“You know I trust her.”
“You lean on her too much.”
“I know.” I shook my head at the irony.
“Is she there?” he asked. “I tried her phone, but she must have let the battery run out again.”
“Service is spotty in the hotel,” I lied. “She’s probably in the gym. She wants her wedding dress to fit. I mean, I know you haven’t seen it or anything, but it’s—”
“Don’t tell me anything about the wedding dress! Brooklyn will flip out.”
“Right. Yes. Of course. She’s, uh, in the gym, I guess.”
“You have to stop messing around, Layla.”
“I will.”
“I mean it. You might be her best friend, but I’m going to be her husband. And we’ve got a thousand details to take care of here.”
“I know. I’ll get her home. I promise.”
He muttered something that might have been goodbye or a rare swear word. But at least he ended the call.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was short-lived when I remembered the problem I had with Max. I didn’t have his phone number, but I knew his hotel suite.
Putting James out of my mind, I tossed on my jeans and a shirt, shoved my feet into my new sandals, finger-combed my hair and marched down the hall to the elevator.
It wasn’t until I’d rapped at his door and was standing there waiting that I questioned my actions. What was he going to think of me showing up like this? He might not even be out of bed yet. I should have thought this through. Normally, I would have thought this through. But Max seemed to short-circuit the logical pathways of my left brain stem.
Reengaging them, I looked to the right and to the left, considering the option of abandoning my plan and rushing back down the hallway. But it was a long hallway. And if he opened the door and saw me running away, I’d feel even more mortified than I did just being here.
I stood my ground, hoping against hope that he hadn’t heard the knock, hoping he was asleep, or maybe already at breakfast. He could be an early riser. He seemed like an early riser. Maybe he’d gone to the gym.
I pictured him at a rowing machine, shirt off, wearing black shorts like the black bathing trunks he’d worn at the pool yesterday. He’d looked hot, more than hot—cover-model hot. And not a cover model for a men’s fashion magazine, a cover model for a magazine called Muscle Monthly or Freak Fitness.
The door opened.
It was obvious he was surprised to see me. His expression turned from surprised to curious, then to interested, then to sexy hopeful.
I was making the absolutely wrong impression. I wasn’t here for an early morning roll in the sheets.
“Did you say anything?” I blurted out.
His face went back to puzzled again. “I’m going to need some context here, maybe a proper noun. Say anything about what?”
“About us, about you and me.”
“What about you and me?”
I rolled my eyes. Aside from our one-night stand, was there anything else about us that was gossip worthy?
I was adept at sarcasm. “That we ate a chocolate soufflé.”
“No.” Amusement came into his eyes, like he thought this was all good and funny. “Well, the waiter and the chef knew, maybe a few of the kitchen staff. Why? Are you counting calories?”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“Are you in some kind of strict diet club?”
My pride took a reflexive hit. “Do I look like I should be in a diet club?”
“No. And I think we can trust the cooking staff to keep our deep dark secrets.”
“I mean the sex, Max.”
“No kidding.”
“Did you tell anyone? Did you tell Colton we slept together?”
“No.”
My shoulders slumped in relief.
“I take it you didn’t tell Brooklyn,” Max said.
“No. I mean not yet. It’s not like it’s a secret.”
“Sure. I can tell that by the way you’re acting right now.”
“It’s not that I’m not going to tell her. I’m just thinking about the timing. I want to get it right. And there was a lot going on yesterday.”
“Do you want some coffee?”
I did. “No thanks.”
He stood to one side. “Come in and have some coffee. We’ll get our stories straight.”
“There’s no story to get straight. I’m not planning to lie to Brooklyn.”
The coffee sure did smell good.
“How about you tell me what you want me to say and not to say, and I’ll stick to that.”
A door opened farther down the hallway, and I realized that I wasn’t keen on standing outside Max’s suite looking like I’d just rolled out of bed, which I had, just not his bed.
“Okay,” I said, heading inside. “I’ll take some coffee.”
“Great.” He shut the door behind me.
The drapes were open, letting the morning sun into the big living room. It was neat as a pin, with a fresh floral arrangement on the coffee table and a silver coffee service on the dining table. Two cream-colored sofas faced each other, with two taupe leather armchairs at one end, positioned toward the glass French doors.
I hadn’t noticed these details the night I’d been here, but the pastel abstracts and mosaic-tile wall features and the huge gas fireplace made the room look far more homey than a regular hotel suite. And it looked like there was a second bedroom and bathroom down a short hallway. It was truly huge.
“Do you stay here a lot?” I asked.
“When I’m here in Vegas,” he said. “A few days a month, usually, but sometimes longer.”
I could hear him pouring me a cup of coffee. “It’s nice,” I said, continuing to gaze around the room and at the pretty garden outside.
“Cream or sugar?” he asked.
“Both, please.”
