Книга - Just Desserts

Just Desserts
Jeannie Watt


Always proper Layla Taylor never expected to need her childhood nemesis. But when she's stranded in a blizzard after breaking up with her cheating ex, Justin Tremont is exactly what she's missing. Well, Justin and his car's snow tires.Justin's more than okay being the rebound guy. A little fun, no strings–that's his kind of relationship. But Layla Taylor? She's by the book, to put it mildly. Justin, on the other hand, hardly ever follows his own recipes for the spectacular cakes he's become known for. This woman is making him feel protective and possessive, of all things. And she sees right through him. That he can't have. After all, no chef likes to tell all his secrets….







This is one sure-fire recipe for disaster!

Always proper Layla Taylor never expected to need her childhood nemesis. But when she’s stranded in a blizzard after breaking up with her cheating ex, Justin Tremont is exactly what she’s missing. Well, Justin and his car’s snow tires.

Justin’s more than okay being the rebound guy. A little fun, no strings—that’s his kind of relationship. But Layla Taylor? She’s by the book, to put it mildly. Justin, on the other hand, hardly ever follows his own recipes for the spectacular cakes he’s become known for. This woman is making him feel protective and possessive, of all things. And she sees right through him. That he can’t have. After all, no chef likes to tell all his secrets….


“Why not work for me?”

Layla smirked. “Thanks for the offer, Justin. I’ll see you around.”

He smiled at what was obviously a lie, since she was going to take great efforts not to see him, and took a step back. “Yeah. Layla. Sounds good.”

Layla barely got outside the door when the words he’d said sunk in. She’d given as good as she’d got.

Hadn’t she? Hmm. Maybe she hadn’t.

She turned and knocked. When Justin opened the door, she took both sides of his face, pulled his head down and kissed him.

“What was that for?” he said when she finally let him go.

“That was for every time I’ve taken the high road and didn’t respond in kind to all the stuff you and my brothers did to me.”

He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip. “I like the way you retaliate.”


Dear Reader,

Layla Taylor has long believed that if she planned well enough, her life would be safe, organized and secure—the exact opposite of the way she was raised. But when both her career and her love life evaporate within a matter of days, she begins to suspect that she’s wasted time chasing goals because she thought she had to, not because she wanted to. She’s determined to loosen up and enjoy life, but old habits are hard to break.

Enter Layla’s childhood nemesis, chef Justin Tremont, the guy who ran her bra up the ROTC flagpole fifteen years ago. Justin is the last person Layla thought she’d use as a role model, but who better to teach her to loosen up than someone who lives for a good time?

Justin, however, is not the carefree guy he pretends to be, because he has a secret. The kind of secret that doesn’t go away. The kind of secret that eats at a guy and eventually keeps him from forming long-term relationships. He’s getting a kick out of the new Layla and is more than happy to help her loosen up a little—until he starts to suspect that Layla deserves a whole lot more than he’s able to give.

Just Desserts is a book about acceptance—accepting the mistakes you’ve made, accepting that life isn’t something that can be planned and controlled. Accepting that sometimes you just have to take a chance and hope for the best.

I enjoy hearing from readers. Please feel free to contact me at jeanniewrites@gmail.com, or visit my website, www.jeanniewatt.com.

Jeannie Watt


Just Desserts

Jeannie Watt




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeannie Watt lives off the grid in rural Nevada and loves nothing better than an excellent meal. Jeannie is blessed with a husband who cooks more than she does, a son who knows how to make tapas and a daughter who knows the best restaurants in San Francisco. Her idea of heaven is homemade macaroni and cheese.


To Jamie, baker of delicious cakes and other fattening treats, too numerous to name.

To Victoria, my most patient editor,

Thank you!


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u2db654f1-58d7-59b4-9348-5c90be7fb600)

CHAPTER TWO (#u19d0dcaa-4132-5102-80c0-129a46415169)

CHAPTER THREE (#uc266e20d-56ae-5d20-9161-3a0c5adc4bd0)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

LAYLA©TAYLOR©WASN’T©DRUNK enough to be hallucinating, which meant that Justin Tremont was not a figment of her imagination. Her childhood nemesis and the sworn enemy of all she held dear was indeed standing in the doorway of the Lake Tahoe lounge, scanning the room.

Crap.

She ducked her head, hoping he wouldn’t see her drowning her sorrows, alone, as she waited for her sister to come pick her up. The lounge was dimly lit and crowded. There was no reason he should notice her, but less than a minute later she felt the vinyl bench give way beneath his weight as he sat beside her.

This evening just kept getting better.

“Hi, Layla,” he said, when she cut him a sideways glance. “I’m here to take you home.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Whatever.”

Layla leaned her head back against the black vinyl booth cushion, noting with some alarm that when she closed her eyes, the room began to spin.

“Why are you here?” she asked without opening her eyes, certain that if she concentrated hard enough, she could make the spinning stop. Besides, she didn’t need to see to know exactly what Justin was doing—smirking at her. Just as he’d smirked at her for her entire life. Well, not all of it. Only the ten years they’d lived down the street from each other, and her younger brothers and Justin, who were all a year behind her in school, had enjoyed some kind of an outlaw bond. The three of them had made her life miserable whenever possible.

“Sam called,” Justin said, bringing her back to her very real problem at hand—him. “She asked me to take you home when I got off shift.”

She’d called her sister to rescue her, and Sam had got Justin to come. Was no one in her entire family responsible?

Easy answer there. No.

She was going to kill her sister.

Layla opened her eyes to find Justin studying her with a slight frown, as if assessing her condition. She didn’t like being assessed by Justin.

“Go home,” she said, the last word slurring slightly. She wasn’t going to tolerate any more smirking or misery at his hands. If he thought for one blinking second that she was going to allow him to be party to yet another of her humiliations, and drive her back to Reno…well, he could kiss her ass.

“I fully intend to do just that. Once I deliver you home as per Sam’s orders.”

Sam could kiss her ass, too.

Layla attempted to fix him with her teacher stare, the one that could melt a kid at twenty paces. Big mistake, because in doing so she had to focus, and that caused a dull pain to shoot through the front of her forehead, and her vision to waver. She clamped a hand to her head before she realized what she was doing.

“You know Sam wouldn’t have asked me to give you a ride unless it was an emergency.”

What in Sam’s life wasn’t an emergency? That was how her siblings—and her parents, for that matter—seemed to live, rebounding between emergencies. As if it energized them, for Pete’s sake. She was, without a doubt, adopted. There was no way she shared DNA with her family.

“You want to help? Call me a cab.”

“Are you kidding? From the lake to Reno? You don’t make that kind of money.” He stretched his arm out along the back of the booth, his fingertips making light contact with her shoulder.

Layla let out a breath. The connection actually felt kind of good. As if she wasn’t alone in all this. But she was halfway drunk and her perceptions were not to be trusted. She didn’t move any farther away, though, because that would have meant she cared.

“What happened with Sam?” she asked resignedly. Hopefully, not something that would require Layla to bail her out.

“It’s snowing pretty hard. Didn’t you know? There’s no way her little car will make it up here and back unless she’s right on a snowplow’s ass.”

Spring in the Sierras. Great.

“There wasn’t much coming down when we drove up,” Layla muttered. The wet flakes had melted off the pavement as rapidly as they’d fallen. But if it was snowing hard now, then Sam’s small Ford Escort wouldn’t be safe on the road, and Justin probably had some kind of vehicle that could handle icy conditions. A vehicle she would not be getting into. “I’m fine here,” she said. “I’ll just get a room.”

“Sold out. The Mind Breakers. Remember?”

“Trying to forget.” The concert was the reason she was there. Layla took the stem of the empty martini glass between her thumb and forefinger, spinning it slowly as she thought. “Robert had a room for us,” she muttered. Robert the blackheart.

