Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Gray

It was impossible to concentrate all day.

Half the time, I stared across the table at Layla while she spoke, not hearing a goddamn word but knowing that each time she made the th sound, I’d get a glimpse of her wet, pink tongue as it peeked out between her bright red, painted lips and pearly white teeth. When she half smiled, it was always on the left, and the slightest little crow’s feet dented her porcelain skin.

Luckily, one of my two partners had the ability to focus. Franklin Marks had been a lifelong associate of my father’s and was in his mid-sixties. Joining with me to start this venture capitalist firm was a hobby for him. He already had more money than the next two generations of Marks’ kids could burn through. Franklin brought years of experience in finance to the table—the kind that didn’t get taught in Ivy League MBA programs. He was on the conservative side, but that was okay because he’d help balance out Jason, my other partner.

Jason and I had been friends since we were kids. I trusted him with my life. Over the years, we’d invested together in some small projects for fun. But he had a tendency to take risks, in business and his personal life. He worked hard and played even harder. Which was why I pulled him aside after our meeting to tell him the attorney he’d been salivating over all day was off limits.

I’d mostly planned the meeting today as an excuse to travel with Layla—get her alone for a while. I’d even blown off dinner with my partners tonight, just to have a few more hours on a flight home together. But the trip had turned out to be productive. Layla now had everything she needed to finalize the agreements we needed drawn up, and Franklin was so impressed with how she managed the three of us all day, he told her he’d be giving her a call for some other work.

In the car on the way back to the airport, my phone buzzed. I lifted it to find the best fucking text I’d ever received. Unable to contain my smile, I showed Layla the message from American Airlines.

“Flight got canceled.”

“What? No!” She grabbed the phone from my hand to verify the authenticity of my news. “They rebooked us on a flight tomorrow? We need to call. There must be a flight tonight we can catch.”

I shook my head. “When I pushed back our plans because of the accident this morning, my assistant said it was the last flight of the day.”

“That’s impossible.”

“We’re flying from Greensboro, not Atlanta. There aren’t flights in and out every three minutes all day and night.”

She got out her own cell and went online to double check. While she made her futile attempt to escape my company, I took the opportunity to look for a nearby hotel with a good restaurant—preferably something romantic.

I’d stayed at the O. Henry Hotel before. It was pretty nice, and I remembered passing an adjoining restaurant. Calling it up on my phone, I checked out the photos. The hotel looked as nice as I remembered, and better yet, the restaurant looked quiet, with a nice ambiance. Layla was still searching when I booked us two suites.

She huffed. “I can’t believe there really isn’t another flight out tonight.”

“I booked us rooms at a hotel I’ve stayed at before.” I left off that I’d requested they be next to each other.

“I don’t even have a change of clothes or a toothbrush.”

“There’s a shopping village across the street, an outdoor mall with chain stores, and a restaurant at the hotel.”

She scowled at me. “Can you at least pretend you’re not happy about this? Your smile is really pissing me off.”

“Promised myself if I got you to speak to me again, there’d never be another lie. So I’m not even hiding that I’m fucking thrilled we’re stuck here.”

I told the driver to take us to the O. Henry Hotel, and Layla called her office to let them know about the change of plans. When we pulled up out front, it was already pretty late, and the shops were going to be closing soon.

“We should run over to the stores before they close.”

“Okay.”

The first store we stumbled upon happened to be a Victoria’s Secret. It felt like I’d dated this woman for over a year, yet I had no idea what type of lingerie she favored. If I’d held out hope that I would get to find out soon, that thought was quickly squashed.

She stopped in front of the store. “Why don’t you go get whatever you need? I don’t need help in here.”

“Are you sure? You might need a second opinion when you’re in the fitting room.”

She pointed toward a Gap. “Go.”

I smiled. “I’ll check us in after I grab a few things and meet you over at the hotel.”

She opened the door to the store. “I can check myself in.”

I spoke to her back as she walked away. “My favorite color is red…”

At least she didn’t give me the finger. Progress.

***

I knew she was named Layla because her mother had been a huge Clapton fan. I knew that in the third grade she’d gotten into a fight with a boy, punched him, and broken his nose. Yet I’d never seen her in a pair of jeans or shared a decent meal with her. I sat at the restaurant bar, enjoying the view of her shapely hips gliding back and forth, clad in tight denim as she walked toward me.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

I sipped the scotch and soda I’d ordered. Another thing I’d missed. “Look at you like what?”

“You know.”

“Like I’d rather eat you for dinner than anything on the menu at this place?”

The hostess walked over to tell me our table was ready, curtailing whatever wicked response Layla had been about to dish out. That disappointed me.

I stood and held out my hand. “After you.”

She squinted. “Fine. But don’t look at my ass.”

Like there was a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening.

Once we were seated, Layla ordered wine, and I declined a second drink. Three years without alcohol made my tolerance low, and I wanted my mind to stay crystal clear while spending time with this woman.

