership agreement I’d written.

And I hated that a part of me missed him.

At least this week had been busy. I’d been at the office late every night because the work on my schedule before Grayson Westbrook stormed back into my life hadn’t been reassigned—other than one deposition.

“What are you going to do? Are you going to give him another chance?”

“I can’t. I’m over Gray. I’ve moved on.”

Quinn’s face screamed bullshit. “Let me ask you something.”

“What?”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen Oliver?”

“You mean since our last date?”

“No. I mean laid eyes on him. Was it today? Four days ago? How long?”

Hmm.Oliver and I worked in the same office, but we were lucky to catch one lunch and talk in the elevator for three minutes some weeks. “Well, yesterday I was out of the office all day for a deposition. So Thursday, I guess.” I paused. “Wait. No. He wasn’t in on Thursday—he had a conference to go to. It must’ve been Wednesday. Or maybe Tuesday. We had lunch at the Greek diner one of those days.”

Quinn refilled my glass of wine. “And what about Gray? When was the last time you saw him?”

“A week ago Thursday.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive. Thursday morning about nine thirty to be exact. We landed at the airport. What the heck are you getting at?”

She set the bottle of wine on top of the bar and tapped the cork in. “You’re not over Gray. You’re still hung up on him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you know exactly how long it’s been since the last time you saw someone, you’re not over him.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Does he have your cell phone number?”

“Yes. It’s on my business card. All my clients have it. But he’s never called me on it.”

A knowing grin spread on Quinn’s face. “Do you check it for missed calls or texts from him before you go to bed?”

I pursed my lips.

She reached over and took my hands. “It’s okay, sweetie. You’ll figure it out.”

Quinn moved down to the other end of the bar to help a customer. When she returned, she asked, “Does Oliver have dirty blond hair and look like a handsome prep school boy all grown up?”

“I guess so.”

She looked over my shoulder. “Then I think the man you are over is heading toward us.”

“Hey.” Oliver cupped my cheek for a tender but quick kiss.

Such a sweet guy. I turned back and introduced him to Quinn just as I noticed my phone vibrating with an incoming text on top of the bar. Catching the name flashing Gray, I quickly grabbed it and glanced back at Oliver to see if he’d also caught the name. He hadn’t.

But while he was smiling and paying attention to Quinn, a quick look at the smirk on her face told me she had. I dumped my cell into my purse and silently promised to ignore it during my date tonight.

The three of us made small talk while I finished my wine, and Oliver had a beer. After twenty minutes, he looked down at his watch.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize your friend worked here. I thought we were just meeting for a quick drink, so I made reservations for eight at Gramercy Tavern.”

My friend whistled. “Gramercy Tavern. Fancy. Go. You two have fun. I need to get back to work anyway.”

Oliver reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash to cover our drinks. Before he could place it on the bar, Quinn put up her hand.

“Layla doesn’t pay here, and neither does her guest.”

He smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

I leaned over the bar and kissed my friend on her cheek. “I’ll see you Thursday night for dinner, right?”

“Yep. It might be mac and cheese, unless Brian gets home from work early. But it’s a date. Your goddaughter has big plans to paint your nails. Which means most of your fingers will also be painted. So you might want to get a manicure appointment on the calendar for sometime Friday.”

I laughed. “Okay. Thanks for the warning.”

Oliver reached over the bar to shake Quinn’s hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” While his hand was still in hers, she used her other to push up the arm of his sports jacket, exposing his forearm.

Oliver seemed rightly confused, but let her examine his arm anyway.

“Oh.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I thought I saw some ink peeking out. I was being nosy.”

Always the good sport, Oliver smiled. “Nope. No ink on me.”

When my date turned toward the door, I flashed scolding eyes at her. We both knew exactly what she’d been doing. But in case I hadn’t caught on, she touched her thumb and pointer together, forming a tiny circle, and mouthed, “Skinny forearms.”

***

The damn message was sucking away at my ability to concentrate. I imagined my cell would be hot if I plucked it from my purse. It was the proverbial heartbeat of my past under the floorboards that only I could hear. And at the same time, the fact that it distracted me also made me angry, which I needed to shake off. Because the more I let someone old take up residency in my heart, the more I felt like I had no room for someone new.