“What happened with Robert?”

“He’s sleeping with some trollop who works with me.” Layla couldn’t believe she’d just said that. That was it for martinis. The room was spinning. Her mouth was out of control. She shoved the glass across the table. Justin picked it up and set it on the tray of a passing bar server, who smiled at him and asked if he wanted another.

“We’ll pass,” Justin said, easing his hip up to pull out his wallet. He set a bill on the tray.

“Thanks,” the woman said with a pert smile that made Layla want to smack her for some reason. “See you around, Tremont.”

Layla half turned in the booth to face Justin. She was going to try a new tactic. “I do appreciate you offering to take me home, but I’m just going to sit here for a while. My head will clear and then I’ll figure out how I want to handle this. It’s really none of your business.” It took her longer to make the speech than expected, since some of the words tangled her tongue. But she got it out, and Justin, to her relief, slid from the booth.

“Fine.”

Really? Oh, please let it be that easy.

“Remember how Derek used to practice for his fireman test?”

Layla’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t....”

Justin simply tilted his head.

How could she have even asked such a stupid question? Of course he would. Justin loved nothing more than a dare.

“Leave me alone!” she said with sudden venom. “I don’t want you to rescue me.”

“Why?” he asked with a touch of weariness.

“Why? Because of all the crummy things you’ve done to me.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Name one.”

He looked as if he didn’t think she could. He was so wrong. Layla drew a deep breath and fought the fog in her brain. “You…picked on me as a kid.”

He appeared unimpressed by the generic description of his actions, so she searched her brain for the perfect representative incident. There were so many to choose from. Finally, she stabbed a finger at him. “You talked my date out of going to the prom with me.”

Justin gave a soft snort. “He was a jerk.”

Maybe so. She pointed at him again. “You put a frog in my lunch bag.” The lunchroom had been packed when she’d let out a bloodcurdling scream as her bag started to move.

Justin shrugged.

Another stab of the finger. “You ran my bra up the ROTC flagpole. You glued my English comp book shut. You put pudding in my slippers. You…you…” Had done so many small things she couldn’t remember them all.

“Do you want an apology?” he asked quietly. “For all the many wrongs you’ve suffered at my hands? Then would you come with me?”

“An apology wouldn’t suffice.”

“Good. Because I’m not sorry for most of it.” He placed one palm flat on the table and leaned his face close to hers, so close that she could see tiny flecks of navy blue in his green eyes. “Now get your stuff so we can start home before the real blizzard hits.”

“If you don’t leave,” Layla said between clenched teeth, “I’m going to call security.” Or someone.

“Go ahead,” Justin replied. “No, wait. I’ll do it.” He straightened and glanced across the lobby to the uniformed man standing near the slot machines. When Justin raised a hand and gestured, the security guard started toward them.

“You will regret this,” Layla said with a slight smile. Because she was not as drunk as he seemed to think.

“Hey, how’s it going,” the guard said, breaking into a smile as he clapped Justin on the arm.

Layla groaned.

“The wife was so happy with the anniversary party,” Mr. Security continued. “She told me she was glad we went with you guys instead of the other caterer she’d chosen. For once I was right.”

“Great,” Justin said, smiling back. “I was wondering if you have any of the emergency hotel rooms available.”

“Robert has a room,” Layla muttered. “But I am not staying there.” Justin touched her back reassuringly as the guard shook his head.

“Not one. Mind Breakers are big.”

“So,” Justin continued smoothly, “if Ms. Taylor here is feeling a bit…ill, it’d be best if I took her home?”

The guard’s dark eyebrows drew together. “As opposed to…”

“Her hanging out somewhere in the hotel waiting to sober up?”

Oh, great mental picture. Layla stood abruptly, hitting her thigh on the edge of the table. It scooted sideways with a screech of metal on tile, and the room swam once she was vertical. She automatically reached out and clutched Justin’s shoulder. It was either that or go down.

All her arguments about being fine and not needing him to butt into her life evaporated when the guard’s face wavered in front of her. Oh, boy.

“Take her home, Justin,” the man said. Layla kept her mouth shut as she fought to regain her balance.

Justin settled a hand on her waist to help steady her, and she felt the warmth of his fingers through the thin silk of her black dress. But she didn’t move away, because she couldn’t.

Robert-1. Justin-1. Layla-0.

Double-teamed in the worst way. Hell, if she counted the gin, she’d been triple-teamed.

“Hey, Miss Taylor!” A teenage voice penetrated the fog and she moved her head to the left, focusing on the group of people passing in the hall, headed toward the concert venue. Students. Her students. She forced the corners of her mouth up, but was not so foolish as to try to speak. Or wave, since she was still hanging on to Justin.

She glanced down at the bench, wondering how a few feet of altitude could make her head spin so nastily. She had to do something. Mind Breakers were big and several of her rather privileged students were likely here in the hotel. Along with their deep-pocketed parents.

“Get me out of here,” she muttered to Justin, without looking at him. “Please,” she added, just to make her humiliation total and complete.



LAYLA©WAS©TRYING©HARD©TO©WALK without leaning on him. She was losing the battle. Justin didn’t know how many martinis she’d downed after receiving the happy news that her boyfriend was sleeping around, but he knew from experience that the bartenders at this particular hotel didn’t play coy with the booze. They charged a lot for a drink and they delivered.

What Justin wanted to know was whether Robert had abandoned her at the bar after she’d found out he was sleeping with the “trollop,” or if she’d stormed out of their room and taken refuge in the bar while waiting for Sam. Because if Robert had abandoned her, drunk as she was…well, Justin might have to do something about that.

They stepped out the front doors onto the freshly shoveled sidewalk. The snow had let up a little since he’d come into the hotel, but it wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. Just a lull.

Layla clamped a hand to her stomach, and Justin stopped walking. If she was going to be sick, he’d prefer it wasn’t in his car.

“I’m fine,” she said in a brittle voice as she took a resolute step forward. Justin moved with her, only to have her stop dead a few seconds later and look around wildly. He steered her off the sidewalk, through the snow and as far around the giant juniper bush flanking the walkway as he could before she heaved. She swung at him when he tried to get hold of her hair, so he let go of her and stepped aside, allowing her to commune with the bush. When she sat back on her heels and drew in a shaky breath, he held out a hand. She clutched his fingers, allowed him to help her up, but she didn’t look at him.

“I…feel a little better.”

Justin shook his head and, after brushing the wet snow off her knees and the front of her black wool coat, helped her back to the sidewalk. People had paused to watch the spectacle, but now moved on. Show’s over, folks. Nothing to see here.

He and Layla started for the car again, which was parked in the employee lot, even though Justin wasn’t an employee of this particular hotel. Layla was walking better now that she’d emptied her stomach, and Justin hoped she had no memory of puking in the bush in front of a crowd, because, tight-ass that she was, she wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“Layla!”

She stopped dead, her entire body going stiff at the sound of the man’s voice calling her name. Then she turned with what sounded like a growl to face the guy jogging lightly toward them through the snow. He stopped a few feet away, eyeing Justin suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“Old family friend. Here to help pick up the pieces. You must be the Robert I’ve heard so much about.”

“Is he?” Robert asked Layla. “A family friend?”

“Who he is…is none of your business,” she said with an air of dignity and only the slightest slur.

Robert grimaced. “How much have you had to drink?”

Justin’s jaw slid sideways and he took a step toward the guy. “Since you walked out on her, you mean?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“But I can’t help hearing the conversation.”

“I’m not going to have her driving off this mountain in a snowstorm with someone I don’t know.” Robert fished in his pocket. “I hadn’t realized you didn’t have the room key,” he said to Layla, holding it out to her. “Take it. You can spend the night as planned. Your overnight bag is in the room.”