“Sweet and smooth,” he said. “More than just coffee.”
I turned to frown at his insinuation.
He grinned unrepentantly.
I refused to buy in, putting on the judgmental schoolmarm face that worked on my ninth graders. “Brooklyn told me you own the place.”
He erased the grin. “My family owns a few hotels. It’s not a chain, each is independently designed and run according to the market.”
“You deliberately kept that from me.”
He held the cup out to me. “Guilty.”
“Why keep it secret?”
“I’m sure you can guess. It’s the same reason I don’t tell anyone right away. I didn’t want to color your impression of me.”
I moved closer to him and accepted the cup of coffee he was offering. “You think being überwealthy would make me like you less?”
“I’m not überwealthy.”
I made a show of looking around the room. “Right. My mistake.”
“This is why I didn’t say anything.”
“You do know with some women you’re more not less likely to get lucky if they know you’re rich.”
“I wasn’t thinking about getting lucky with you.”
“Well, you did.” I maybe should have been embarrassed about that. But I wasn’t, not really.
Making love with Max had seemed so natural and wonderful at the time. Even looking back, I didn’t regret it. I missed it.
He pulled out one of the dining chairs, the invitation implicit for me to sit down. It was the same spot where I’d sat while we ate the soufflé.
His coffee was now at the end of the rectangular table, the same spot he’d taken that night.
I sat.
“Muffin?” he asked, pointing to a basket as he took his seat.
They were plump and grainy, dotted with blueberries. On a tray beside the muffins were
little pots of jam, cream cheese and butter.
I didn’t see why I should try to resist.
I put one on a side plate and cut it in half, planning to smear it with cream cheese.
“I liked you,” Max said. “I was thinking I wanted to get to know you better.”
“You definitely did that.”
“I don’t want you to feel bad about it.”
“I don’t feel bad about it. And you don’t have to dress it up. It was what it was.” I spread some cream cheese on half of the muffin. “Plus, you bought me dinner, then a really great soufflé, twice on the soufflé, and now these wonderful muffins.”
“Are you obsessed with food?”
“Not normally. But I need to look good in a very fitted bridesmaid dress less than two weeks from now...” I pictured my dress and Brooklyn’s dress, and James, and then Colton. “Well, you know, maybe.”
I set down the muffin, untouched, wondering if I was stress eating and if I should stop.
“Eat,” Max said. “You have to keep up your strength.”
“I’m hardly wasting away.” The food at the Canterbury Sands was arguably the best in the country.
“Taste,” he said and took a bite of his own muffin.
He’d gone with the orange marmalade, which would have been my second choice.
I took a bite of mine.
The muffin was fantastic. I washed it down with a sip of equally fantastic coffee.
“When are you going to tell her?” Max asked.
I took it to mean he was itching to tell Colton about us.
“Today,” I said. “I’ll let you know when you’re clear to talk.”
He shrugged. “I’m not going to talk.”
“I thought you wanted to tell Colton.”
“Why would I tell Colton?”
“You’re his brother. I assumed you shared that kind of thing.”
Max gave a little smile. “Not since we were teenagers.”
I didn’t know why I found that surprising. I hadn’t really considered what men shared about their sex lives. I guess I’d assumed they were pretty much the same as women. We shared all the time.
Sex was interesting, and confusing, and impactful. I couldn’t imagine keeping it all to myself.
“Even under these—” I hesitated over my words “—unusual circumstances?”
“Do you want me to tell Colton?”
“No.”
“Do you think it will help anything if he knows?”
“It won’t help if either of them knows. It sure won’t help if Brooklyn knows. It’ll distract her. She’ll figure I like you. And if I like you, she’ll think there’s a chance I might come to like Colton, too. And I’m not going to like Colton because that would be betraying my brother. Nothing is going to change that.”
“Is she wrong?” Max asked with a funny expression on his face.
I was confused. I thought I’d been clear. “Wrong?”
“Do you not like me?”
I realized how my words had sounded. I felt bad about that. “I never would have slept with you if I didn’t like you.”
“So that’s a yes.” There was a vulnerability in the question.
I found my gaze trapped by his. “That’s a yes, Max. I like you.”
He put his hand over mine.
It felt like a switch had been flipped, a circuit completed, like what should have been two had become one. My blood rushed through my veins, upping my heart rate, flushing my skin to a tingle and clouding the logical resources of my brain.
“Layla,” he whispered. His thumb stroked my palm.
“I don’t...” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t want to lie. “We can’t,” I said instead.
“What would it hurt?”
“It’s already too complicated.” Even as I spoke, I was leaning toward him.
“I wish I could take that as a yes,” he said.
“I wish I could say yes,” I told him honestly.
He withdrew his hand, and I regretted my refusal. I could have said yes. I should have said yes. The world would hardly come to a screeching halt if I said yes to him...again.