Flanked by the phone taunting me, and the realization that this was my third official date with Oliver, I felt on edge.

I wanted to throw myself into the evening and forget anything else but having a good time with this sweet guy. But when I managed to focus on Oliver, all I could think about was that he’d invited me back to his place to watch a movie after dinner—which I assumed was code for sex.

For the most part, I wasn’t easy. I’d tried out a one-night stand or two in college and realized quickly it wasn’t for me. And although the third date might be a common point for couples to jump into bed, it often took me longer. I needed to get to know the guy and build trust, something that didn’t come quickly for me. But I’d known Oliver for years now, so the third date already had the comfort that sometimes only came after six months of dating.

Between the anticipation of what would come later, the daunting text message waiting for me, and the conversation I’d had with Quinn at the bar earlier, an awkwardness settled into the air during dinner. Oliver had to feel it, too. There were lulls in our conversation, and they seemed to be getting longer. Things between us had always come easily. Yet suddenly I felt like I’d opened my brain’s junk drawer and begun reaching in to pull out random useless crap.

“So…what musical artist do you think is the most overrated?”

Oliver shot me a questioning look. “Musical artist?”

I sipped the after-dinner cappuccino the waitress had just brought and nodded.

“I guess Blake Shelton.”

More silence.

“Seen any good movies lately?”

Oliver set down the coffee he’d just lifted. “Is everything all right, Layla?”

“Yes. Why?” I answered too fast to have given the question any real consideration.

“I don’t know. You seem…sort of on edge. Nervous almost. Is everything okay at work?”

“Yes, things are fine.”

“It’s just…your questions, while they aren’t unusual questions per se…like asking me about movies I saw recently…they…” Oliver trailed off. The lines on his face smoothed as a look of recognition came over him. “Movies… Are you maybe uncomfortable coming back to my place after dinner?”

Oliver was a damn good attorney. He was used to following a person’s train of thought from deposition questioning. We both were. He’d deduced that I was freaked out about tonight. Which…wasn’t entirely wrong.

I decided to be honest. Letting out a rush of air, I blurted, “I’m not ready to have sex with you yet.”

Oliver sipped his coffee. “I’m not ready to have sex with you yet, either.”

My eyes widened. “You’re not?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Nah. I’m just kidding. But it’s fine. I didn’t mean to make you feel any pressure by inviting you back to my place.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Was movie code for sex?”

He looked me in the eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope things would progress there. But I actually did rent a few movies I thought you’d like.”

I offered a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s fine.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I enjoy your company, Layla. It doesn’t matter how long it takes.”

I felt more relaxed after that conversation. Even enjoyed the dessert we shared. Outside the restaurant, Oliver gave his valet ticket to the attendant and took my hands. “You want to come back to my place for that movie? And by movie, I actually mean movie.” He smiled.

I wished my heart were into it. “Can I take a rain check? I’m actually pretty tired.”

“Of course.” He tried to cover the disappointment, but I still saw it. “Let me at least give you a ride home?”

Oliver lived up in Westchester, and I lived in the city—in the complete opposite direction he would be going. Yet I felt like I’d insulted him enough for one evening.

“Sure. That would be great. Thank you.”

***

I could finally scratch that damn itch. But not before pouring a big glass of merlot, ditching my dress and bra in favor of comfy sweats and a tattered college T-shirt, and putting on some soothing music. Slumping into the couch, I picked up my cell and entered my password to finally read the message Gray had sent hours ago. My pathetic heart sped up just seeing his name illuminate.

I tossed back a healthy gulp of wine and settled in to read the long string of messages.

Gray: Hey. Sorry to bother you. Unless you’re out on a date. Then I’m not sorry.

A few minutes later another text had come in.

Gray: Maybe I’m taking this honesty thing too far. Let me start over. Etta got herself into trouble with the police again today. A ticket for speeding and driving without a license. She also came clean and told me it was her second one. Which Google said could mean it’s a felony now. I told her you didn’t do traffic court-type work, but she won’t let me call anyone else. Maybe you could talk to her at least? Give me a call.

Shit

I couldn’t very well drag Etta’s wellbeing into things between Gray and me. That wouldn’t be fair. So I had to call him.

At least that’s how I justified my finger hovering over his name and debating whether to text him backat eleven o’clock on a Saturday night.