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“It’s now or never, Layla.”
“What do you mean?” She drops her fork.
I stand out of my chair and reach across the table. I bend toward Layla as her eyes widen. My fingers rest on her chin as she tips her head upward to meet mine.
“Tristan, what are you—”
My lips cover hers as I take her mouth in a wet kiss. I feel her stiffen as our lips meet. I press my tongue against her lips, and she parts it to let me in. I feel the familiar softness of her tongue from our night together as I taste the distinct sweetness of the bacon on her lips. My tongue wrestles hers for a moment before she finally relaxes and allows me to explore.
Just as she moans lightly into my mouth, I pull away and settle back into my seat.
Layla stares at me as she touches a hand to her throat. I look over at the paparazzi, and just as I hoped, he’s clicking away, happy as a German Shepherd. When he sees me look over, he almost falls, trying to hide his camera.
“What the fuck, Tristan?” Layla’s voice is low, but her face is flushed. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just—"
“See that man over there in the cheap trench coat?” I nod in his direction.
“You mean the only person sitting by himself in the restaurant? Yes, I see him. What does he have to do with anything? Why does that give you the audacity to—”
“He’s a paparazzi, and I noticed him following me when we left your place.”
Layla stops, the gears turning in her head as she looks over at him and back at me. She leans forward till our faces are inches apart. My eyes drop to her lips, but I hurriedly tear it away.
“And you didn’t tell me?” She taps a finger to her temple and whispers.
“I’m telling you now; what difference does it make?” I raise both hands in question.
“Oh. So that’s why you kissed me? You used me?” She leans back, her face tightening by the second.
“I’d hardly call what just happened using, and judging by how red your face is, I’d say you enjoyed it.”
“I did not!” Her voice gets high, and her hand flies to her chest.
“Fuck it.” I wave it off. “Are you in? A million dollars, and all you have to do is be mine for a month. You attend parties with me, we show public affection, and when the cameras are gone, you can be Ruby’s nanny again and nothing more.”
Asking Layla to be mine makes her blush, and I'm surprised she's not jumping at the chance. Most girls would jump at the offer to be paraded around by a billionaire for a month while making a million bucks as a bonus. But not Layla. There’s something about her—
“I’m not sleeping with you, Tristan,” Layla finally says.
Oh, you have no idea.
“I didn’t ask you to. No feelings and no intimacy. You got it.”
“And no impromptu kisses! You ask me before you kiss me!” She points a finger at me.
“Asking permission? I can’t promise anything, but let’s see how it goes.”
Our eyes lock in wordless contact. I can hear Layla slapping her thighs rhythmically beneath the table as she thinks about it. My pulse quickens as I await her response. She puts a finger to her lips and takes a huge breath.
“Oh, God. I’m going to regret this!” Her fingers grab the pen, and she signs hurriedly as if to prevent herself from changing her mind.
“Good, good.” The relief I feel surprises me. “You’re mine for a month, Layla.”
“And I couldn’t be happier,” she says sarcastically.
“Is there any other person in the picture? Anyone I should know about? To avoid the scandal it might cause.” I try to keep my voice devoid of emotion.
Layla takes a moment before answering. “No, no one.”
