Asking For A Friend

by Parker, Ali

  I wanted to ask why, but she was giving off a definite vibe that it was a question she wouldn’t answer. Yet. Instead, I asked the next most obvious question. “How did you end up as an accounting manager, then?”

  “Designing dresses is a hobby, but I’ve always been good at numbers,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my job as an accounting manager, too. I love getting into the nitty gritty and identifying where things have been over inflated. In the end, I had to choose between the two, and numbers just made more sense.”

  “Do you ever regret your choice?” I asked.

  Immediately, her chin nearly touched her shoulders as she was shaking her head so vehemently. “No. I do my best not to regret anything. Every choice you make is exactly what you wanted in that moment, right?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I all but whispered. I’d never heard anyone but myself reason that way and I was stunned to hear it from her.

  Our food was delivered, but I hardly tasted any of it. Everything was good here, but it hardly seemed to matter. I was far too interested in Marissa.

  She shrugged, reminding me we were in the middle of a conversation about regrets. “I like to live in the moment as much as I can. Regretting anything after it happened always detracts from that moment, don’t you think?”

  “I do think,” I agreed. “I think that exactly. I would like to see some of your designs sometime anyway though. It’s only fair.”

  Marissa laughed. “Good point. As you said, I’ve seen yours.”

  The waiter collected our plates and for the first time, I noticed we’d both cleared them. It was refreshing to go out to dinner with a woman who didn’t pretend she never ate. Marissa raved about the food as I ordered our desert. It had been a long time since I’d bothered ordering desert on a date. The women I went out with usually pretended to be stuffed from the two bites of the main meal they’d had, or only wanted desert to share one bite so they could lick their spoons suggestively. I had feeling it would be different with Marissa.

  It was only once the waiter had departed again that I realized we made it all the way through our meal, and I still hadn’t asked her why my father would’ve been so insistent that I hire her. It seemed she really had captivated me.

  Chapter 16

  Marissa

  Dinner with Layton had surprised me so far. When I got dressed earlier, I was stuck between thinking I might be fired or that he was only in it to get to round two in bed. Or against the wall, in our case.

  I wasn’t getting that vibe from him at all this evening, though. He seemed to be genuinely interested in just talking to me. Throughout dinner, we’d talked about everything and nothing. There hadn’t been a quiet minute.

  We kept circling back to design and regrets about my life choices in choosing my current job over designing, but in between we’d discussed everything from the weather to our bucket list of countries to visit.

  The reason I was surprised was because I hadn’t thought I’d been as attracted to him as a person as I was to his, well, person. He was easy to talk to, a great and interested listener and all round actually more fun to be with than I had expected.

  For all my suspicions about ulterior motives for his invitation to dinner, he’d been nothing but the perfect gentlemanly companion. I spent the night half waiting for the other shoe to drop and half getting immersed in simply getting to know him.

  “Croatia,” he said, suddenly when our waiter left with our desert order. “I forgot to add it to my bucket list earlier, but I would love to see Croatia.”

  “I’ve heard they have over two hundred miles of pristine coastline.” I said, silently thanking Denise for her affinity toward travel cooking shows. We’d watched an episode just a week ago about Croatia. “I would love to see those old city centers of Dubrovnik and Split.”

  Layton looked taken aback for a moment, almost like he was about to poke me to see if I really was a real girl. “You’re more knowledgeable than I thought you would be. I mean no offense, but you just keep taking me by surprise.”

  “Ditto,” I said, then lowered my voice conspiratorially. “I know things, though. You’ll quickly learn that I’m remarkably knowledgeable about unexpected things.”

  I didn’t know why, but the mood between us seemed to change almost instantly as soon as I said it. Layton went from being open and interested to reserved and suspicious in the matter of a second. I frowned. “What? What did I say?”

  “You just reminded me of something I wanted to ask you,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten all about it until just now.”

  “Okay,” I said, my earlier apprehension about his motives for dinner returning instantly and tenfold. “Fire away. I can handle it.”

  “It’s not like that,” he objected, but then shrugged. “Okay, it might be a little like that. I’ve just been wondering about something. Do you have any idea why my father might have recommended I hire you?”

  The question came out of complete left field, as far I was concerned. I hadn’t been prepared for it at all, but I understood why he might have been wondering. A man like Mr. Bridges didn’t do things arbitrarily. He had recommended me to his son for a reason, but while I understood why Layton was wondering, I just didn’t have the answer.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “It was as unexpected to me as it must have been to you.”

  Nodding, he sipped his wine. His eyes filled with pain and wandered off to a spot in the distance behind me.

  It was easy to forget sometimes that he’d recently lost his father. I didn’t know much about their relationship, but I felt compelled to share what I did know. If it could ease some of the pain he was going through, I had to try.

  He deserved to know anything I could tell him. It hadn’t occurred to me to tell him earlier and our relationship certainly wasn’t at a point where I would have felt comfortable bringing up conversations I’d had with his dad, but he’d opened the door now.

