by Kiera Jayne
Grady wanted to see more of her.
“Yes! I'd like to buy a hotel for my street, please.” Layla held out some Monopoly money to Mr. Jenkins.
The elderly man took the money from her and traded it for a little, red plastic hotel, which Layla placed on Oxford Street. “You're very good at this game, my dear.”
Layla giggled. “I was trained young, Mr. Jenkins.”
“By whom?”
“My brothers and sisters,” Layla answered.
The third player, Fredrick, chuckled. “Competitive and beautiful. That was everything I looked for in a woman back when I was a young man.”
Layla eyed him. “And now?”
“Now I don't have the energy for more than Monopoly.”
They all laughed.
“What about you? Any romantic prospects for a lovely young lady such as yourself?” Mr. Jenkins asked.
Layla suppressed the desire to sigh. To explain the disaster of her love life to these kindly old men could be disastrous, especially because it might end up with her as a blubbering mess. How embarrassing would that be? “I’m taking a break from all of that. That’s what this holiday is for.”
“Man troubles, eh?” Fredrick said.
Damn. He was a perceptive old fellow.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Well, that was the biggest load of bullshit she had ever spouted, and she’d done a lot of that while working in the political world. Hadn’t she hightailed it out of there specifically because she couldn’t handle it any longer?
“Well, how about family? How much family do you have back home?” Fredrick asked.
“My mum, dad, and my step-dad, two brothers, a sister and a step-sister.” She kept her response simple. There was no need to explain the unusual family dynamics and the fact that her bisexual father was currently in a serious relationship with a man.
“I bet they miss you,” Mr. Jenkins said.
Layla nodded. “I miss them, too.”
A bell chimed, alerting them to lunchtime.
“There's the dinner bell!” Mr. Jenkins got to his feet and shuffled towards the dining room.
Layla got to her feet, too, as one of the nurses came to wheel Fredrick away. “That's me, then. I'll see you next week.”
“Bye, Layla,” Fredrick said. “Maybe next week you can tell us more about your family.”
God, Layla hoped not. She collected her things and waved goodbye to the receptionists as she signed herself out.
Layla had begun to enjoy walking around the village, but it was a long walk with all these grocery bags full of meat, fruit, and vegetables in her hands, and they were starting to get awfully heavy.
As Layla stepped off the curb, Grady zoomed around the corner on his motorbike, almost running her over and splashing her with filthy water from a puddle.
Layla jumped back and fell on her butt. “Oi, watch it!”
But he kept going without so much as a backwards glance. Just wait until she got a hold of him!
Grumbling to herself, Layla gathered a couple of stray fruits from the pavement and tossed them back into the bags. She got back to her feet and looked down at her soaked tunic, then stomped back to the cottage.
When she got in, Layla packed most of the groceries away, except for a few she decided to use for a stew. As she forced her anger at Grady’s carelessness into chopping the vegetables, her mobile phone began to ring, startling her.
That was weird. No-one had rung her personal phone the entire three weeks since she left Australia. Her family knew the landline number, and she had requested they only call her in an absolute emergency. This was the first time Layla had gotten away from everything in . . . well, ever, and everyone back home knew how important this was to her.
Who would be ringing now?
She could always ignore it, of course. Layla knew that. But when it came to her mobile, she was always weak.
As though she was being controlled by an outside force, Layla picked the phone up. Noticing there was no caller ID, she slid her thumb across the bottom of the screen and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Lay-Lay.”
Layla froze at the familiar, deep voice that came across the line.
“Are you there?” he asked after a moment.
Layla gripped the edge of the kitchen bench. “I'm here.”
“Oh, good. I thought you dropped out for a moment.”
“Nope,” she said through gritted teeth.
“God, it's good to hear your voice. I miss you, honey.”
Well, that was a good one! “What do you want, Rick?” Layla snapped. “Why are you calling me?”
“You disappeared, that's why! I haven't seen you around Canberra and I've been worried. Did you go back to Port Macquarie?”
Layla suppressed a laugh. Boy, was he in for a shock when he received his phone bill for an international call instead of an interstate one. Then she remembered that all of Rick’s phone calls were paid for by the tax payers’ dollars and she quietly seethed. “You don't need to know that.”
“Layla. Honey.”
Her anger nearly boiled over at his gentle tone. There was no way in hell she was going to let Rick sweet talk her. She had fallen for that too many times before. Well, at least he was on the phone and not standing in front of her, so she didn't have his beautiful blue eyes and chiselled jaw to contend with.
“I miss you.”
Layla scoffed. “You should've thought about that before the Event happened!”
“The Event? Is that what you're calling this?”
“Yes,” Layla mumbled.
“Well, can we maybe call it the Husband Fucked Up, But He’s Extremely Sorry Event?” Rick countered.
Layla tossed the carrots and potatoes into the crockpot. “That's a bit of a mouthful, don't you think?”
“That's how I feel.”
Layla narrowed her eyes. “Care to expand on that? How do you feel, exactly?”
“I feel like shit, Layla,” Rick confessed.
