He’s always there, even when he isn’t.
His scent.
His things.
They’re constantly around, reminding me of everything I can’t have.
And the way he looks at me, like he’s practically undressing me every time I walk into a room, makes my body respond in ways it has no right to.
I wonder if he’ll still look at me like that when I start to show. When my stomach is so big that I can’t even see my feet. Placing my hand on my still flat stomach, it seems like such a long way away. But I know how quickly time passes, and soon there will be a constant, physical reminder, of what really separates us.
Maybe that’ll be a good thing. Finally make this torture bearable.
“You seem distracted,” Kira says, frowning at me. “You want to talk?”
“Not really.”
Kira gives a sad, knowing smile, but doesn’t push. She’s good like that. Knows her boundaries.
I love her, even if she is one of the worst employees I’ve ever hired.
“You should go home. I can close up. It looks like it’s going to be another slow night.”
Usually I’d say no. But I’m exhausted and all I want to do is sleep. Well, that’s not exactly true. There are a lot of things I want to do. All of them involving Carter Bennet.
But sleep, and maybe a warm bath will have to suffice.
Chapter 11
Carter
Upstairs, I pass Layla’s room. The door is open a few inches. Enough that I can see in. Everything is neat, perfectly ordered. Even the damn bed is made. And not just a quick toss of the covers, but perfectly made, like they do in hotels, with the creases and the folded edges.
Another weird quirk that I want to know more about.
I press the door open wider, breathing in her soft scent.
I know I shouldn’t be in here. But I want to know more about her, and right now she isn’t exactly offering many details.
The room is pretty bare. Other than her books, which are piled neatly around the room, and an ancient laptop that looks like it was built in the Middle Ages, there’s nothing that really makes it hers.
No pictures, no little trinkets. Just books. So many damn books.
Romance.
Mysteries.
Biographies.
Classics.
She even has one of those electronic eBook readers.
A tattered copy of War and Peace sits on her nightstand. I pick it up and shake my head. I’m pretty sure I haven’t read the equivalent pages in my entire life, but it’s obvious that this book has been read and reread several times.
I’m about to put it back, when I see the edge of a photo sticking out. I flip open the ragged cover, and pull out the picture. A family portrait. One of those posed ones that make everyone look awkward and depressed. The father is in a suit, his expression overly serious as he stares into the camera with a self-righteous expression. The mother’s expression isn’t much softer, but it’s the grip on the little girl’s shoulder that draws my eye. Like claws, her fingers seem to dig into the child’s flesh painfully.
Layla is about nine or ten in the picture. Same light brown eyes. Her hair a lighter shade of brown, pulled painfully tight in a braid. And she looks completely miserable.
Protectiveness swells inside me.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” Like stealth, Layla comes up behind me and grabs the picture out of my hand.
Shit.
“I’m sorry. The door was open…” Not an excuse. I hand her the book. “Sorry. You’re right.”
She glares up at me, then quickly tucks the picture back in the book, and clutches it to her chest.
“We’re you checking up on me?”
“No.” I rub the back of my neck.
“Because I have nothing to hide,” she says defensively.
“I didn’t think you did. I’m sorry, really. It won’t happen again. This is your space and I shouldn’t have been in here.”
“No. You shouldn’t have been.” She turns her back on me and tosses a bag of what looks like more books on her bed.
I know why she works so much. To pay for her damn reading habit.
The thought gives me an idea of something I’d like to do for her. The basement has been left unfinished for years. Just cement floor and insulation. But the space is big enough for a den, or more specifically a library slash office, where she could go to read and write.
“Did you want something?” Layla’s gaze is narrowed on me, her arms crossed over her chest.
Yeah, for you to trust me, sweetheart. But the way she’s looking at me now, like I’m her enemy, I know that’s not going to happen anytime soon.
“I know it’s none of my business, but have you told them?” I nod at the novel in her hands, the one that holds the old photograph of her family.
“My parents?” She chuckles darkly, but I can see the pain she’s trying to hide behind her anger. “No.”
Something protective billows in my chest, rising up in the middle of it, and I have to clamp my mouth shut on my next question, because I can see she doesn’t want to talk about them.
Her eyes dart around the room, and I get the feeling that she’d do about anything to avoid the conversation.
I want to wrap her in my arms, tell her everything will be okay. Instead, I change the subject. “The new washing machine should be here tomorrow. And I also fixed the leak in the shower.”
There’s a small break in her armor, before it goes back up again.
“Thank you. It’ll make it easier once…” She glances away and shifts nervously.
“Once the baby comes,” I add, allowing her to put voice to the thing Travis wanted her to hide.
“Yeah.”
“You can talk about it with me. Not talking about it isn’t going to make it go away.”
“I know that.” She frowns at me. “It’s just awkward with you.”
I take a step towards her and her eyes widen slightly.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Another step closer, and I see her swallow hard, her gaze dropping to my mouth.
