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“Bye, Alex.” The green-eyed stranger doesn’t look away from me as he replies to his friend.
The friend leaves without saying anything else.
We’re not alone, far from it. Bass continues to pound, punctuated by loud chatter and the occasional shout. But it’s easy to ignore the sounds. All background noise, literally.
“Um, I’m Lyla.”
“Nick.” The melodic rumble of his voice is soothing and certain.
“Nick,” I repeat. “Like Saint Nick?”
If fumbling through the fridge and the way I’m dressed for winter—unlike every other girl here—weren’t enough to clue Nick in on the fact that I’m the furthest thing from seductive, I’m certain that comment did the trick.
This would be a perfect moment for the fire alarm to go off, finally registering the smoke hovering in the air.
I’d rather face Philadelphia’s freezing temperatures than stick around for the aftermath of sayingthatto the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen—in person, on television, covering a magazine, anywhere. I have no idea where the confidence to spark a conversation with him came from, but it’s fading. Fast.
Nick’s grin is unexpected. Blinding. A blast of sunshine after days in the dark. “I remind you of Santa Claus?”
I’m too mortified to reply. His smile fades as he seems to register that fact, ramping up the awkward factor even higher. I can’t come up with anything close to resembling a witty reply. My mind is blank in the worst way.
“I’ve never met anyone named Lyla before. Including a mythical deliveryman.”
Goddammit, I think.
He’s charming and nice and trying to put me at ease. I thought men acting like that in real life were the myth.
“I was supposed to be named Layla,” I tell him. “My mom was so hopped up on drugs, she forgot thea. It stuck, I guess.”
“Sounds like the hospital’s mistake.”
He’s looking at me like it’s a charming anecdote, something my parents probably joke about to this day. And rather than let him keep that innocent assumption, I say, “The hospital didn’t give her the drugs.”
Something shifts in his expression in response to the confession I had no intention of making.
It’s not pity or the uncomfortable edge most people get when they don’t know what to say. That look that’s half sympathy, halfhow the hell do I get out of here. It’s understanding. It complements the intimidating angles of his face and the intensity radiating off him.
I’d bet my nonexistent savings Nick didn’t have a picture-perfect childhood either.
“Did she get clean?” he asks instead of assuming a happy ending.
“No.” An unfamiliar compulsion presses me to expound—to share details I don’t usually express to anyone, let alone a stranger. Especially not a hot male one. “She overdosed when I was fifteen.”
“Your dad?”
I shake my head as I play with the rose charm on my necklace. A nervous habit I’ve never managed to lose. “Never knew him.”
Nick’s eyes drift to the necklace I’m wearing, the one I should have taken off a long time ago. Everyone around us is laughing and smoking and kissing, and I’m standing and sharing details about my life that I’ve never told anyone.
He leans closer. “You know, the last year I believed in Santa, he brought me a stuffed lion for Christmas. Carried that toy with me everywhere. I loved it so damn much. I named him Leo.”
My lips quirk. Both because I can’t picture the muscular, six-foot-something guy in front of me ever carrying around a stuffed animal and because I can’t believe he’s trying to cheer me up. I can’t believe he’s making me feel less vulnerable by sharing a piece of himself. “Leo the lion. Clever alliteration.”
Nick smirks. “Just saying. I’m flattered I remind you of the guy.”
I groan. “I’m sorry. I say stupid stuff when I’m nervous.”
“Don’t apologize.”