Layla stared down at the plastic card, then slowly raised her eyes to Robert’s face. He continued to hold the key, giving it a slight shake as if encouraging her to take it. She pulled in a breath that made her shoulders rise a good inch, then drew back her arm and punched him square in the jaw.

He stumbled backward as she lost her balance and went down. Justin made a grab for her, grunting when her elbow smacked into his cheekbone with a healthy crack.

“Oh, shit…” Tears sprang to his eyes as Layla slowly struggled to her hands and knees, and finally, her feet. She stared at Justin in horror as he stood with his hand over his eye. Five yards away, Robert held a hand to his nose.

“Oh, I’m sorry. So sorry.” She continued to stare at Justin, a dazed expression on her face.

“Get out of here,” he said to Robert, keeping his full attention on Layla, half-afraid of what she might do next. “Leave her bag in the room and I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m not—”

“I honestly am a family friend. I know her middle name and everything.”

“What is it?” Robert asked through his fingers, and Justin had to give him points for not abandoning her.

“Sunshine. Layla Sunshine Taylor.”

“Brothers?”

“Twins—Eric and Derek. Sister is Sam. Formerly Belle Blue, from the song ‘Bell Bottom Blues.’ She renamed herself when she was five because the kids called her Ding Dong.”

“Good enough.” Robert turned and walked away without another word, still holding his nose.

“You didn’t have to tell him all that,” Layla said as Justin put a hand under her arm and steered her the last few feet to the Challenger—an adequate car, but a poor substitute for his classic Firebird, destroyed in a wreck last year.

“I think he already knew.” Justin held the door open and she got into the passenger seat, then carefully arranged her coat over her knees. “Where do you live?”

She muttered an address on Bannock Drive. He made her repeat it, since it wouldn’t be cool to drag her up the sidewalk of someone else’s house. Then he asked for her keys.

“Why?”

“So that you have them when we get to your place.”

With a deep sigh she spilled the contents of her purse onto her lap, then pulled the keys out of the jumble. She slapped them into his outstretched hand before haphazardly shoving stuff back into her bag.

Justin closed the door and walked around to his side of the car. By the time he got the beast started, Layla was leaning against the leather headrest and her eyes were closed. Good. He hoped she stayed that way during the entire trip.

It wasn’t to be. She got sick again at the top of the grade leading down to Carson City, where, thankfully, it wasn’t snowing. She was still a bit green when she collapsed back into the passenger seat and fell asleep.

Justin couldn’t say he was unhappy about that because he wanted to focus on the road, not on his passenger. Nearly a year ago, he’d had a close call on this road, when fellow employees at his hotel who were involved in the drug trade erroneously deduced that he was a narc, due to his association with his current brother-in-law, a drug task force member. About a mile past the summit, Justin had been hit from behind, and his beloved classic Firebird sent plummeting down the ravine. He was so damned lucky to be alive, and he’d never felt the same driving this road. What’s more, he missed his car.

Forty-five minutes after passing the spot where his car had been wrecked, Justin pulled into Layla’s drive. He roused her and helped her out, then put an arm around her as they made their way through the slushy spring snow to the front door. Not a bad place. In fact, it was very much what he’d expected from Layla. An efficient box of a house, with neat little shutters, a sturdy fence in front, a no-nonsense white-and-navy-blue color scheme. The bushes were all trimmed into submission, even though it was barely spring.

There were only three keys on the ring, so he had her inside within a matter of seconds. Once the door was closed, she attempted to focus on him. The way her forehead wrinkled, it must have hurt.

She started to say something, but got only as far as opening her mouth before she shrugged out of her coat, letting it fall behind her in a heap. Then she headed down the hall.

Justin hesitated, then followed. By the time he reached her bedroom, she was sprawled on her stomach over the purple duvet on her bed. It looked like something that would need an expensive dry-cleaning if she were ill again, so Justin carefully peeled it back and rolled her onto her side on the sheets.

He stood for a moment then, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, staring down at her. He hadn’t seen her in several years—not since her father had sold the house down the street from his family’s, shortly after Justin graduated high school. She’d put on some weight. In a good way. And her straight dark hair was longer. But she was still Layla. Only not so perfect now. He hoped she could deal with it.

With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he set her keys on the dresser and headed out the bedroom door.



LAYLA©DIDN’T©WANT©TO wake up.

Her head was pounding. Her mouth was dry. So dry! And why was she drowning in a sense of impending doom?

The memories started to drift in, each more cringe-worthy than the one before. Had she thrown up outside the hotel?

Worse than that, had Justin been there?

And then the biggie hit her. Robert. Robert and Melinda. Layla’s insides roiled as a wave of depression mixed with pain, betrayal and disgust washed over her.

“You need anything?”

Layla shrieked at the unexpected masculine voice, and scrambled to her knees, ready to defend herself with the pillow she’d grabbed. “Justin!”

“Yeah. Me.”

She lowered the pillow and sat back on her heels as a surge of nausea welled up. But her stomach was too empty to do anything about it.

“Let me get you some aspirin. Where do you keep it?”

She simply stared at him. “Why are you here?”

“You can’t leave a drunk person unattended. Remember what happened to all those rock stars that drowned in their own—”

Layla held up a hand. “Stop. No more.” She dropped her head on the pillow she held in her lap. It made sense, really. Justin had been part of so many of the humiliating moments of her life that perhaps he was on call. He sensed “Layla devastation” and showed up to add to the misery.

“It was too late for Sam to come and stay with you.”

Layla nodded, her head bobbing into the pillow. He had a point. He’d done the safe and logical thing.

“Thank you for bringing me home.” She vaguely recalled trying to stay in the hotel until she sobered up. And students. She remembered seeing her students. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought. Hopefully, she hadn’t appeared too out of it. Private schools were not very keen on their staff being seen drunk in public.

“Aspirin?”

Layla lifted her head. “I’ll get it.” She steeled herself for the trauma of going vertical. “What happened to your eye?” Another dim recollection was taking form in her brain.

“You punched Robert when he tried to give you the room key.”

“Did I…punch you, too?” Had all her pent-up frustrations burst forth? Culminating in a brawl?

“No. You accidentally hit me when you fell.”

Layla swallowed hard and looked down at her hands. Well, now she knew why her knuckles were bruised and her knees felt skinned.

“You can go home now, Justin.” She was certain he probably couldn’t wait to get out of there, even though seeing her like this was probably entertaining as could be. “Thanks for everything.”

“All right.” He stayed where he was, though, and for once he wasn’t smirking. He looked tired.

“Where’d you sleep?” she finally asked, after a few beats of silence. For some reason, he wasn’t leaving.

“In one of those baskets you call a chair.” He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “How many drinks did you have?”

“Three.” Layla closed her eyes for a second, hugging the pillow to her chest, fighting the urge to topple over. “And a half,” she added, for the sake of honesty.

“How many after Robert dropped the bomb?”

“I told you about that?” Had she no pride when intoxicated? Heat rose in her face, scalding her cheeks.

“I’m not a mind reader.”

Layla felt like melting into a puddle on the bed. “He told me in the room when we were getting ready to go down to dinner.” Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She’d guessed and then he’d confessed. “I hid out in the lounge and called Sam.”

“Just wondering if I need to hook up with this Robert guy for leaving you drunk and alone in a hotel lounge.”

The last thing she wanted was for Justin, of all people, to defend her honor. That would be so wrong.

“Justin…I’d really like to be alone now.”

“If you’re sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” He cocked his head, and she added, “Physically.” Obviously, she had some other nonphysical issues to deal with.

That seemed to satisfy him, and a few seconds later the front door closed. She heard the purr of a powerful engine coming to life.

What had they driven home in?

She couldn’t for the life of her remember. Perhaps because her memory was so jumbled with other more humiliating images. The bush outside the hotel came to mind. And…oh, yeah. She’d tossed her cookies once again along a road somewhere.