“Good! That's how you bloody well should feel! How the fuck do you think I felt, huh? First finding you, and then . . . then the paparazzi and . . .” her voice began to shake. “It was all too much.”
“I know, honey, and I'm sorry. Will you please come home so we can sort it out?” Rick asked.
Layla shook her head. “No, I don't think so.”
“Please, Layla?”
Layla could picture him trying to schmooze her, to seduce her, to send her that look that pierced right through her defences to her soul. She was so glad he wasn't here in person because she would've fallen for his act hook, line and sinker. She needed time and this distance between them to figure out what she wanted. Suddenly, seventeen thousand kilometres didn't feel like far enough away and that sickeningly familiar flight mode threatened to kick in once again. She couldn't wait to get off the phone with him.
“Don't call me again, Rick.”
Without another word, Layla hung up on him and set the device down on the black countertop. When it rang again, Layla declined the call and switched her phone off.
Once she put the stew on low to simmer, Layla climbed the stairs to the bathroom and drew a bath for herself. Why was her life so fucked up? Why did the Event have to occur? Why did she still love Rick after what he had done? It was all so frustrating, and it made Layla want to scream.
Layla released a long, luxurious breath as she sunk into the searing water. As she washed, Layla closed her eyes. Her body relaxed and a handsome face flashed across her mind’s eye. She sighed again.
The man leaned his arm against the door jamb, the peace beads around his wrist sliding down slightly as he ran his fingers through his gelled dark hair. Layla focused on his stubble-covered jaw and cheeky half-smile, and the way his dark brown eyes danced with mischief as he moved into the bathroom.
Slowly, like a predator approaching its prey.
He peeled his leather jacket off and followed with his gr
ey T-shirt. Then he undid the fly of his jeans . . .
KNOCK KNOCK.
Layla jumped, splashing bathwater all over the floor as she sat up and pulled her fingers away from her pussy. Had she just been fantasising—and masturbating—about Grady?
There was another knock and Layla launched herself out of the tub, sending even more water to the floor. She hurriedly wrapped her dressing gown around her sopping wet body. By the time she made it downstairs, the knock had graduated to a pounding on the door.
“Alright, alright! I'm coming!” She called.
Layla pulled the door open to find him standing there, her mug in his hand and pressed against his chest. His very fit chest. Layla shook her head in an attempt to clear her senses.
Then he smiled.
God, that smile!
Layla frowned. “Yeah?”
Grady straightened up and the sexy smile slipped from his face. “Hello to you, too,”
“Sorry. I was . . . busy.” Layla tightened her gown when she noticed Grady’s gaze flick over her.
He handed the mug to her. “I thought I should return this. Didn't want you to think I was nicking it or anything.”
“Oh. Thanks. You thought about giving this to me now?”
Grady shrugged. “I was heading home. This place is on my way.”
Layla cocked her head at him. “I thought you lived out past the other end of town?”
Suddenly sheepish, Grady scrunched his fingers into his hair, just like he had in her fantasy. “Ugh, you caught me.”
Layla's mouth went dry.
“Are you okay? You look flushed.”
Oh, shit. She was flushed because . . . because she had just been fantasising about him. And now she felt her cheeks positively burning.
Grady dropped his head and chuckled.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Grady replied, laughing again. “I'll see you later.”
Layla watched him walk down the path to his motorbike. His motorbike! The motorbike he had almost run her over with! She balled her hands into fists. “Grady Bradbury!”
He spun back around as she screamed at him like a banshee and looked at her like she was crazy.
“How could you?”
“How could I what?”
Layla ground her teeth together, but then stopped when he glanced at her chest. She looked down to notice her gown was falling open and she was dangerously close to flashing him.
She yanked the thing closed again and with a grunt of anger, Layla slammed the front door shut, blocking him from her view.
She rocked up to Myra’s Munchies early the next morning with one thing in mind—giving Grady a piece of hers. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”
Grady paused from tidying up some of the used cups and turned to see Layla standing a couple of feet inside the café, her green eyes aglow with anger. Last night’s sexy dressing gown had been replaced by sexy, thigh-high boots, black stockings, and a powder blue, knit dress that looked more like a jumper. The way it fell off her shoulder stirred a desire inside of him. He wanted to nibble that shoulder.
“Do you always drive like a crazy person on that motorbike of yours?” she demanded.
He couldn't help the way he checked her out while she stood by the white timber door with her hands on her curvy hips. The way her slim waist swelled just enough to her rounded bum, how her breasts heaved as she tried to calm her breathing, and the redness in her cheeks . . . well, Grady could almost bring himself to imagine that she was blushing for him out of pleasure rather than anger.
Oh yeah, he was definitely hot for Layla. He had seen her exploring the village over the last few days and each time he spotted her, she had him spellbound.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Uh . . . what was the question?” Grady asked as he carried the dirty dishes around the display cabinet to the sink.
Layla rested her hands on the edge of the service counter, which stood between the cake cabinet and the coffee machine. “You're a dangerous driver, Grady. You almost ran me over yesterday!”