But he stood up and drew back. He finished the last of his coffee and set the cup on the table with finality. It was obviously time for me to go.
“Thank you,” I said.
I wasn’t sure if I meant for the coffee, the muffin, for keeping quiet about our lovemaking, or for so easily accepting my refusal to repeat it. I supposed it applied to all of it. Each of those things was considerate.
“Thank you,” I said again as I came to my feet.
“No problem.” But his voice was tight.
I’d either disappointed him or upset him—maybe both, probably both. I hadn’t meant to blow hot and cold, but that was what I’d done.
I headed for the door before I could make the situation any worse.
Six
Later that morning I convinced Brooklyn to take a walk with me on the Strip. I had to get out of the hotel for a while.
“We’re going to sweat,” she said as we cleared the hotel driveway and started along the crowded sidewalk.
I could already feel the intense heat of the sun on my head. I was glad I’d slathered some of the hotel’s suntan lotion on my neck and arms.
“Look there,” I said, pointing to a souvenir display in an open storefront. “Let’s cover our heads.”
The store was selling bright pink hats with glittering red letters that said Love Las Vegas. While I didn’t completely agree with the sentiment, the colors were fun and I did want to avoid heatstroke.
We paid the inflated price and plopped them on our heads.
“Slushy?” she asked as we passed another stall.
“Absolutely.” I was thirsty, and the drinks definitely looked refreshing.
She linked her arm with mine. “With tequila or without?”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“It’s Vegas.”
“It’s still too early for tequila.”
“Vodka then.” Brooklyn laughed.
“I was thinking watermelon and maybe some of the blueberry.”
The slush dispensers displayed their bright-colored wares through the windows of the machines. It was self-serve, so a person could customize their own drink.
“Pineapple,” Brooklyn said. “Or maybe cola. I could go for a little caffeine.”
“Late night?” I asked. Then I regretted the question. I sure didn’t want to hear the details of Brooklyn’s night with Colton.
“We talked and talked,” she said.
I was grateful for her discretion.
“What size do you want?” I chose a medium plastic cup for myself.
Brooklyn took the same.
She mixed cola with lemon then mocked me as I made a rainbow out of blueberry, watermelon and peach.
It felt like old times as we headed down the Strip sipping our drinks.
We came across a woman in a crocheted bathing suit with a brown python draped around her neck.
“Is that real?” I asked.
It moved, and I knew it was. I jumped to the opposite side of Brooklyn, who laughed at me.
“Why is she doing that?” I squeaked.
Then I noticed other people wearing various snakes around their necks. Revulsion crept up my spine. Yuck.
“People pay for the pictures,” Brooklyn said.
“Why?”
“It’s Vegas,” she said with a bored nonchalance and dismissive wave, acting like a local.
“You’ve been here all of two days,” I pointed out.
We made it past the snake people. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing behind us to make sure none of the slithery creatures were sneaking u
p.
“I’ve had the tour,” she said. “It’s a really wild place.”
“I’ll say.” I shuddered as I gave a final thought to the snakes.
The last thing in the world I wanted was to feel one of them around my neck. Never mind pay for the privilege, never mind capture my look of horror for posterity and possible internet posts.
If for no other reason, I was a high school teacher. I had a certain dignity to maintain.
Droplets of water were condensing on my slushy. I switched the cup to my left hand and shook my right one dry.
We passed families, couples and gaudily dressed actors, hawkers handing out flyers, and sellers of every imaginable tourist trinket.
It took me six blocks to work up my courage. “You asked me about Max yesterday,” I said as we stopped for a light at an intersection.
The crowd surged around us.
“I like him,” Brooklyn said. “I guess I’m predisposed to like him, since he’s a lot like Colton.” She gave a little laugh. “Then again, he’s a lot not like Colton, too.”
The light changed, and we started walking, propelled along with the crowd as I framed and discarded wording inside my head.
“It must be weird being a twin,” she said.
“I slept with Max,” I blurted out.
Brooklyn stopped dead in the middle of the intersection.
I stopped, too, and a woman with two little girls banged into the back of me. “Sorry,” I said to the woman.
She frowned at me.
“Seriously?” Brooklyn asked.
“Keep walking,” I said.
“When? Why? How?”
I grabbed her arm and tugged her along. “The usual way.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. When did this happen?”
“I couldn’t find you the night I got here. I looked all over for you. I staked out the lobby for hours and hours. You ignored my texts. You wouldn’t answer your phone.”
“So your solution was to sleep with Max?”
“I wouldn’t have even been with Max if I’d been able to find you.”
“So you’re saying it’s my fault.”
“Yes. No. It’s not your fault. You were, however, a contributing factor.”
“You slept with Max.” There was a note of wonder in Brooklyn’s voice, a note of happy wonder.
The Twin Switch (Millionaires Legacy Book 13; Gambling Men) Page 9