Grow a sack, Layla, do it.
My thumbs move swiftly across the glass screen, clicks sounding throughout my office.
Layla
When’s a good time for me to film at Boots & Bourbon?
I slam my phone face down on my desk, the echo reverberating across the acrylic. Oh God, I did it.
I’m not cheating on my fiancé, I’m just helping a business owner get more views and customers for his bar.
No harm, no foul.
My hands sift through my hair as I tug at the strands, leaning against my desk on my elbows. My legs bounce upand down in a nervous rhythm, my stomach fluttering with nerves.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I crane my neck quickly, my eyes landing on my phone, snatching it up and reading the message that came through.
Reed
Whenever you want. Doors are always open for you.
I press the phone to my chest, shutting my eyes for a second. Relief washes through me, chasing away the heavy silence Brian left behind.
Tulips might wilt on my desk, but at least there’s one place where I don’t.
Ruby Ridge.
Fuck, have you ever felt like you’re being tugged and pulled by an invisible string?
Have you ever met someone and immediately felt that spark just by looking at them?
I shouldn’t have felt that way.
Not when I’m engaged, even though he’s an asshole. Not when every corner of my life was painted in curated perfection for people on the internet. But the moment I locked eyes with him behind the bar, broad shoulders bent over a bottle of whiskey, green eyes catching mine across the noise, everything I thought I wanted suddenly felt… wrong.
Now, sitting here with a vase of drooping, pathetic tulips on my desk, I can’t stop thinking about the way Reed looked at me, like he truly saw me.
And all I can think about is every time Brian opens his mouth, I fall a little harder for someone who isn’t him.
layla
. . .
The hustle and bustle of Santa Monica hums outside my window, a blur of traffic and voices, but inside my apartment, it’s suffocatingly quiet.
My phone is warm against my ear as Amelia’s voice fills the silence, telling me about Maverick, her words spilling fast and sweet. I smile, even as my chest aches, staring out at the Santa Monica pier lights blinking against the dark water.
“He still hasn’t sold it,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “My apartment in LA. He said it’s ours. For whenever we want to come back, or when we go to Moss Cove, we’ll always have a place for us.”
I sink onto the couch, pushing my knees under me. My throat constricts as I fight back the tears threatening to escape.
God, she says it so casually, but it knocks the air right out of me. Maverick refuses to let go, so that they’ll always have a place to return to, to cherish the spot they have together.
Someone who fucking cares about her and the littlethings, someone who cherishes the things she loves, despite the cost.
I want that. I want someone to care about me like that—to stay, to think about me before I even think about myself, to want to spoil me without anything in return.
