He glanced at the house, which didn’t look any different than it had before. She knew. She’d looked for something, anything, so he wouldn’t drive away two minutes from now.
“You see the curtains on the right? All the way over.”
“Um, I suppose so.”
“They twitched. That means my mother is watching, and you’re going to have to trust me on this, she will want more than anything to poke holes in our story.”
Jace cleared his throat. “We haven’t told our story yet.”
“I have, though. I’ve laid the groundwork. Just, if you could, come open my door and take my hand as I get out.”
“I’ve already told you—”
“Yes, yes. You’ve done this before. Only, after I get out, do exactly as I say.”
“That depends on what you say.” He slid out of the car and came around the front.
He wasn’t going to be happy, but who cared? He couldn’t possibly think any less of her, not after she’d blackmailed him to be her beau.
Her hand slid into his as she stood and took a step closer. With urgency, she whispered, “Kiss me. Right now and like you mean it.”
To her complete shock and, to be honest, joy, he didn’t question her. A furrow wrinkled his brow for a second, and then he swept her up, literally. His hand grasped her waist as his mouth consumed hers. In the back of her mind, the small piece not utterly devoted to the shocks shooting from her spine to all parts, she realized he’d lifted her to his level, then slowly let her slide down his body. A thousand points that hadn’t existed a moment ago charged to life inside her as her breasts pressed against his chest then slowly traced every muscle and ridge on the way down.
All too soon, he removed his hands and stepped back. “That work for you?”
Layla nodded, unable to find her voice. The arid dessert wind cooled her cheeks; that’s how hot she’d become. She was enflamed. What a delicious word, and she’d never truly known what it meant until this moment. Enflamed.
Jace Russell, of the firm, business-like lips, walked around his car and climbed in. Before he could pull away, Layla came to herself and realized they needed a plan. She knocked on the window.
Reaching across the passenger side, which she could never have accomplished, he easily rolled down the window. “What now?”
“Pick me up tomorrow afternoon. We can discuss strategy.”
“I have to work. Come to my office with your list of demands.” His tone was more than a little annoyed.
Ah, that cooled her a bit. Nice, the little hostage reference. Unfortunately, not one cell in her body seemed capable of wit, so she simply turned away and walked around the house to the backyard. This man was not going to be nearly as manageable as she’d hoped. In fact, he might be trouble.
Layla made it a point not to oversleep the next morning. She needed Mrs. C.’s ideas. Shoot, she needed someone she trusted to tell her she wasn’t making a big mess of things. Or if she was, how to best clean it up.
Either way, she absolutely had to speak to Mrs. C. without encountering her mother. She hadn’t built up enough good feelings yet to make it through another confrontation like yesterday without doing the thing. Two alarms, their bells clanging so loudly the sound bounced off the walls of the small room, dragged her out of bed to shut them off.
She pulled her fingers through her hair. A mess. She’d been too antsy last night to wash and set it. She’d have to do that today, which meant she needed to get a move on. Coffee, first off, and that came straight from Mrs. C.
She let herself sigh with relief as her father’s sedan pulled away while she walked up the small hill out back. Good. Now, the two of them could talk until her mother awoke. She could take hours to sleep off the champagne and Valium-induced coma.
The glass doors swished when she opened and whisked them shut behind her. Her nose led her to the kitchen. Already, dishes from her father’s big breakfast littered the sink and stove. Mrs. C. scrubbed at the built-in griddle with a frown that indicated she took the spot as a serious personal affront.
Layla stepped up to the sink, ran the water hot and soapy, and started washing. By the time she’d finished and turned around, Mrs. C. had set the rest of the kitchen to rights. Which she’d have to do all over again when Layla’s mother rang her little bell for breakfast in bed. Such a waste.
“Sit. Tell me about this boy. I can’t believe you kept such a secret from me, gattina.” Mrs. C. gestured at the counter, kissed her on the cheek, and thrust a mug of coffee into her hand.