What did they put in those drinks?

Lots and lots of alcohol. And she was a lightweight.

She gingerly crawled off the bed, realizing only then that she still had on her slightly damp T-strap high heels. Justin hadn’t taken off her shoes, although he had removed the duvet cover. Well, they were buckle shoes, perhaps too complicated for him.

She’d started for the bathroom when the doorbell rang. What on earth had Justin forgotten? She glanced at the domed mantel clock on her way to the door. Ten-thirty? Criminy. She’d lost twelve hours of her life.

The doorbell rang again, the sound reverberating through her skull. Must disconnect that thing. She pulled the door open, about to ask, “What did you forget?” and then almost slammed it shut again as she found herself facing the sweet, round face of Kristy Mendoza, the girl who lived next door.


CHAPTER TWO

KRISTY’S©MOUTH©DROPPED©OPEN, as did her mother’s. But Mrs. Mendoza, who stood a few feet behind the girl, managed a polite, if wary, smile.

“I have the cookies you ordered,” Kristy said abruptly, shoving the box forward.

Layla took them. Smiled. Resisted the urge to look down and see what her very expensive black silk cocktail dress, perfect for a night out in Tahoe, looked like after being slept in. “Thank you, Kristy.”

“Are you all right?” the girl blurted out before her mother clamped a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Hard, judging from the way she winced.

“I’ll get my wallet,” Layla said, hoping she had five bucks. “Just a sec.” She left the door open in spite of the cold and turned to find her purse in one of the living-room chairs. She dug through the contents. Frowned. Dug again, then dumped everything out.

“Uh, that’s all right,” Mrs. Mendoza called.

“No, really. I have the money.”

“You can run it over when you find it. We have more deliveries to make. Come on, Kristy…Kristy!”

“No, wait…” Layla called. She really didn’t want to face these two later today.

But it was too late. Mrs. Mendoza was already guiding her daughter firmly down the sidewalk toward safety. Layla sighed and shut the door, the click of the lock making her head throb.

After another futile search for the wallet in her coat pockets, she headed for the bathroom and faced her reflection with a sick feeling growing inside her stomach.

She was a raccoon. A punk raccoon with ratted hair, and wearing morning-after clothes.

What? What had she ever done to deserve all this?

Dated Robert Baldwin?

Her stomach twisted and she was afraid she was going to be sick again.



JUSTIN©PARKED©IN©THE©ALLEY behind Tremont Catering and sat in his car for a minute before turning off the engine. Hell of a night. Well, the next two days weren’t going to be any kind of a picnic, either, so maybe it was just as well to tune up on an unrelated event. Tomorrow marked the tenth anniversary of the day he’d signed the papers that had changed his life, and even though he’d been happy at the time, now he wondered if he’d made the right choice. If he should have pursued other options....

Not that there was anything he could do about it now.

Justin let himself in the back door of the kitchen, where the smell of tomato sauce instantly hit him. It was Sunday and his sister Eden, who moonlighted as a personal chef in addition to her duties with Tremont Catering, would thankfully be busy making a week’s worth of meals for her client families—one of which she’d cooked for since beginning the business and the other brand-new, replacing the family she’d lost after her fiancé discovered they were involved in the drug trade. A tough chapter in both Eden and Justin’s lives.

His eye was still throbbing where Layla had decked him, and he couldn’t say he was in the best of moods after spending a nearly sleepless night at her house. Hell, he could have easily stretched out on the bed beside her and been comfortable, but knowing his luck she would have woken up and smacked him again.

If only she’d had a sofa…which made him contemplate just what kind of person didn’t own a sofa. Well, Layla wasn’t your normal type.

He stifled a yawn as he came into the main kitchen area after kicking off his street shoes and putting on his clogs. He didn’t spend as much time standing in front of a stove as his sisters, but still put in long hours on his feet, creating every flower known to man, and some that weren’t, out of butter cream and a piping bag.

It was a living, and fortunately, since he spent so much time at it, one that he enjoyed.

“You’re here early,” Eden muttered when she looked up from the stove. She blinked when she saw his eye, which had swollen up nicely, but asked no questions. That was a sad commentary on how many times she’d found him in a similar condition throughout their lives.

“Fight in a parking lot,” Justin said. “And no, I wasn’t drunk.”

“Well, you look like hell.”

“I feel like hell.” He wandered over to the stove, breathing in the savory smell of his sister’s homemade tomato sauce.

“Where’s the oregano?” he asked.

“Going straight basil this time.”

“You shouldn’t mess with perfection.” His sister used a perfect blend of oregano, thyme and basil in her sauces.

“There’s always room for improvement.”

Indeed. Justin never stopped trying to improve his technique.

Eden started chopping olives again. “Where’d you have your fight?”

“The lake. It was more of a scuffle, really. I caught an elbow.”

“No arrests?”

“Not that I know of. Then I drove Layla Taylor home and stayed with her for most of the night to make sure she was okay.”

The rapid movement of Eden’s knife had abruptly stopped around the time Justin said Layla’s name.

“Run that by me again,” his sister demanded.

“All of it?”

“No. Just the Layla Taylor part.” Eden set the knife down and brushed her blond hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “None of this makes sense.”

“Sam Taylor called me at the lake and asked me to give Layla a ride. We had a minor altercation in the parking lot with her ex-boyfriend, then she puked and I took her home.” It wasn’t quite the right order, but Justin didn’t think the chronology mattered.

“She puked because she was…”

“Drunk as hell.”

“Layla? Drunk?”

“Mmm-hmm. And for once it wasn’t with power.” Justin went into his pastry room and took a look at the list he’d left himself the night before. He didn’t turn on the music because he knew it wouldn’t be long before—

“I want details,” Eden said, leaning her shoulder against the door frame.

“I wish I had some. I don’t.”

“Wow.” She processed his words for a moment, then slowly turned and went back into the kitchen, deep in thought. Even though he and his sisters had grown up up the street from the Taylors, neither Eden nor their older sister, Reggie, had ever warmed up to Layla, probably because she had nothing to do with anyone in their neighborhood. Reggie had thought Layla was pretty damned stuck up back in the day, which was saying something, since Reggie hadn’t been the warmest of people herself then. After their mother had died, their father took more and more long haul truck jobs, basically leaving the kids to fend for themselves. Reggie had been too busy running the household in their father’s absence to socialize, and too angry at his abandonment to be particularly warm and fuzzy to anyone.

Eden reappeared in the doorway. “I forgot—Cindy stopped by yesterday.” Justin continued to study the list. “She dropped off a bag of clothes. Your clothes. It’s in the laundry room. She’ll get the key back to you when she picks up her stuff.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t quite meet his sister’s eyes.

“What happened?”

“Things just didn’t work out.”

“Damn, Justin. You finally date a girl I like and—”

“You suddenly feel a deep need to mind your own business?” he asked.

Eden wasn’t in the least insulted or deterred. “I thought she was perfect for you.”

Yes, Cindy had been practically perfect. She worked in a downtown restaurant. They understood each other’s occupations; they’d had a lot of fun. And that was as far as he would let it go. He didn’t know why, wasn’t a huge believer in self-analysis, but once a relationship hit a certain point, he was done. Just…done.

His relationship with Cindy had hit that point.

“You’re going to run out of compatible women,” Eden warned before heading back into the kitchen.

“Reno’s a big town and lots of people move here every day,” Justin called after her.

Eden came back a few seconds later with a calendar showing the events for the week. “Okay. Patty has her surgery set for next Wednesday, and it looks like you’ll be on your own for the next six weeks.”

Justin reached up to adjust his stocking hat. “I told the hotel I can’t be called in for any emergencies for a while.” After hiring on as a prep cook at Tremont, Patty had, for some reason, made his work her priority, and he’d come to depend on her—which allowed him to take extra work at the lake and make more specialty cakes than he’d been able to before.