Grady hadn't even seen her. He would never have done that on purpose. “Is that why you screamed at me last night?”
“Yes!”
“Did you look both ways before you attempted to cross the road?”
Layla rolled her eyes. “I'm not a child. I know road safety.”
“But you didn't see me coming? You didn't hear the motorbike?” He found that hard to believe.
“You should learn to be more careful. Whoever gave you a license should be slapped,” Layla said, ignoring his questions.
Grady chuckled. He leaned his hands on the service counter as well, bringing himself as close to her as he dared. “They might like that.”
Layla’s mouth dropped open. She was still fuming and Grady’s attempt to make a joke out of the situation clearly wasn't working.
“Look, I'm sorry. I truly didn't mean to almost run you over. Can I make you a mocha and call it a truce?” He held up an empty mug.
She looked like she was about to protest further until her name was called out with such enthusiasm, that it broke through the tension immediately.
“Layla!” Edwin cried, a big grin on his face.
He and his mother entered the café with a tingle of the bell above the door and the boy dashed straight over to Layla and wrapped his arms around her waist in a hug.
“Hello, Edwin! How nice to see you!” Layla replied, matching his enthusiasm.
“Hi, Layla,” Myra said.
“Hey, there.”
“You lot know each other?” Grady asked.
“She comes to my school,” Edwin replied, still holding Layla's legs in a death grip.
“One afternoon a week for their lunch and reading time,” Layla explained. “I need a little bit of something to fill my time, or I'd go stir crazy.”
“You off to the school today?” Myra asked as she ducked behind the counter.
“No, not today. Friday’s my day.”
“So, you're not a shut-in, then?” Grady teased. He laughed when she rolled her eyes.
“No, I'm not a shut-in. I also happen to volunteer at the elderly home, so there.” Layla quirked her eyebrow at him.
“You're a regular Angelina Jolie, aren't ya?” Grady said.
“Huh?”
“Well, doesn't she do all that volunteer stuff?”
Myra rolled her eyes. “Ignore my brother, Layla, he’s a bit of a smart arse. I think you're perfect for the program. Edwin can't stop singing your praises.” She pushed a strand of her brown hair out of her eyes and the light caught a fleck of gold highlight.
Edwin looked at Grady. “Uncle Grady, did you know Layla can climb trees?”
Grady looked at Layla with a new appreciation. “She can, can she?”
“The biggest, oldest ones!”
“Well then. That is pretty damn impressive,” Grady said as he shook chocolate onto the top of Layla’s mocha.
“Uncle Grady?” Layla indicated Edwin.
“Yeah, he's my nephew,” Grady clarified.
“Which means that . . .” Layla indicated Myra.
A look of disgust crossed Grady's face. “Myra’s my sister!”
“Grady was kind enough to move in a few months back when my husband deployed to Northern Africa with the army,” Myra supplied. “He’s been helping out around the house and with the café, even with Edwin.” She indicated the shop by waving her hands towards the round timber tables and matching chairs.
Layla tried not to appear too gobsmacked. “Great! That's . . . great.”
Grady leaned his elbows on the bench top and looked at the woman closely. “Is it?”
Layla shifted from foot to foot. “Sure it is.”
“Why’s that, then?”
“Uh . . . because . . . it's good that you're close to your sister.”
Grady laughed, but managed to stop himself from puffing out his chest in a manly show of pride. Because now
Layla was blushing because of him in all the right ways.
“Order’s up.”
As Layla picked up her mug, the light reflected off a ring on her middle finger. “I'll just drink this over here.” She made her way to the far corner and sat huddled up against the white stone wall by one of the picture windows. She might've been trying to make herself as inconspicuous as she could, but her presence filled up the small shop.
Grady tried to busy himself with his work, and not for the first time, he kept glancing over at the young Australian woman sitting in his sister’s café. He shook his head at himself. The ring wasn't on her wedding finger, so he figured he was safe. Maybe he could see where things went with her, if she was open to it.
She may have been standoffish, blunt and feisty, but she was also downright bloody gorgeous. Those pretty green eyes were bewitching. He could lose himself in those eyes. But Grady could also see the sadness they reflected. A sadness she clearly didn’t want anyone to know about.
He stared at her as she sipped from her mocha, leaving a foamy moustache on her top lip, which he wanted to kiss away for her. Grady watched her as she pulled out her mobile phone and glared at it before declining an incoming call. He watched her gaze out the window and then listened to her laugh when Ed went to say goodbye before Myra took him to school.
He honestly couldn't get enough of her. She added a vibrancy to the boring white walls and the cool timber floors of the café. Grady's morning was all the better for her being there.
“Excuse me, I’d like to order, please,” a podgy old man demanded.
Snapping out of it, Grady acknowledged the man, who wasn’t a local. “Sorry, mate. What can I get ya?”
“Stop daydreaming and get me an espresso.”
“As if your attitude isn’t bitter enough,” Grady grumbled.
“I beg your pardon?” the man sputtered.