Layla sipped at her coffee, sweet and strong, exactly the way she’d loved it since she could remember. “I didn’t keep him a secret, Zia. There is no boy.”
“I saw him. He came here yesterday. Didn’t he come see you?”
“No, he—his name is Jace—he came out to speak with me. But, listen to me because I can’t speak loudly, and I have to explain all of this before Mother rings for you.”
Puffing out her lips, Mrs. C. looked around the room and mumbled to herself. “Yes, okay. Tell me all of it.”
“I convinced him to say we were dating, that we were serious. I don’t know him. His family, I’ve heard of them—they’re not Italian, but I think at this point Papà would be happy with any fella who didn’t need his support and could handle me.”
“And can he? Handle you. This boy, can he?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not real.” Sadness she couldn’t explain came over her, like a blanket left out in the sun until all the color faded. “I had to do something. You heard Mother yesterday.”
“Gattina! Don’t you know how risky this is? Your father, he might not make you go to this doctor. But if he finds out you’ve done this? He will, I know it.” Mrs. C. worried at her hairline, the same way she’d absentmindedly wipe it out of her face when she’d been working very hard in the heat.
“I know you’re right. It happened so fast I couldn’t think. I said there was a boy, and then one shows up. It was easy to convince him to help me. And, then…done.”
“You’ve always been good at convincing people to do what you wanted. Like the way I’m going to worry myself until I can’t sleep, all hours of the night, keeping your secret.”
“But are you terribly disappointed, Zia?” Layla traced the pet name on the counter before her. It meant aunt, but Mrs. C. had really become her true family.
Her beloved oldest brother was long gone to New York. Not that he wouldn’t come if she needed him, but he had a life of his own. Anthony, the middle child, would rather pretend there was nothing wrong than listen to Layla. And her father…well, as long as Layla turned out okay, he had no interest in the process. Just a shiny finished product.
“Why is he doing this, pretending for you?” Mrs. C. picked up her rag and stood, wiping the immaculate griddle behind her. She was hiding her face, Layla knew. If it were awful, she could temper her reaction. Because she loved Layla. And that’s why Layla could tell her anything—except someone else’s secret.
“He believes his business reputation is at stake.”
A pause with the rag. “Is it?”
“Well, it could be… If I did what he’s worried I might do.”
“Ah. And? Would you?”
“No! I would never. I’d be no better than that horrible doctor willing to put me away without ever setting eyes on me.”
Mrs. C. turned with a relieved smile. “This is good. But people can be unpredictable when you put pressure on them. Be careful your lie doesn’t cut your own throat.”
“I’m not proud of what I did, taking advantage of the situation.” Layla pressed on, needing the absolution that only came with complete honesty. “But I can’t risk what they would do to me in a place like that. I just can’t. I have to bluff.”
“You never could sit back and let your numbers ride. So, what is it you need from me?”
That was it. The person whose opinion mattered most to her had forgiven her with the barest of explanations. Acceptance
was all she had needed. Just having someone in her corner. Tears blurred Layla’s vision, but she couldn’t show that much weakness to anyone, not even Mrs. C. “Well, I need to make a list. Then we’ll be believable as a couple to anyone at all.”
In a minute, Mrs. C. had produced a notepad and pencil from the drawer near the phone. “Make a list.”
“Right.” Layla picked up the pencil and stared at the blank page. And stared. Changed her grip on the pencil. “But I’m not sure what I want in a man. Surely, it’s not difficult. I’ve lived through enough to say what I value, haven’t I?”
“I imagine so. What do you want, then?” Mrs. C. filled a bucket in the sink, steam rising from it like an early morning fog.
“Well. I suppose I want someone who makes me feel okay. No, I don’t want to feel okay. That’s terrible.” Layla tapped the pencil while Mrs. C. gathered her mop and bucket.
“I have to do the foyer; your father tracked sand when he came back in for his briefcase. Come on.”