“That’s the sanest thing you’ve said in months,” Eden muttered. She placed the calendar on the counter between them. “You’re working the parties on Tuesday night and Wednesday night, right?”

“Right. And that business brunch at the lake tomorrow.” After that, he was holing up for the evening.

“Okay.” She laid the list on his stainless-steel counter. “Here’s the desserts we’ll need for the bookings this week and next....” Her voice trailed off and she looked up at him with a slight frown. “I am having the hardest time visualizing you and Layla fighting in the parking lot.”

“Don’t forget the boyfriend. He was there, too.”

“Strange.” She gave her head a slight shake, then pointed back at the list. “Seven dozen cherry bomb mini cupcakes for the tea on Thursday—”

The phone in Justin’s pocket vibrated, making him jump. It was the Tremont cell, not his own, that he was carrying. “Tremont Catering. Justin here.”

“Uh, hi.” The voice was hoarse, feminine and distinct.

“Layla?” Justin said, rather enjoying the way Eden’s head snapped up.

“Would you mind checking your car to see if my wallet fell out in there? Because if it didn’t, then I have another headache to deal with.”

She was probably dealing with a whopper already.

“Sure thing. Stay on the line and I’ll check right now.” He walked past Eden and out the back door without saying a word into the phone, because he really couldn’t think of anything to say. He opened the passenger door, dug around under the seat, then shoved his hand deep into the crack between the seats and struck gold.

“Got it,” he said, pulling out a slim eel-skin wallet. “You must have lost it when you dumped your purse out.”

“I dumped my…never mind. Thank you for finding it.”

“I’m pretty swamped today, but I can drop it by your house on my way home.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll pick the wallet up tomorrow on my way to work.”

“It’ll be here waiting for you.” And Justin wouldn’t be. “I’m going to the lake tomorrow for a catering event. I, uh, could pick up your overnight bag there if you want.”

“Oh.” It was obvious she hadn’t even thought about that. And that she wanted to say no, but wasn’t going to. “Thank you. I would very much appreciate it.”

He smiled at her stiff tone. Likely she was torn between gratitude and a desire to keep him out of her life. “You know me, Layla—always there to lend a hand.”

There was a slight choking sound and then the phone went dead.



SAM, WHO©COULDN’T©MAKE©IT up to the lake in her little car to rescue Layla, did make it across town just fine to see her sister on her way to the small shop she ran a few blocks from Layla’s house. But in Sam’s defense, the snow that had pelted the mountains was a slushy sleet in Reno.

“Oh. My.” Sam stopped dead in the doorway and stared at her sister for a long moment, oblivious to the wet snow blowing into the house. Layla grabbed her by the sleeve and tugged her inside.

“I haven’t had time to shower.”

“Well, at least wipe the mascara from under your eyes.”

Layla nodded. But she didn’t move.

Sam’s eyes grew wide. “This is bad, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a worse day than yesterday.”

“Considering some of the stuff the twins did to you, that’s saying a lot.”

Layla nodded again, then sat on the upholstered window seat. She hadn’t changed out of her dress, hadn’t managed to do much of anything except to lie quivering on her bed, fighting the mother of all hangovers. She did feel slightly better now that the Pepto Bismol and aspirin had taken effect. Physically, anyway.

“Tell me about it,” Sam said, sitting beside her.

Layla turned to her sister, who was so very different from her, and took in the short red hair, the fuchsia lipstick painted into an exaggerated Cupid’s bow, the clothes that appeared more costumelike than conventional. Yes, they were from different planets, but if anyone was going to understand… She took a deep breath and the story poured out. One solid hit to her ego and self-dignity after another.

“I knew something was…off,” Layla said, talking to her clasped hands. “For weeks.

“He took you to the lake to tell you he was sleeping with someone else.”

Layla looked up at her sister. “No. I asked him why we hadn’t—” she gestured “—you know…slept together much lately. And then I jokingly asked if he was wearing himself out with someone else.” She bit her lip as she recalled the way the color had drained from his face. “He was. Is.” She shook her hair back. “Melinda. From school.”

“Melinda!”

“They met at the school faculty Christmas party.”

“That bitch!”

“I introduced them.” She’d rather smugly wanted Melinda, who was always jockeying for top position at the school, to see what kind of a great guy she, Layla, had landed. Joke was on her.

“That has to sting.” Sam put an arm around her shoulders and Layla gave up the fight, slumping against her. She didn’t let herself depend on people often. She’d been disappointed so many times in the past by her well-meaning but easily distracted family. But right now, for this moment, she was going to lean on her sister. Literally and figuratively.

The closeness lasted almost two seconds before Sam said, “I have to get down to the store and unpack a shipment. Want to come?”

“Is it regular gifts or…?”

“It’s or,” Sam said with a half smile. “Some funky new stuff. And lingerie. It’ll take your mind off…” Her voice trailed away as she apparently realized sexy lingerie was not going to take Layla’s mind off Robert sleeping with someone else. “Or not,” she added weakly.

Layla smiled. Kind of. “Any other time, yes, but right now I just want to wallow in misery for a while. Nurse my head.”

“I understand. Do you want me to make you some tea and Pop-Tarts before I go? I have strawberry in my bag.” Sam lifted her giant tote, which probably had a couple boxes of toaster pastries in it. Her sister lived on them.

Layla’s stomach flip-flopped. “No, thanks. I’m still feeling a bit queasy.”

“I wish I’d been able to get you last night, but there was no way the Escort could have made it up the pass.”

“I know.”

“And Justin was there.”

“Oh, that he was.” And he was here in the morning, too. “It all worked out as well as it could have.” Except maybe for Justin, who had a black eye. Normally she might have enjoyed that, but not under these circumstances. Besides, she was too old to get delight out of Justin being on the receiving end of some well-deserved retribution.

Well, almost too old.

“Next shipment, I promise I’ll help.” It was usually entertaining to unpack the stuff her sister sold. If nothing else, Layla got a good laugh.

Sam stood up and wrapped her mile of hand-knit scarf around her neck. Somehow she managed to pull off funky without looking like a cartoon. If Layla had tried to wear a lace smock over a striped T-shirt with skinny jeans and over-the-knee boots, she would have resembled a wannabe pirate. Sam looked comfortable and stylish.

“Want me to stop by on my way home?”

“No need. But thanks for propping me up.”

“First time.”

It quite possibly was. Layla felt as if she were living in Bizarro World all of a sudden.



THE©NEXT©MORNING Layla woke up feeling almost human—physically, anyway. Mentally, she wasn’t doing so hot.

In less than an hour, she had to go to school, face Melinda. March through her day as if nothing was wrong, and wonder how many people knew about Robert and Melinda’s extracurricular activities. Was this a classic case of the girlfriend being the last to know? She hoped not.

No doubt Robert had warned Melinda that the gig was up—after all, he had to explain his sore nose somehow. As she did her makeup, Layla wondered how perfect Melinda would react.

Hopefully she’d do the sane thing and avoid Layla—for the next several years, if possible. Except they worked in the same building—the same hall—and sooner or later had to interact, which made Layla believe that the one blessing of this situation, other than finally discovering that Robert was a rat, was the timing. There would be no student witnesses to any stiff conversations between herself and Melinda, since the term had just ended and school was on hiatus for three weeks. Technically, it was also a teacher vacation after tomorrow, the second of two mandatory workdays, but most people came in for at least a few more days during the March break. Nothing was said aloud, but upper administration expected extra hours, and Layla, who’d dreamed of being a teacher since she was a small child, gave them exactly what they wanted. As did Melinda.

Which meant it would be one hell of a hiatus.

