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“He seems like a really nice guy,” I say.He’s a stranger.
You’re just a trophy to him. Arm candy. That’s all.
“Yes, I imagine he is,” Jason says guardedly. He turns on the bench to face me and takes both of my hands in his. He waits until I’m looking him in the eyes before he says, “How do I become the person you call first? How do I become your safe place?”
My heart squeezes painfully. Doesn’t he know that’s what I want him to be? I want him to be the one I trust most in the world. I want that with all my heart. Is it possible to meet someone and know right away that they’re the one?
“I failed you today,” he says.
His sincerity hurts so badly I have to look away. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He looks me in the eye for a long moment, then faces forward and slips his arm across my shoulders and tugs me close, just like Ian did. “I’m sorry, Layla, for whatever I did to upset you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
But he’s not my brother. That’s not what I want from him. I lean my head against his shoulder, grateful that I have at least this much with him. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t hurt me. I hurt myself.” And that’s true on multiple levels—both physically and emotionally. I was stupid to think Jason would ever be interested in me.
Yes, you’re stupid. You idiot.
I fight to ignoreherand just relax against Jason. I should enjoy these moments with him when I have the chance. “So, I guess we’re going out to dinner with Reese,” I say, attempting to sound upbeat. I just wish I could feel excited about the prospect.
“Looks like it,” he replies. He sounds about as excited as I do, which isn’t saying a lot.
Maybe going out with Reese is exactly what I need—to focus on someone beside Jason. I need to get over him one way or another.
Chapter 28
Jason Miller
When we get back to the house, Layla disappears into her bedroom to do homework. At least that’s what she tells me. Honestly, I’m not surprised she wants her space. Things have been strained between us all afternoon, ever since the incident at the restaurant. I’m glad Ian could come so quickly to intervene, but it still bothers me that Layla wouldn’t letmebe the one to help her. I’m perfectly capable of being who she needs.
This is the first time I’ve ever had a client who I felt real friendship for. She’s not just a job. She’s someone I’ve grown to care about in a very short period of time. I don’t just want to keep hersafe; I want her to behappy.
I sure hope Ruth is right about Layla wanting to date. As much as it kills me to think of Layla going out with this guy, if it will make her happy, then so be it.
Now it’s up to me to figure out how in the hell I’m going to sit there and watch this guy fawning over Layla. Because if he so much astouchesher, or heaven forbid if he tries tokissher—and why the hell wouldn’t he?—I don’t know how I’ll cope.
For dinner that evening, it’s just the two of us, so we eat in the kitchen. Her parents are at a professional meeting. We eat in relative silence, and Layla picks at her food. She didn’t eat much of her lunch, and now it looks like she’s not going to eat much for dinner. I’m betting her sugar level is already bordering on low.
I pull out my phone and check her glucose monitor. “Please try to eat more.”
She shrugs. “I feel fine.”
“Your glucose level is seventy. I’d like to see it higher.”
She stabs a piece of roasted chicken with her fork and stuffs it in her mouth and chews. “Happy now?” she says, sounding like a petulant teenager.
I’m finding it hard not to laugh. “A little.”
After we eat, she heads back upstairs to her room. She says she has homework to do, and I believe her, but I also think she’s avoiding me. I give her some time alone, but after a couple of hours I grow restless. I want to see her—I need to make sure she’s okay.
I head to her door and knock.
“Come in,” she says.
I walk in and find her sitting at her desk, typing away on her computer keyboard. She’s in her pajamas already—a pair of pink plaid flannel bottoms and a skimpy white top. When I catch a hint of cleavage, my body reacts instantly. I force myself to look away.
I transfer my gaze to her computer screen. It looks like she’s writing her essay onJane Eyre. “How’s the paper coming?”
“Good. I’m just about done with the rough draft that’s due Friday.”
