Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
A minute later, the server is back with the rest of the food, and once we tuck in, David draws a deep breath, then says, “So, Layla, like I said earlier, I asked my dad to help with the auction, and I’m stoked he’s up for it. We can all put our heads together on it for the next few weeks. Plus, I’m going to be working at his firm. Not doing money stuff though. I’ll be doing the marketing, since that’s more my speed, and it’ll help with my side hustle.” Then he backpedals. “Well, trying it out for a few months.”
Layla’s brow knits.
“Longer, I hope. I plan to convince you,” I say to David, patting his shoulder again. This is the relationship I should focus on anyway—the one with my kid.
Layla lifts her fork to take a bite of her pasta. But she’s staring at David as if he no longer adds up. “In London? You’re going to London?”
David laughs. “Dude, no,” he says to her. Then, it’s as if his thoughts just snagged on her last comment. He tilts his head, like he’s replaying what she just said. Maybe catching her slip. “Did I tell you he lived in London?”
C’mon, Layla. You’ve got this.
With a sweet smile, she says, “Yes. When you said he was going to help out, you mentioned he lived there,” Layla says, breezily making it sound like no big deal that she knew that detail about where her friend’s dad lived.
I hope her cover-up is only obvious to me.
David must buy it easily, since he just shrugs, like cool. Then, he corrects her with, “Nope. I’m not going to London. Daddy Bancroft relocated here.”
Layla’s fork wobbles in her hand, but she steadies it before David catches on. “Sounds fun. No more really big ocean in the way.”
Ouch.
She’s pissed at me. It’s not evident in her tone, but it’s one hundred percent clear from her word choice—really big ocean.
I fucked up.
16
A VERY BAD IDEA
Layla
When the waitress clears the plates and Nick asks for the check, I’m dying to say thanks and leave.
I can’t sit here anymore with the man and my friend and this…corset.
I need to beeline for Harlow’s and flop face-first onto her couch. Or Ethan’s. I don’t know. I don’t care. I just can’t sit across from the man I was dying to see tomorrow night. The man who didn’t tell me a thing, it turns out. I hardly know him.
Of course you don’t know him. You had a one-night stand and then phone sexted, and he didn’t even tell you he was moving here.
Ugh. I can’t believe I thought there was more to this thing with him. I felt potential. Possibility. Things I never feel.
I should know better. But good thing I’m learning now. I try to shove those foolish fantasies far, far away and focus on simple matters, like manners.
“Thank you so much, Mr.—” I stop myself from saying Adams. Nick said earlier it was David’s middle name but neither one of them actually said out loud that Adams was Nick’s last name. Or did they? My brain is spinning. I don’t know what I’m supposed to know. But after the London snafu, I have to be more careful. I definitely don’t want to let on at all that Nick was my fuck date. Even if David wasn’t my ex, he’s absolutely my friend, and sleeping with your good friend’s father is a very bad idea. That’s just too complicated. I play the part of a grateful friend thanking her friend’s parent for dinner. “Thank you, Mr. Bancroft. I appreciate you buying dinner.”
“It’s Nick Adams,” he corrects tightly, like I knew he would. But I had no choice.
David’s never gone into the finer details of why he has his mom’s name rather than his dad’s. We’ve never dwelled on the past or family, mine or his. That was one of the things I liked most about him.
One of the things I still like about him. His focus on the present. But now I wish I had known more.
Like why the hell Nick didn’t mention he was moving.
I gather my bag, stuffing the lingerie at the bottom of it, wishing I could return the damn thing. “Thank you, Mr. Adams,” I say, using my best Layla Mayweather tone, the one my mother taught me to use in social situations.
“You’re welcome, Layla,” Nick says, ever the proper adult. But something flashes in his eyes.
Like a quick calculation as he opens his wallet. He shifts his attention to David. “Son, can you go pay this up front? To make it easier for them.”
“Of course,” David says. Nick’s speaking his language—being thoughtful about waiters, servers, bartenders and the like.
Nick hands David the credit card. “And get yourself a sandwich for the morning. You only ever eat breakfast if someone orders it, but you need to start eating it before you come to the office. Consider this me ordering you to have breakfast,” he says in a commanding, bossy tone, like the one he used on me in bed.