“Everything about this”–she gestures around the room with her free hand, the other one still clutching the damn book against her chest like a shield–“is awkward.”
“Because I kissed you?” I’m standing in front of her now, so close I can practically feel the warmth of her body radiating off her.
She sucks a breath. “Twice.”
“Yeah, twice. And I wanted to do it a hell of a lot more times.” I reach out and stroke my knuckles across her cheek. “I still do.”
“Carter–”
I brush the pad of my thumb across her lips, silencing her protest. “I know you’re not ready.”
“I tried calling,” she says softly, a slight tremble in her voice. “But the number you gave me…”
“I’d just switched numbers. When I realized my mistake, I tried to track you down, but you were already gone.”
“Oh.” Her frown deepens.
“But I didn’t stop thinking about you. Hoping one day we’d meet again.”
She laughs humorlessly. “I’m sure you never thought it’d be under these circumstances.”
“No.” I match her frown and cup her cheek, the gesture far more intimate than I’d intended, but I can’t seem to pull away. “But I’ll work with what I’ve got.”
She licks her lips, and I see a small flare of hope in her eyes, but just as quickly it’s gone, replaced by uncertainty and fear.
“I can’t do this.”
I lean down and press my lips on her forehead, feeling her shiver.
“Then I guess I’ll have to wait until you can.”
Chapter 12
Layla
When Carter is gone, I touch my lips where his thumb had been a few minutes before. My body still buzzes with electricity, and my brain is spinning with what he just said.
Then I guess I’ll have to wait until you can.
A m
illion questions blare in my head. Questions I’m too much of a coward to ask.
Like, why me? Why now? If it’s just sex he wants, he can get it anywhere. And if it’s more, which I can’t imagine is likely, is he really willing to stick around when I’m going to have his brother’s baby?
This whole situation isn’t just awkward, it’s insane.
I flip open the cover of War and Peace and pull out the old photo, frowning when I run my fingers over my mother’s stern face.
God, despite everything, there are some days when I really miss her.
Today is one of them.
What I wouldn’t give to crawl into my old bed, and have her stroke my hair, and sing me to sleep like she used to do when I was little. But that will never happen. To them, I might as well be dead, because there’s no going home. Ever.
I put the picture back, and snort when I think about what they would say if they saw me now. I can only imagine the horrified look on my mom’s face if she ever saw Carter with all his tattoos.
Tattoos are the devil’s mark. That’s what my parents believed.
Seven years away from them and I can still hear their voices in my head, constantly criticizing, always condemning
Still dressed in my work clothes, I pull back the sheets and crawl into bed, wrapping my arms around my chest, and wishing that it was Carter’s strong arms holding me, comforting me.
Don’t be delusional, Layla.
If I allow him in and, drop my guard, I know I’ll never survive when he walks away. And there’s no doubt in my mind that he will walk away.
As good as his intentions are, and as strong as the attraction is between us, I’m still carrying another man’s child.
Better to keep my walls up. Keep the boundaries I’ve already put in place. Remember why it’s dangerous to trust anyone.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I pinch my eyes shut and try to ignore the hollowness inside of me. The vacant spot that yearns to be filled.
He’ll destroy me if I let him.
Better to be alone.
But I’ve always been alone, and somedays it’s just too much.
My parents weren’t able to conceive again after they had me, so from a young age, with no siblings around, I learned how to be on my own. It’s one of the reasons I love reading so much. Books aren’t just an escape, they’re my connection to people – even if they aren’t real.
Yeah, I’m used to being alone.
But it doesn’t make it any less lonely.
I pull the comforter over my shoulders. I’m exhausted. Too tired to think. Almost too tired to feel. But as sleep pulls me into its cradle of darkness, only one face fills my dreams.
Carter.
Chapter 13
Layla
“Good, you’re home,” Carter calls out from the kitchen when I walk in the house. “I made dinner.”
Frowning, I toss my purse on the table by the front door and follow the scent of garlic and basil. The house smells delicious, and my mouth waters. Still, I’m not sure what to think when I walk into the kitchen and see the table set, with fresh rolls, silverware and real fabric napkins.
Carter hovers over the oven, stirring a large silver pot, then moves to the counter and starts to dice vegetables, his big, tattooed hands working with the skilled precision of a gourmet chef.
Is there anything he can’t do?
The sight of this beast of a man making dinner isn’t just sexy, it’s pure erotic.
I rub my sweaty hands on my jeans, and try to get a grip on my hormones.
“What is this?” I ask cautiously, aware of how tainted I sound.
“Dinner.” He gives me a crooked grin, then nods at the table. “Sit.”
“You cook?”
“I’ve been told I make a mean plate of spaghetti.” He places a heaping plate of pasta with Bolognese sauce in front of me.
“This looks great. Thank you.” I can’t remember the last time someone made me a meal. Even when I lived with Kira, her idea of cooking was ordering takeout.