Layla followed, wishing she could think of just one word. Any word. “I don’t want him to judge me, like he’s comparing me to other women around. I don’t want to ever feel like I can’t size up again.”
“That’s an easy one. You’re perfect.”
They chuckled together while Mrs. C. wrung the water from the mop strings. When Layla was a child, she had imagined it a girl with long white hair and had spent a summer watching Mrs. C. mop the house’s many rooms, over and over. She must’ve seemed pitiful, following the woman around, a mute seven-year-old no one bothered to speak to. Until Mrs. C, whose Italian accent was so heavy Layla barely understood one out of every ten words. But they’d figured it out. Layla spoke with Mrs. C. every single day. If she was honest, Mrs. C. might be the reason she still lived here. “Will you be my boyfriend, Mrs. C? You’re the perfect one.”
“Ooh, get on with you if you’re going to spend your morning flattering me. Let’s assume you don’t want a brickhead like you almost married, okay? No need to write all that down.”
“Hmm. The new boy who isn’t my boy? He’s very easy on the eyes. Don’t you think so?” Mrs. C. harrumphed from her place near the door. Layla slid down the wall in the foyer, on the dry side of the room. “This is much harder than I expected.”
A bell jingled annoyingly from up the stairs. They both glanced that way, and Mrs. C. said, “Your mother is up. Take that to the diner, get yourself a nice big breakfast, and write. Tell him about you and let him figure out how to court you. He’s the man.”
Rarely did Layla ignore Mrs. C.’s advice. But today, she went back to the kitchen, filled a mug with more syrupy coffee, and walked down to the pool with her notepad and pencil. The early morning sun, just peeking over the mountains, wasn’t blistering hot the way it would be later. Right now, Layla settled on the side of the pool, dipping her feet in the water, and let the heat wash over her.
An hour later, sweat trickled between her breasts and not one word had been written. Still pristine, the paper mocked her. Don’t you know anything about yourself? Haven’t you figured out even one thing?
“Apparently not,” she muttered and took her empty mug and notepad, mustn’t forget that, into the pool house. She was supposed to go to Jace’s office today, but she had to finish this list first. And to do that, she really needed to start it.
Layla took a long shower, washing away the sweat from outside and thinking. All the time, thinking. When she set her hair, sliding big curlers to the end, then rolling them up and clipping them in place, she held the pencil between her teeth. Surely something would come to her if she let the problem sit and did other things.
Nothing.
Maybe she would get the ball rolling by writing down some of the things she didn’t want. Sure, she didn’t want her ex-fiancé. But that was not one or two words. That was a novel in what she didn’t want. And her mother? Even more. She scribbled notes across the page. Don’t want that. Or that. Or that.
The paper filled up. Except it never turned into a list of attributes she wanted in a man. Only more and more she no longer wanted in her life. Layla flipped through the pages, seventeen of them now, and the sun shone from the other side of the pool house. The setting sun.
She’d tried all day, and she couldn’t list one word that would describe the man she wanted to be with. This was bigger than some deception for her parents. This didn’t have anything to do with the man she’d tricked into kissing her yesterday. This list meant she could still only see the negative in everyone, including herself.
Maybe she’d ignored Mrs. C.’s advice to tell him about herself because writing a list of things she didn’t want seemed easier than finding one thing she liked about herself.
She rolled her eyes upward as tears filled them. She would not cry. Maybe she just couldn’t imagine why anyone who was a good person would want to date her.
There was a knock on her door. It wasn’t locked, and she had slipped into a white button-up shirt her father had tossed in the donate pile. It came down to her knees. Nearly.
Oh, who cared? Her hair was in curlers and she wore a man’s shirt over her panties, but it wasn’t like anyone came to see her. Mrs. C. had probably brought her a tray. “Yes, it’s unlocked,” she called out.
She didn’t look up from her hopeless examination of the notepad until he cleared his throat. “You were supposed to come to my office.”