  If he wanted to talk to me about his father, I would talk about his father. If he wanted me to listen, I could do that, too.

  “Your dad talked about you all the time,” I said. Layton stiffened, his brows pushing together. When his eyes found mine, he looked surprised but didn’t say anything. I took it as my cue to continue. “He never said your name, which is why I didn’t immediately make the connection when you called.”

  He arched an eyebrow, his wine glass dangling from his fingers as he gave me a disbelieving look. “He talked about me all the time, but he never said my name?”

  “He referred to you as ‘my boy,’ all the time,” I told him, remembering the way Mr. Bridges used to soften when he talked about Layton. He was a tough man, intimidating to even the most seasoned military men who used to come by the office.

  And yet, when he spoke of Layton, I remembered thinking it was like he became a big marshmallow. The firm set of his jaw would relax and the glint of steel in his eyes would disappear, replaced by a warmth I never saw any other time, except when he was talking about Layton.

  “He told me about you often. We would be working late and suddenly, he would sit back and ask me if he’d ever told me about whatever story had occurred to him at the time.”

  Layton shook his head, everything about him tense. “I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

  I frowned. Layton’s reaction to talking about his dad was totally different than I thought it would be. It was totally different than his father’s used to be when talking about him.

  Maybe he only needed some convincing that his father really had spoken to me about him. It might have been that he simply didn’t understand why his father would have talked to me about it.

  “One night, one of his engineers hurt his arm. We were dealing with finding a temporary replacement for him when your dad remembered the day you broke your arm. He said you were so brave when you got to the hospital, that even as a boy you were so strong.”

  Layton’s eyes widened in surprise, then darkened. His lips fla
ttened into a straight line and his teeth were clenched so hard I was worried they might crack. Talking about his father was clearly starting to upset him.

  He’d opened the door and I’d walked through it, but it looked like it might not have been the best idea. Determined to get back to having the good time we’d been having before he asked if I knew why his father would have recommended me, I changed the topic.

  “You know, since we were talking about places we’d like to visit and why, I remembered I used to hear so much about shaved ice in Boston. Have you had it?” Hoping he would take the bait to talk about a less upsetting topic, I watched as his shoulders relaxed. I silently congratulated myself on getting the evening back on track.

  A ghost of an appreciative smile touched Layton’s lips. “You haven’t had it yet?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been meaning to, but I never quite got around to it.”

  “What do you say we go get that for dessert instead of ordering here?” He asked the question, already pushing back his chair. Tense energy was still radiating from him, despite the fact that we’d dropped the topic. He didn’t wait for my answer before saying, “Let’s get out of here. I feel like walking and you can’t say you’re living in Boston without having had shaved ice.”

  “I’d like to be able to say I live in Boston,” I smiled. “And a walk sounds great. I ate way too much.”

  “I’ll get the check and meet you outside,” he said, turning to look at me over his shoulder before walking away. “I like that you actually ate, I don’t think you ate too much at all.”

  Well—I wouldn’t have known what to say to that even if he had hung around to hear my answer. I felt the tops of my cheeks and ears heating.

  Two conflicting trains of thoughts sped through my brain. Layton Bridges had just told me that he liked me. Okay, he liked that I’d eaten—which, on a side note, seemed like a strange thing to say to someone you’d invited to have dinner. Wasn’t dinner typically a meal where people ate?

  The point, however, was that he’d said he liked something about me. Which made me strangely happy, if for no other reason than making me feel slightly more secure in my job—after Sexgate the other night and all.

  The second train barreling through my brain was one carrying a fresh cargo of steaming humiliation. Had I eaten so much that he’d actually noticed? I did a mental check. I was full, but not stuffed. My plate had been cleared, but it wasn’t like I’d gorged myself on a dozen rolls or ordered seconds or something.

  No. I shut that second train down immediately, and sent it with its stupid cargo on a path right out of my brain. I wasn’t the girl who obsessed about things like that. It was dinner time and I was hungry, so I ate. I was human and not a stick figure who later consumed liters of water just to provide the sensation of being full.

  Besides, he’d actually stopped from walking away to comment that he liked that I’d had dinner. That was the end result, and not something I would allow myself to be humiliated about. He was sincere when he said it, so I was going to stop second guessing and go out to meet him.

  When I got outside, Layton was standing under the red awning waiting for me. His hands were in the pockets of a gray woolen coat. In retrospect, I regretted my choice of wearing heels now that we were going for a walk. But I was a big girl, I could deal with a short walk while rocking stilettos. No matter how much my toes objected.

  I was surprised when Layton offered me an arm, but I accepted gratefully. It was freaking freezing out and while I had a coat, I was hardly dressed for inclement weather. Whether he’d noticed my discomfort or come to the conclusion on his own while waiting for me, I didn’t know. But I was slightly relieved when he turned to me and said, “You know, it’s way too cold for shaved ice. We’d better save that for another time.”