Layla pulled a conservative navy blue blouse and pleated khaki pants from her closet, paired the outfit with black loafers and a heart locket, and then paused to consider her reflection in the cheval mirror. Oh, yes. She looked wonderfully frumpy. Exactly like the kind of woman who’d get dumped. All she needed was a droopy mom cardigan to complete the picture.

Maybe she should do something about her teacherific wardrobe.

And maybe, instead of spending her vacation at the school, she’d be better off holing up and healing a bit. She needed to gain strength and perspective. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t spent hundreds of extra hours at the school since being hired three years ago.

Except that all Manzanita teachers put in hundreds of extra unpaid hours and the upper administration would notice if she didn’t.

Layla stopped by Tremont Catering, having looked up the location on the internet. A short woman with curly brown hair handed her the wallet with a quick “Have a nice day,” and Layla headed off to school, glad that Justin hadn’t been there to hand over the wallet personally.

Perhaps this was a sign that her life was edging back to normal. Or not. The second she walked past the open office door, the secretary hailed her and told her that the principal wanted a word.

Layla’s stomach dropped, but she forced a smile and went into Ella Murdock’s office.

“Close the door,” Ella said, seated behind her broad oak desk. “We need to discuss this.” She turned her computer monitor slightly so that Layla could see the photo that filled the screen—of Layla, on her knees…vomiting.

Not a pretty picture in any sense of the word.

Layla put a hand to her chest and forced her mouth shut. She felt like throwing up again.

“You didn’t know.” Ella fixed her with a quelling look. The principal was too well-bred to actually say, “What the hell were you thinking?” but if she had, Layla wouldn’t have known or cared, because she was approaching a catatonic state.

After a very long, very silent moment, she tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth was so dry it was impossible. She cleared her throat. Her head throbbed as blood pounded through her skull. “Oh, dear,” she said numbly, thinking it was best to let Ella direct the conversation—at least until her brain recovered enough to do some quick thinking.

“This appeared on Facebook. A concerned parent called me. Do you have an explanation?”

“I, uh, became ill when I was leaving the hotel at Lake Tahoe?”

“Food poisoning?”

“That’s what it felt like.” Not really a lie.

Ella nodded. “That’s exactly what I’ve told the half dozen parents who have emailed me concerning this photo.”

“Are they buying it?” Layla asked, her stomach knotting at the idea of parents contacting Ella about her. She’d always been so careful to behave in an exemplary way. Coming from the freewheeling lifestyle her family reveled in, she was doubly careful to stay within boundaries, color inside the lines.

“Short of running a toxicology test on the residue, what choice do they have?” Ella asked with a sniff. “I told them it was food poisoning.” Her lips thinned as she pressed them together. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

She didn’t need to remind Layla that at the end of this year, her annual contract might not be renewed. Private school contracts went year to year and she had no union to negotiate for her—the price she paid for teaching the best and the brightest.

“I appreciate your support,” Layla said. She swallowed and then asked, “Is that the…only photo?”

“Might there be more?” Ella asked in a deadly voice.

Layla instantly shook her head. “I didn’t even know about this one. I just don’t want any more nasty surprises.” Such as a photo of her taking a swing at her ex in a parking lot. Her hands were clenched into tight fists and she forced them to relax. Surely if there’d been more pictures, they would have made their way onto Facebook, as well.

“Neither do I,” Ella said coolly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Layla stated. For a brief moment she thought about telling her exactly what had happened and why, but that wasn’t the principal’s concern. Layla was not going to pour her troubles out to her boss, especially when the woman was going to bat for her with the concerned parents—and when it might make her wonder if Layla and Melinda could continue to work together. “But I want to apologize for all the trouble you’re going to on my behalf.”

Ella’s expression remained serious. “I hope it’s enough.” Layla didn’t even want to think about what that meant. It had to be enough. “Time is on our side,” the principal continued. “Memories are short, and by the time the break is over and the students come back, this will probably be long forgotten.”

Layla was certainly happy that she’d screwed up at the perfect time.

Ella smiled slightly, her dismissal. “I think everything will be fine.”

Layla nodded in agreement and left. Everything would be fine—except for the part where she and Melinda had to share the same air. Conniving bitch.

But Robert was to blame, too.

Conniving son of a bitch. In many ways she blamed him more, because Melinda couldn’t help herself. She was wired to be cute and competitive, to be the winner at all costs, in all forums. Everyone knew that.

Layla hurried down the hall to her room, glad that the building was, for the most part, still empty. Teachers at Manzanita tended to work late rather than come in early, except for a few diehards. The light was on in Mr. Coppersmith’s room, but there were rumors that he never went home. Ever. Layla tried to recall a time she’d arrived before him or stayed after him, and couldn’t come up with one. Melinda’s room, two doors down from Layla’s, was dark, and so was Sandy Albright’s, directly across the hall. Safe. For now.

Layla fitted her key into the lock, felt the smooth click and let herself inside, closing the door behind her. Then for a moment she simply stood, tote bag with lesson plans and books in one hand, her purse in the other, studying her desk, neat as always. The student work posted on the back bulletin board. The walls she’d painted pale blue herself on her own dime, after reading that the color fostered creativity.

She’d worked so hard to get here, into this posh private academy, and she worked equally hard to stay here. Yes, she got headaches and stomachaches worrying about her job, but that was the price she paid for having students actively working to achieve their destinies. Students who wanted to learn. They were for the most part a privileged lot, special and well aware of it, but they were also just kids.

And one of them had probably snapped her photo in the Lake Tahoe parking lot and then posted it on Facebook for all to see.

Which one?

Did it really matter?

Layla turned on the light and left the door locked so that no one could pop in on her without knocking—just in case she had another crazy bout of tears once the numbness wore off and the ramifications of having that photo posted set in.

Thankfully, no one was foolish enough to attempt to enter her room that morning, although Layla could hear people in the hall. Was Melinda one of them?

Were people talking about her?

Layla had never been the subject of gossip before and she sincerely hoped she wasn’t now, but the words fat and chance kept circling through her mind.

She ate her lunch alone at her desk, slipped out unseen twice to use the ladies’ room, then scuttled back for cover. If she could make it through today, then she’d be able to face the faculty meeting tomorrow. She just didn’t feel quite steady yet, didn’t trust herself to be able to look into Melinda’s face and smile as if she didn’t care about what had happened.

But her solitary, strength-building day ended with a call from Ella just before the final minutes of the school day ticked to an end.

“Please see me before you leave.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Layla’s stomach tightened the minute she saw the older woman’s expression. Trouble. Possibly big trouble.

“It appears we have a situation,” Ella said. “Your photo has gone viral, I believe the term is, and parents have been calling all day. Apparently several students attending the concert at the hotel saw you ‘draped’ over a man, barely able to walk, you were so intoxicated.”

“Or ill.”

“They aren’t buying it, and because of that, because of the particular parents who have been calling with concerns…to mollify…” Ella pulled in a deep breath. “We will have to resort to a temporary restructuring of classes.”

“What kind of restructuring?” Layla asked quietly, her heart hitting her ribs in slow, steady thumps. She knew the answer, could read it in Ella’s eyes. In a private school, where parents paid big dollars for their children’s education, they had more say than in a public school, and apparently the masses had spoken.

“Considering the tremendous…flak…we’ve received regarding the photo…well, you know how it is. Once a rumor takes hold, it’s very difficult to counteract it, and many of our parents are highly reactive. They spend a great deal of money to send their children here....”

Ella continued her long-winded explanation as Layla left her body and floated above the scene, watching herself stare politely at her boss, the picture of composure, while inside she was screaming, “Get on with it already! Tell me that I’m losing Advanced Placement English and taking on Life Skills. Just spit it out!”

“And for that reason…” Ella let out a sigh that made her shoulders sink “…I have no choice but to give Melinda Advanced Placement English and you will take over Life Skills for the next semester.”

