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)
The evidence of our brief tryst is mostly gone, but now she looks too poised, like she’s trying to cover us up.
Another reminder I can’t keep pursuing her. I can’t make her lie through her presto-chango routine.
I have to focus on the task—helping my son’s friend. I clear my throat. “David wants me to go with you to get the golf clubs. I can order a car service to make it easier to grab them. Then I can drop you off and bring them back here.”
There. That was businesslike. Not rip-her-clothes-off-like.
She nods toward the door. “Kip texted me. He’s at their Greenwich home tonight. And I have a car.”
“You have a car?” No one in New York has cars—well, except for those who do.
As she picks up her bag, a fond smile tilts her lips. “It was my dad’s. He got it when he won a big case. It was custom-made from a guy named Max Summers. It’s electric. It’s red, a dream to drive, and hot as sin.”
Sounds like her.
“Let me drive,” I say.
She shakes her head, amused, but we both know she’s really saying yes.
We cruise along the highway as the sun dips lower in the late summer sky. Music blasts from the car stereo, a playlist Layla cued up. Alt music, she said. New and emerging bands her friend Ethan turned her onto.
I like…some of them.
“Are you a music person? Or are you more a podcast/NPR/news type of guy?” she asks. Then she shakes her head. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
With one hand on the wheel, I toss her a glance like try to get it right. “Go for it,” I say, since this is better than talking about Kip, and dating, and my insatiable need to touch her.
This is safer.
Driving her. Taking care of her. Helping her.
She taps her chin. “Podcasts, I bet. On economics, and theories of the universe, and how stuff is made, and why certain micro trends portend the future of business, and how the universe operates, and we’re all connected.”
Whoa. Can you say mind reader? I crack up, then answer, “Did you just potluck my podcast tastes? Turn them all into a big business guy stew?”
“I guess I did,” she says, staring at me with anticipation in her eyes.
My lips twitch as I return my focus fully to the road. “You’re right,” I mutter. She nailed me.
She pumps a fist. “Knew it.”
“I’m that easy to read?” I ask, a little annoyed, but only because I don’t want to be predictable to her.
She shakes her head. “No. But I feel like I can read you.”
My chest warms. Dangerously. “Why?”
“I saw you speak. You like theories of the world and business. You like understanding why people do and buy and think what they do. And also, it makes sense. If you’re going to take chances on little companies, you need to understand the big picture.”
“I guess you can read me,” I say, then hold up a finger to make a point. “But I do like music too. I listen to a lot of tunes when I’m at the gym. Or when I’m cooking.”
“What do you like?”
“Besides polka, swing music, and old standards?” I tease.
“Obviously.”
With my gaze fixed ahead, I grumble out an answer. “Old standards.”
She laughs, tossing her head back. “That is fantastic.”
“Hey now,” I tease.
She pats my arm, then lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I like old standards too.”
See? I can do this. I can just be with Layla without devolving into grunts or groans.
We can talk about likes and dislikes, and that’s all good. But there’s more I want to know about the woman by my side. I pat the dashboard briefly for emphasis as the GPS chirps, letting me know we’re a mile from the Greenwich exit.
“So this was your dad’s car?” I ask, careful as I broach a sensitive subject.
“I helped him pick it out,” she says, and she doesn’t sound sad, or distant like she was the other day. She sounds proud.
A sign to keep going. “Oh yeah?”
“He’d always wanted a sports car, and when he was researching makes and models, I suggested he try a custom-made electric. He liked the idea,” she says. “I’ve tried to encourage my mom to change some of her business practices—to make them more clean. But she never really did. My dad was open to it though, and that meant a lot to me.”
That’s a passion point of hers. David’s too. And honestly, it’s become one of mine. But I don’t want to pat myself on the back. I’d rather give credit where it’s deserved. “It’s nice to see your generation caring so much. Taking on a stewardship role.”
“My generation?” she asks, with an arch of a brow. “We’re fifteen years apart, Nick. I don’t think that’s a generation.”
It’s not the age though, really, that’s keeping us apart. It’s the person. And I can’t keep playing these bedroom games behind my son’s back. “Layla,” I say, my voice heavy.