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)
“I have it,” I say. I don’t want to be a dick to Marilyn’s friend, so I play dumb. “Since we were talking before I arrived.”
With a laugh, she sets her hand on my arm again. “Feel free to use it, Nick. And it doesn’t even have to be about furniture.”
Then she waits for a response.
I keep everything as polite as can be as I say a simple, “Thanks.”
Then I shut the door, glad to be alone.
Even if I were interested in Ginny and we had chemistry, I didn’t come to New York to date.
Lies. Sweet little lies.
I would date Layla if she weren’t my son’s ex.
Great. Just great.
There I go again with another Layla fail. I’m failing at not thinking of her, so I remind myself why I’m truly back in the city where I grew up. To see my dad and my mom. To spend time with my son. To grow the company and make this newly merged VC firm bigger, better, stronger. To have something to leave my kid with when I leave this world.
I won’t leave him with nothing.
I want him to have everything.
All that is only part of why I’ve resisted looking up Layla online since I learned her real name. The bigger issue is I know myself. Know the rabbit holes I can burrow down. The Internet pages I can get sucked into. I’ve spent enough time watching her videos. I really shouldn’t spend any more time checking her out.
Best for me to move forward. I can get addicted to things that have slipped through my fingers. I’ve done it with companies I’ve lost out on investing in. I’ve done it with chances I’ve missed. I’ve got an obsessive streak ten miles wide. I sure as shit don’t need an obsession with a woman in my life.
As I head to the bedroom suite, I focus on one of my whys for being in New York. I dial David, eager to catch up since we didn’t have much time last night. “How was breakfast?” I ask as I hang up a few more shirts from suitcases.
“Better than an energy bar. Can you do that every day?”
I’m feeling good about my insistence last night at the diner. Then feeling shitty. It served my selfish purposes, not just my parental ones. To steal time with his friend.
Out of mind. Keep her out of your mind.
“I could also teach you to cook,” I say, leaving the bedroom so I can putter around the gleaming new kitchen with its sexy-as-sin stove.
David audibly shudders. “Cooking? What’s that?”
“C’mon. You must have cooked during your wilderness trip,” I point out as I test the burners.
“Does jerky count as cooking?” Before I can answer, David shouts, “Oh fuck!!!”
“What’s going on?” I ask, alarmed from the intensity of his reaction.
“There’s a rat in my apartment. It’s the size of a racoon.”
I don’t think twice. “Move out. I’ve got an extra bedroom.”
He doesn’t need time to think twice either. “I’ll be there tonight.”
The next morning, David’s conked out on the guest room’s bed when I hit the pool a few floors below. After a long workout in the gym, I return to the penthouse and he’s still snoozing.
I shower and get dressed for the day then head to the kitchen to make an omelet. As I’m dropping in mushrooms, he saunters out of his room, holding his phone, stretching his arms, then lifting his nose to the sky. “Smells good.”
“Want me to teach you how to cook an omelet? My dad taught me when I was seven.”
“That’s young.”
“He made me his sous chef.”
“What about Finn?”
“He had to take out the trash,” I say.
“Bennies of being the youngest,” David says, then leans against the kitchen counter as I cook. “You got better chores.”
He returns to his screen. I swear he’s obsessed with that thing. “I need to give Layla a hard time about her date,” he says, offhand.
I tense at the stove. A sharp bolt of jealousy slams into me. But I try to keep my cool as I say, “Oh yeah?”
Inside I’m thinking, who the fuck is she dating already?
David laughs. “She had a date last night with some dude she was into. She was telling me about it at the diner. I have to see if it was as good as she was hoping.”
Oh.
Oh, hell yes.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Even with my back to him, I don’t want to smile or scowl. Don’t want to reveal I was supposed to be the hot date—the man she bought the underthings for. “Cool,” I mutter. I can’t think of a single other word.
When we eat, I don’t ask if she responded. I don’t want to appear interested in her dating life. Because my son and my former lover are tight. If he knew she was supposed to go on a date with some dude, he’ll probably know the next time she goes out with some other dude.