Layla wasn’t fooled. She’d have the position for much longer than one semester. Life Skills—a glorified term for gonzo math and reading for those kids who could buy their way into the school, but didn’t give two hoots about grades or learning, despite their parents’ desire to make them industrial leaders. Oh, yes, she’d be at the helm until the next new teacher was hired, or another staff member made a misstep—serious enough to alarm parents but not serious enough to be fired. She could have this gig for years and years the way the budget was looking.

“I understand,” she said, ever professional. “And I’ll quit before I go back to Life Skills.”


CHAPTER THREE

THE©WORDS©STARTLED©HER as much as they did Ella.

What had she just said? Why had she said it?

Because she had truly and passionately hated teaching Life Skills during her first year at Manzanita before being moved to Advanced English when Melinda hired on. Life Skills was the baptism by fire at Manzanita, and being a starry-eyed neophyte, she’d felt guilty for not being able to inspire the lazy, entitled kids that populated the class. A teacher taught. But teaching the arrogantly unmotivated was not her cup of tea, and apparently it wasn’t Melinda’s, either.

“Don’t be silly,” Ella sputtered. “You were excellent teaching that class. I have a copy of the most recent syllabus,” she said, pushing a folder across the table toward Layla. “You can also access it online. Melinda will answer any questions you have.”

Layla was certain that Melinda would be delighted to answer all her questions.

“I know you will return the favor,” the principal added.

“This is not the solution,” Layla said adamantly. “These parents are wrong. One misrepresented incident doesn’t make me incapable of teaching as I’ve always taught.”

“It’s the most logical solution,” Ella insisted, nudging the folder closer to her. “Many of the concerned parents have children in your advanced classes. Besides—” she tapped her pencil on the folder “—Melinda just received her master’s degree in English, which makes her more qualified.”

On paper. “I have every intention of getting my master’s,” Layla said, focusing on the part of the issue that didn’t involve parents. “But I just spent the last two years revamping my English classes, which took up any time I might have used for university courses.” Class planning, prep and grading had barely left her any time for a social life, much less continued education. “And,” she added, “I won a state merit award for those revamped classes last year.” Which Melinda hadn’t. That had to eat at her.

Her boss’s expression remained impassive. No, it remained stonily stubborn, so Layla gave in to desperation and allowed herself to beg. “Please do not take these classes away from me.”

Ella stared at her for a long moment, the end of her pencil making a slow tap, tap, tap on the desk. Finally, she let out a long sigh. “Let’s meet tomorrow, after we’ve both had some time to evaluate the situation.” She drew in a long breath through her nose, then opened her calendar. “Say, nine o’clock?”

“Nine o’clock will be fine,” Layla said, relief coursing through her at the possible stay of execution. She’d be there at nine, after a good twenty-three hours of figuring out how to save herself. She’d probably look like hell from lack of sleep, since unfinished business invariably gave her insomnia, but she’d be there, and somehow she’d convince Ella to allow her to keep her classes.



USUALLY, JUSTIN©WENT©TO the catering kitchen in the evenings after Patty had prepped during the day, and worked on his cakes alone. Just him and the music. No interruptions.

He had a lot to do, especially with Patty about to take sick leave, but tonight, the tenth anniversary of signing away parental rights to his then unborn son, he stayed home. Turned on a basketball game and started drinking. Alone. Never a good thing to do, but right now it seemed appropriate.

The first few anniversaries had passed practically unnoticed. Yes, he had a child out there somewhere, one he’d been totally unprepared to care for at the age of eighteen. When his girlfriend, Rachel, had opted for adoption, it had seemed a godsend. No child support. No confessing to his sisters what he’d done. The child was better off with parents who were married and had resources to provide for it. Problem solved.

And if every now and again, in the early hours, he found himself dwelling on the matter, he shoved it out of his mind. A strategy that had worked fairly well until his niece, Rosemary, had been born.

From the moment he’d first felt her warm little body snuggle against his shoulder, watched her mouth form a tiny O as she yawned, he’d been overwhelmed with protective instincts he hadn’t even known he possessed. Who would have thought that a baby could make a guy feel like that?

But the kicker was the lost baby, the miscarriage his sister, Reggie, had suffered a little less than a year ago, when she’d been four and a half months pregnant. It had devastated both her and her husband, Tom, to the point that they’d talked of having only the one child because they didn’t want to risk another loss. They eventually decided, though, to try one more time and so far, so good, but Justin was still on edge. He never wanted to see his sister go through that again. He never wanted to go through it again vicariously.

From that point on, denial lost its effectiveness. Kids were not something one signed away and forgot about.

Even if he tamped the thoughts down deep, as deep as he could possibly get them, they slowly but surely worked their way to the surface. He began to notice babies everywhere. And kids. Especially kids about the same age that his son would be.

Justin was a father. Somewhere in the world he had a child. A kid who needed to be protected and loved, as Rosemary needed to be protected and loved.

And he hadn’t done that.

It ate at him. Maybe it had always eaten at him in ways he refused to acknowledge.

Last year on the ninth anniversary of the day he’d signed his child away—four months after Rosemary’s birth and before Reggie had acknowledged her second pregnancy—he’d sat down in front of the TV to have a single beer and ended up drinking himself into oblivion.

He planned to repeat the performance tonight. Kind of a yearly ritual, like a birthday party, which worked, since he didn’t know when his child had been born. Rachel was sent across the country by her wealthy parents shortly after they’d discovered she was pregnant, and he’d never received word. All he knew was that he had a son, information Rachel had given him after her first ultrasound.

He was on his third beer, blindly watching the game and thinking that whiskey would work faster, when the doorbell rang.

Layla. She’d stopped by the kitchen earlier that afternoon to pick up her overnight bag, which was still here at his apartment. Eden had given her directions and sent her over, then called to warn him.

He appreciated that, because now all the scattered gym socks were in the hamper and he wasn’t too deeply into a bottle. That would wait until after she left.

But truth be told, he was on his way to a pretty good buzz. Maybe Layla wouldn’t notice.



LAYLA©STOOD©NERVOUSLY on the concrete outside Justin’s second-story condo, hugging her coat closer to her body as protection against the stiff breeze. Why was she so agitated? Not a clue.

Liar. She was tense because Justin made her that way. She never knew what he was going to do, and she hated unpredictability. The door swung open and there he was, barefoot, dressed in washed-out jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His dark blond hair was out of control as always. She wondered if he still cut it himself.

“Layla. What a surprise.”

“I bet it is, what with you having my overnight bag and Eden calling to warn you that I was on my way.”

He smiled, that cocky Justin smile, but he wasn’t looking so cocky with the blackish-yellow circle under his eye. Plus, it was pretty obvious that he’d been drinking. She could smell it on him.

“Would you get it for me, please?” Because all she wanted to do was to get out of here. She’d seen Justin drunk before. He and Derek and Eric had whooped it up a time or two when their parents were gone. Her parents, of course, thought large house-wrecking parties were a rite of passage, and other than making the twins clean up and pay for any damage, turned a blind eye. Stupid, stupid outlook.

“Yeah, sure. You want to come in for a sec?”

“I, uh…no.” She gave her head a shake. She did not care to step into the lair.

He shrugged and walked away, holding a beer bottle by the neck. A few seconds later he was back with her small black case in his hand—a gift from Robert. She’d have to donate the bag to charity once she unpacked her clothes.

He held it out and Layla gingerly took it from him, noting that Justin had really nice hands—long, strong fingers that should have been used to make music. She’d forgotten about that—how she’d once told him he should be a musician. He’d laughed at her, since she’d been so disdainful of her parents’ obsession with all things Clapton. She’d been thinking of the violin or the piano, but had left in a huff before explaining matters to him. Justin Tremont playing a piano. Right.