She didn’t need to look in a mirror to see she was a wreck, and besides that, her soul felt a little too bared tonight.
“Oh, well, damn.” Could this day possibly get any worse? Of course. Because fate hated her guts.
4
Jace tried to ignore the flash of white cotton he glimpsed before she resettled her legs from cross-legged to both knees on one side. He’d seen more of her yesterday by the pool. But this seemed more sensual, vulnerable.
She’d cursed at him and just blinked her big, dark eyes at him now. “I got delayed,” she said. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“I’m here now.”
“But I’m not ready, obviously. I have a month, remember? What difference does a day make?” Washed clean of any makeup, her face shone in the fading glow of sunset. He annoyed himself by wondering if she might be the most attractive woman he’d ever seen.
He took a few steps closer in the small room. As head of security, he’d used his height as an intimidation tactic. He didn’t have to try in here. His huge frame seemed clumsy. “Because the idiot who called out to you when you were on the roof might tell someone who matters tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. And then, the whispers that I can’t do my job, that a little wisp of a girl bested me, will start. If he tells his father or my boss, I’ll be packed up and sent off the same day. Have you ever been in a position where you could show no weakness?”
Layla tilted her head, eyes lighting up with an obvious connection. “I have. But there’s a problem. I can’t seem to work out what I would want in a man.”
“That doesn’t matter as far I’m concerned, does it? We’re not really a serious item. I met you yesterday.”
“And that’s why I need a list. You’ve known me a day. I wanted to be able to tell you how I would like to be wooed. Then I realized I’ve never been wooed. So, Mrs. C. told me to write down details about me and let you take over the wooing portion.”
“That seems reasonable, since you’re having such a hard time.”
She shifted her bare legs straight out in front of her, arching forward to grab a black mug beside a tall bottle of vodka. Expensive vodka. “You’re missing the point, Mr. Russell.”
Another step closer, which put him more than halfway across the room. “I thought the point was to educate me on how to pull off this lie.”
Layla sighed and scribbled on the pad with a frown.
“Wait, what are you writing?” He couldn’t read her scribbling from here. It might not be legible from any distance.
“I can only think of things I don’t want
, and I know I don’t want judgmental. My life is complex. The world isn’t always black and white, right and wrong.” She flipped back two or three pages then crossed out what she’d just written. “I already wrote that.”
“Why can’t you want what normal women want? Like tall, dark, and handsome?” His body flooded with warmth, his heart pounded. She shifted again, tugging the shirt back down over her thighs, and he knew he had to have her.
“That’s you. I’ve already had that. He had women stashed all over the city. Tall, dark, and handsome is fun to kiss, but in my experience, you can’t trust them when all the other women want the same thing.”
Conversations with her tended to make him feel like a dog chasing its tail. Layla was so open and honest, so vulnerable and real. Half of him wanted to take her on the floor, but the other half—the part that worried him—wanted to wrap her up in his arms and whisper comforting words. He’d never done such a thing in his life.
Jace turned his head to the side with a sigh and spotted another mug, a red one, on the sink beside one of the doors. He took two steps, grabbed it, another three back, and sat down beside her. “I don’t stash women. When I’m ready to move on, or she is, then we do. Pour me a cup?”
“You’re one of those.” Layla drew out the “o” like the classification was of importance. She studied him, then poured straight vodka in both their cups. “Do you want something to put in it? I could go in the house for something.”
“This is fine.”
“Really, my mother basically has a fully-functioning bar in there. It’s no trouble. Well, except I should put on pants. I suppose I should anyway.” Both of them glanced at her legs. The first time for her. He’d barely pulled his gaze away since he arrived.
To distract her, because he preferred this pantless conversation, Jace took a big swig of the straight liquor and nodded resolutely. “It’s fine.”
“Maybe I should put that on the list. ‘Holds his liquor.’ That would be such a nice change. No, see, that’s another thing I don’t want. It’s all negative, nothing positive.”
My Fake Vegas Boyfriend Page 3