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)
“You too, Mr. Adams. We should talk shop sometime,” he says, and I’m no longer sir. I’m not Mr. Bancroft either. He’s finally calling me by my name.
Too bad I don’t give a fuck about impressing the Kip Cranstons of the world.
Too bad the entire interaction was only momentarily satisfying.
I walk away, heading for Travis. But when I catch a glimpse of Layla across the room, chatting amiably with some younger guests, my pulse kicks. Briefly, I stop. Consider. I want to go over there so I can wrap an arm around her, join the convo.
But that’s not in the cards, and so I resume my path to Travis, congratulating myself for having made it through the cocktail hour without obsessing too much over my…well, my obsession.
“Hoops. Next week. My gym,” I say to the guy I’ve known since we shared a dorm sophomore year.
“A hundred says I destroy you one-on-one,” Travis replies.
“I can’t wait to collect,” I tell him.
It’s time to hit the stage, so I check my texts once more, corresponding with David for a minute. Tucking my phone away, I find Layla near a ballroom exit, chatting with her friend Raven, the one who ran into us outside her home. Raven takes off before I reach Layla, and that’s for the best. Raven seemed too astute the night I met her, and I don’t need someone trying to read me right now.
Not as my heart beats too fast just from looking at Layla.
But I shove all those overwhelming emotions down. “Ready?”
“I am.” She’s not cold like she was Thursday night in the car. She’s businesslike and focused. That side attracts me too. Every side of her does it for me.
“The turnout is amazing,” she says brightly as we head backstage.
“It is. I took pictures and sent them to David.”
“Did he reply?” she asks, eager to hear how her friend is doing. Her genuine concern for my son does not help my resolve tonight. But I’ve got to stay strong.
“He wanted to know how the food is,” I say dryly.
She chuckles. “That sounds like him. Did you tuck some mushroom tarts into a doggie bag for him?”
“I sent him dinner instead. A meatball sub from a place near the hospital,” I tell her.
“That’s sweet,” she says with a smile I ache to kiss off, then she purses her lips and looks away, like this conversation is ripping away at her heart too. But she’s always been strong, so she turns back and says, “It’s great that you jumped in to help him. Seriously, Nick.”
The way she says my name. The way she looks at me. The way she is.
She is killing me.
“It was nothing.” I brush off her compliment. The praise makes me want to grab her, push her against the wall, and kiss her hard to punish her for making me fucking fall for her.
“It’s not nothing. It’s everything,” she adds, a solemn note to her voice.
I’m not sure what to make of that sound though. If it’s good or bad. Or what even is good or bad anymore.
But it’s time to go on the stage. I put on a smile and stride to the podium with her, fighting the urge to take her hand in mine. I can’t do that. I just can’t.
“Welcome to the inaugural fundraiser for A Helping Paw,” she says to the packed room. “I’m Layla Mayweather, and it’s been an honor to help David plan this event, but the credit all goes to my friend.”
“I’m Nick Adams, David’s father, and I’ll be pinch hitting tonight for my son,” I say, adding a few more words about the animal shelters David’s raising money for.
When it’s time for the main event, Layla and I trade off, rolling through the auction items, talking up each one. I do my damnedest not to inhale her jasmine scent. Not to gaze into her eyes. Not to stand so close that my heart thumps loud enough for the room to hear.
I can’t let the whole goddamn Southampton world know the hot mess I’ve made of my life.
I smile, and I chat, and I make jokes, even as my mind is pulled in too many directions.
The auction lineup ends with Raven, who cuts across the stage in a short red dress.
Layla introduces her. “And this is my friend Raven, who’s so talented she can make a dress from a pillowcase. Tell them a little bit about what they’re bidding on.”
“Thanks, friend,” the budding designer says, then chats about the personalized outfits she’ll make for one winner. When she’s done, she turns to me. “And, Mr. Adams, you are a great pinch hitter. From the Miami conference to here, you’re the man to fill in.”
Worry darts through me at the mention of the night I met Layla. Fine, we were both registered at the conference; that’s no secret. But I don’t want to gab about it before this crowd.