I gazed across the table at her. She felt like a stranger in many ways now. Yet stranger or not, I felt more connected to her than anyone else in my life. A tether existed between us, and while she tried to sever it, I planned to keep pulling.

“So…your new partners seem nice,” she offered.

“Yes. Certainly better than the last one.” Knowing my alone time with her was limited, my mind only had one track: “So how long have you been seeing Pencil Neck?”

She furrowed her brow, so I clarified. Though I thought it perfectly clear to whom I was referring. “The attorney you work with. Doesn’t your firm have a policy against dating fellow employees?”

“You know his name is Oliver. And it’s none of your business how long I’ve been seeing him or what policies my firm has.”

The waitress brought Layla’s wine and took our dinner order. Watching Layla lift the glass to her lips and following her slender throat as she swallowed was an extraordinary sight.

She caught the look on my face and shifted in her seat.

“You’re right,” I said. “The less details I know, the better. So long as you aren’t fucking him.”

“I’ll sleep with whoever I want.”

“Have you slept with anyone since we started dating?”

She scoffed. “Dating? Is that what you’re calling my mandatory community service that forced me to work with you?”

“No. But that’s what I call the three hours we spent together each week before you ‘clocked in’ for your mandatory community service. And all day Saturdays that we spent together when you didn’t have to come anymore. And the long letters we exchanged every week. Of course it wasn’t ideal—I didn’t get to wine you and dine you or feel you up at the end of the evening—but I still considered it dating.”

“That makes one of us.”

I knew she was lying. She’d been right there with me. But it was easier to move on if she didn’t admit the truth.

“Tell me about your job. How are things for you now? When we stopped…” I smirked. “…dating, you were on shaky ground. I take it things worked out well since you’re still there?”

“I billed nearly three thousand hours last year—higher than any other associate by at least two hundred hours. I made it financially foolish for them to get rid of me.”

I did some quick math. “Three thousand hours is sixty hours a week of billing. Factor in lunch and commute, a couple of bathroom breaks, and you must’ve been working twelve hours a day, seven days a week.”

“I was. I’ve cut back to six days this year so I won’t get burned out.”

“At least that left you little time to date.”

She rolled her eyes before gulping the remainder of her wine. Finishing the glass seemed to relax her a little. Conversation became less adversarial.

“So, you’ve been out for what, two weeks now?”

“Fifteen days. I needed to get some things in order before I showed up at your firm. I was out of town for a week taking care of some stuff for my father.”

“I’m sorry again about your loss. That must’ve been hard on you.”

“My father and I had a strained relationship. But his last wishes were honorable. He had five wives but wanted to be buried with my mother.”

“She’d died when you were little, right?”

“Yes. Breast cancer at thirty-eight. She was buried out in California with her mother and sister, both of whom died before forty from the same thing.”

“Wow.”

“She was a florist—actually met my father when he came in to send his girlfriend flowers.” I shook my head. “Should’ve been a red flag right there for her.”

“So you had him buried beside your mom?”

“She’s probably gonna kick my ass for it someday, but yes. Made those arrangements while I was still locked up.”

Layla smiled.

“I was only nine when she died. But they’d been living apart for a few years already. Although she never did divorce him. She said he was the love of her life, and that when you found your one true love, you couldn’t replace them, because you’d given your heart away.”

“Wow. And I guess he felt the same way since he had four other wives, yet wanted to be buried with her?”

“Guess so. They couldn’t be together, but they never stopped loving each other.”

Our eyes locked, but Layla quickly looked away.

“So you went out to California to visit their resting place?” she asked.

“Yes. And plant a giant garden.”

Her forehead crinkled. “A garden?”

I laughed at the crap I’d spent my first full week as a free man doing. “When they first got married, she wanted a house in the suburbs. He wanted to be near his office and live in the penthouse he already owned. They agreed that they would stay in the city for a few years and then move to Westchester or Long Island. She had a huge plan for a garden in the backyard when that happened, with all her favorite flowers and trees. I remember her working on it all the time. It was on big, blueprint-size drafting paper, with all kinds of details. She worked on it once or twice a week for years, constantly adding things and redesigning it. After we moved out of my father’s penthouse, I never saw those plans again. She got sick pretty soon after they split.”

“So you planted a garden for her?”

“Not just any garden, her garden. My father’s attorney had those old blueprints with his will and legal papers. He’d kept her plans all these years and left directions to hire someone to plant the garden where they were buried.”

“That’s oddly romantic.”

“Took me a week to find all the stuff she wanted planted. My neck is still sunburned from digging that thing.”

“You planted it yourself?”

I nodded. “The plan was for me and my mother to make it together. We never had the chance. It was the least I could do. And as much as I despised my father for a lot of things, I hope my parents are reunited and enjoying the garden together.”

The waitress interrupted when she brought our dinner. After she left, Layla was looking at me funny.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Just eat and don’t make me like any more of the things that come out of your mouth.”

I smirked. “I think you’d like the things I can do with my mouth even more.”