  I pouted, but nodded my agreement while simultaneously preening over his reference to another time. Butterflies formed and zoomed around in my stomach at the thought of another dinner in the future. I put the thought away for later assessment and pretended to be disappointed. “We’re skipping desert then?”

  “Oh hell no,” he laughed, an unfamiliar lightness settling over him the further away we walked from the restaurant. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve thought right then that he was just another thirty year old guy. He even bumped my hip playfully with his own as we walked. “Shaved ice isn’t the only worthwhile desert in town. We’re headed for something even better.”

  “Don’t let any of the shaved ice nuts out there hear you say that,” I joked, but my interest was piqued. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” He looked down at me with a mischievous grin which made the butterflies feel like they were on a loop-the-loop. Talking while we walked, I all but squealed when we turned a corner and I saw the stand in front of us.

  “I’ve been dying to try this,” I gushed, taking in the red and gold painted truck with warm orange light inside. “My friend Denise told me that the hot chocolate in this place was better than actual chocolate. It has to be a lie though, there’s no way hot chocolate could be better than regular chocolate.”

  Layton Bridges, powerful billionaire and sometime dick, had brought me to a world renowned hot chocolate stand and actually winked about it. “You’ll get to make up your own mind now, but in my personal opinion, your friend is absolutely right.”

  I sniffed disbelievingly, but inside I was reeling. Who was this man? “We’ll see.”

  Forty-five milliseconds after trying my first sip of the velvety richness inside the delightfully hot cup I had my fingers wrapped around, I let out a loud moan. “Oh my god. This is incredible.”

  “I don’t know whether I should be delighted that I chose a good dessert spot, or offended that a cup of cocoa could cause you to make sounds and say things I wouldn’t have minded hearing.” He said it lightly, in an offhanded comment that had me practically gaping at him.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled and he pressed his lips into a line, letting me know he was holding back a smile. I broke out in a grin of my own. “Was that a joke? Who are you and how dare you inhabit the vessel of my super serious boss? Be gone!”

  At that, Layton finally cracked a smile. “Oh, there’s more to me than being a super serious boss.”

  “I can see that,” I nodded, my head tilting as I studied him.

  Snapping those green eyes to mine, he suddenly asked. “Why on earth are you still single, Marissa?”

  “What?” I blurted out, then lowered my eyes to the steam dancing across the surface of my cocoa cup while taking a breath to compose myself. Why indeed? “That’s a story for another time.”

  A long story that wasn’t fit for a first date—or dinner not a date, whatever the case was. Layton’s eyes narrowed, but he schooled his expression in the next instant. “Another time then, but I’m holding you to it.”

  “Right.” Relieved, I raised my cup to my lips, catching a glimpse at my watch as I did so. Crap. I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. Denise was going to kill me when I got home. It felt like it was much too soon to end our time together, but I had to.

  My brain scrambled for a suitable excuse, but in the end I simply went with, “Please don’t think it’s because you asked a question about my relationship status because it’s not, but I have to go.”

  Layton frowned, but before he could ask the obvious, I stepped closer to him and without thinking, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  It was an abrupt end to a great evening, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to get home. And fast—before Denise killed me, brought me back to life and killed me again. No matter how much I might have wanted to do much more than end the night with a stupid kiss on his stubbly cheek.

  Chapter 17

  Layton

  “Open up, man. I got news!” Craig hollered from my door, his voice partially drowned out by the pounding he was giving the poor, innocent wooden door that protected me from the world. “Layton,
I know you’re in there! Open up.”

  Of course he knew I was in here. My condo came with two parking spaces and as the only person I trusted with my spare key, Craig’s vehicle details were on the books for the second spot. Right next to mine.

  Giving Craig my spare set of keys was my only concession in terms of privacy. High up on the twentieth floor, my penthouse apartment had floor to ceiling windows that were mirrored on the outside and a doorman who only let people up who were on your list.

  My list contained only three names. My dad’s attorney, my assistant’s and Craig’s. Craig was the only person with unfettered access to the place, since he had my key, but he never barged in.

  He showed up unannounced, as he was doing right that very minute, but at least he didn’t let himself in. I had as much privacy as going on three million dollars could buy and I loved it that way.

  My two bedroom, two bathroom home had a corner location and striking views. It had been upgraded by an award winning designer I knew personally. She called me as soon as the place went on the market and I bought it on the spot.

  It had plenty of space for me, complete with a decent size separate home office. There was a gym, concierge, room service, cleaning service and dry cleaning in the building, which meant I had everything I needed right here.

  For that reason, I hardly ever left on a Sunday unless I had to. It was the one day a week I tried to relax. When Craig started banging on my door, I’d only just gotten my lazy ass showered and dressed and was in the process of deciding which movie I felt like watching while browsing through the room service menu for lunch options.

  “Oi!” Craig called out again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Damn,” I muttered under my breath, my bare feet padding on the Duro-Designed Bamboo flooring in my living area as I made my way to the door. “What are you doing here?”