Carter limps slightly when he moves around the table, and I can’t help but notice the way he favors one leg. Placing the salad on the table, he pulls out a chair and sits down across from me.
I can feel his gaze on me as I take the first bite.
“It’s really good,” I say truthfully.
“It’s my mother’s recipe.” He passes me the salad.
“You made the sauce?” To say I’m impressed is an understatement.
“Yeah. It’s pretty easy.” A sad smile plays on his beautiful lips. “She used to make everything from scratch. Even grew her own vegetables in the backyard.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“She was.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, but the awkwardness between us isn’t as strong as it was, and I actually enjoy the few quiet moments just being with him. It’s nice. Better than nice. It’s…intimate.
Him.
Me.
Dinner.
It seems like such a normal thing.
But nothing about this is normal, I remind myself.
“You played hockey, right? Travis mentioned that you used to be sort of a big shot.”
He looks at me with an odd expression, one that I can’t interpret.
“Yeah, used to be,” the words drip with bitterness. “I was injured a few years ago. Shattered my knee. Couldn’t play after that.”
“I’m sorry.” I look down at my plate, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.
“Do you watch hockey?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Sports were never my thing.”
“You preferred reading.” He smiles, exposing the dimple in his cheek.
I nod. “So what do you do now? Travis never told me.”
“I’m a sports journalist for a crappy little magazine in New York called The Shutout.”
I place my fork on my plate and look at him, probably bug-eyed, because that was the last thing I expected for him to say. “You’re a writer?”
“Not really.” He shrugs. “I just report on the games. It’s mostly stats. I wouldn’t call myself a writer. Not like you. You’ve actually written something substantial.”
“I told you it’s not very good–”
“Maybe. But if it’s your dream, then you should pursue it.”
“I think I’ve had enough rejection letters for one lifetime.”
He clears his throat and attempts an accent when he says, “Don’t fear failure. Not failure, but low aim, is the crime. In great attempts it is glorious even to fail.”
I raise an eyebrow and laugh. “Yoda?”
“Bruce Lee.” He chuckles, and pushes a casual hand through his hair. “I used to have a poster with those words in my room when I was a kid.”
“Well it seemed to work for you. You got everything you wanted.”
“Not everything,” he says, his expression serious and trained on me.
Oh.
I lick my lips and look away. “I guess we’re not meant to get everything we want.”
He doesn’t respond, but I can feel his eyes on me as I move the spaghetti across my plate with my fork.
“You should eat before it gets cold,” he says, the mood between us changed once again.
The rest of the meal is filled with small talk.
As dark and broody as he comes across, Carter is actually very easy to talk to. I learn that he grew up in a large Victorian style house not far from here. And that despite his bad boy image, he really was the Golden Boy. Somehow, he managed to still do well in school, and even got a college diploma while juggling hockey.
The way he talks about his parents makes my heart ache. They seemed to have had the perfect family, at least until the accident.
Now all Carter has left is Travis – and he’s gone because of me.
Guilt settles in my chest.
“I’ll wash the dishes,” I say, standing and taking my plate to the sink.
�
��There’s this crazy contraption that actually does that for you. I think it’s called a dishwasher,” he teases, placing his dirty dishes on the counter.
I shake my head and tell him the unfortunate news, “Yeah, that’s broken too.”
“Shit. Seriously? What the hell did Travis spend the money on that I gave him then?”
“Do you really want to know?” I lift my brows at him.
“Probably not.” He shakes his head.
“Here.” I hand him a dishtowel. “You can dry and put away.”
“I’ll order a new dishwasher tomorrow.” He leans with his back against the counter and watches me wash the first dish.
“I don’t mind doing the dishes by hand. I actually find it relaxing. Reminds me of when I was a kid, helping my mom after dinner. Things were so much simpler then.”
“Yeah, sometimes it sucks getting older.”
“Sometimes,” I mumble, handing him a clean dish.
His fingers brush over mine when he takes it from me, and without warning, heat spreads through my body.
One touch and I light up like I’ve been struck by lightning.
Tingles coat my skin and a rush of desire spreads through me like wildfire.
I’ve never felt anything like I feel when I’m with him.
He oozes maleness. Strength and power.
And even though I have no right to feel it, I feel safe when I’m with him. Like everything will be okay.
It’s both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
I suck in a few deep breaths, and do my best to ignore my pounding heart, while tight knots of panic swirl around in my stomach.
My breathing must have stopped, because all of a sudden, there are small little white lights in my vision and everything else starts to go dark. The floor shifts under me, and I drop the plate I’m holding back in the sink.
“Layla.” His arms are around me instantly, steadying me.
Dizziness assaults me, but I’m still fully aware of the hardness of his body, the warmth of his hands holding me. One is on my waist, the other runs up my back until it’s cupping the back of my head.
“I’m…okay.”
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