She studied him warily. “I, uh, wanted to thank you for bringing me home Saturday night. And…I hope your eye is all right.”

“It’s feeling better.”

She drew in an audible breath. “Yes. Well. Sorry about that. I can see that you’ve been taking something for the pain.”

“My favorite painkiller.” He lifted the bottle of Black Butte Porter he held in his right hand, and Layla suppressed a grimace. Dark beer. Uck.

“How many have you had?”

“A few. The game’s on and you know how it is with guys, beer and games.”

“You sit home alone, drink beer and watch sports?”

“The hookers should be arriving any minute.”

“Don’t start, Justin. We’re not fourteen anymore.” She met his eyes. “Well, I’m not, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t have known that from the other night.”

She didn’t have an answer for that one, but she did have another question. “Uh…what all did I tell you? After you brought me home?”

“You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

“Let’s see…that bastard is sleeping with your trollop of a coworker.” He shrugged. “That about sums it up.”

Did she see pity in his eyes? Dear heavens, she hoped not, because she would not tolerate pity from Justin. “That’s all?”

“For the most part. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“I’m sorry about parts of it,” Layla said, thinking it was a sad day when she was confessing her troubles to Justin, even if he was rather intimately involved. But the situation was gnawing at her.

“What part?”

She looked up at him, meeting those rather amazing green eyes. Such a waste. He’d grown from an obnoxious skinny kid into a very striking guy. “The part where it affects my job.”

“Because of the trollop?” His shoulders were hunched against the brisk breeze that was blowing past him into his condo, and Layla heard the furnace kick on. Yet he stood in the open doorway, waiting for her response instead of sending her off and stepping back into his warm house.

“Yes, because of the trollop. I…” Layla gave an impatient, dismissive gesture. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

She blinked at his unexpected response. His expression remained serious. No smirk. Nothing. She narrowed her eyes slightly, gauging him. Something about this didn’t seem right.

Was it possible that he didn’t want to drink and watch the game alone? Well, if he was soliciting her company, then he must truly be desperate for companionship.

The hookers must have canceled.

Justin stepped back before she answered one way or the other, and gestured for her to come inside. Layla fought with herself briefly, then shrugged and walked into his front room, trying not to be too obvious as she took a quick inventory.

It was a guy place. Leather furniture, a giant TV where the Celtics were playing the Bulls with the sound muted. There was a pile of running shoes against the wall next to the front door and a cardboard box filled with women’s clothing. A black, lacy bit of lingerie was tossed carelessly on top. Oh, criminy. Was the woman, whoever she was, going to come home while Layla was here?

No. This looked more like a moving-out box. A toothbrush was jammed into one corner. No wonder Justin was looking for company. He probably wouldn’t mind a bit of sympathy, too.

“Have a seat,” he said as he shut the door and led the way across the room to the U-shaped sectional. Chalk-colored leather. Surprisingly tasteful, with a dark oak coffee table, strewn with cookbooks and sports magazines, nestled in the center of the U. Two empty beer bottles stood side by side at one end.

Layla perched on the edge of the sectional, impressed with how comfortable it was, and Justin settled a few feet away.

“So let’s hear this long story.”

“How drunk are you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not very, but if you don’t want me to remember, I won’t.”

He gave her that roguish Justin grin she was so familiar with, and Layla smiled in spite of herself. But the smile faded as she said, “One of the students at the lake took a photo of me throwing up in the bush and posted it on Facebook. Many concerned parents phoned in, and ultimately my principal decided to demote me to Life Skills and give Melinda my advanced English classes.”

“Who’s Melinda?” he asked. Layla raised her eyebrows significantly and he formed a silent “oh.” “The trollop?”

“The same.”

“Life Skills is bad?”

“Life Skills is a class for the kids whose parents can pay the steep Manzanita tuition, but who don’t perform at the desired level.”

“They have learning disabilities?” Justin asked with a slight frown.

“No. This has nothing to do with ability and everything to do with attitude. Students who can’t achieve but want to learn are in special tutorial classes. This class is for kids who won’t achieve. They are entitled and lazy, and the teacher’s job is to try to motivate them when they know they’re safe in their parents’ protection no matter what they do.”

“Why aren’t they just kicked out of the school?”

“Are you kidding? In this economy?” Layla rubbed her thumb and first two fingers together. “Money…”

Justin leaned back against the cushions, obviously more comfortable with the conversation than she was, and studied his beer for a moment.

“I taught this class before,” Layla continued darkly. “My first year. It was rugged. I hated it.”

And she’d never told anyone that before. Maybe she felt safe because he was drinking. Maybe she just needed to tell someone the sad truth—that she was in some ways a rotten teacher. “I meet with the principal tomorrow and we’ll hash this out.”

Hopefully, she’d be able to convince Ella that it would be disruptive to the students to change teachers nine weeks before the school year ended. Then she would convince her boss that the parents would forget about the unfortunate incident by the time the long summer break was over.

“What if she doesn’t budge?”

Layla’s throat closed slightly. “I…think I’d quit.”

“And then what?”

She gave a quick shrug. “I’d probably work for Sam until I get another teaching job.” She looked him in the eye before saying adamantly, “I’m not going to back down.”

“I don’t blame you. Life is too short to do something you hate for very long.”

Layla stared at him for a moment. As a teen, Justin had always done as he damned well pleased, and she’d often told herself that he was wrong to do so. That it was immature to follow the heart instead of the head. But honestly? She hadn’t been all that happy following her head, and life was short.

“What does Sam do now?” Justin asked. “Does she still have the bead store?”

“No. She has a small clothing and gift boutique that she started last year after the bead shop tanked. Sunshine of Your Love.”

Justin smiled. “No offense, but it sounds like a head shop.”

“It’s worse than that. She, uh…” Layla raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Sunshine of your love…”

“Sex toys?” Justin asked, unable to keep the delight out of his voice.

“Gifts for lovers to share,” Layla said primly. “Along with funky clothing, lingerie and regular items. Balloon bouquets, greeting cards.”

“I’d love to see the balloons.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Your family is nuts, Layla.”

“I know.”

“I mean that in a good way.”

“What kind of good way? What could possibly be good about shirking responsibility?”

“How is it irresponsible to run a business?”

“If you saw how Sam did it, you’d understand.” The bead business had sunk slowly but surely as her sister bought stock and put off paying for it. But Sam hadn’t had much business traffic, either. Sunshine was doing much, much better. Apparently more people wanted to invest in their love life than in jewelry making.

Layla let her head fall back against the buttery-soft leather sofa cushions, but resisted the urge to close her eyes and luxuriate for a moment. None of her furniture was this good. She’d bought cheap stuff, saving her money for more important things, like her retirement fund.

This seemed so wrong. She’d formulated a plan, made sacrifices to stick to it, and everything was supposed to turn out all right. The end. She wasn’t supposed to be demoted back to Life Skills. Or have to go work for her sister, who couldn’t afford to pay her.

Justin got up and went into the kitchen on the other side of the breakfast island and opened the fridge. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asked. Layla shook her head and he pulled out a single beer.

“Do you always drink alone?”

“I’m trying hard not to,” he pointed out.

Layla scowled at his purposeful misinterpretation. “Did your girlfriend move out?”

Justin glanced over at the box. “Very astute, Watson.”

“It was the toothbrush.” And it explained why he was drinking.

“But, no, I don’t usually drink alone and it isn’t because of Cindy.” Spoken like a man.

“Why today? Special occasion?” To Layla’s surprise, there was a fleeting touch of bitterness in his answering smile. There, then gone.

“In a manner of speaking.” He held the unopened bottle loosely, contemplating it for a moment. “An anniversary of sorts.”

“I see.” But she obviously didn’t. And she’d never known Justin to be anything close to morose. It bothered her. “What kind of anniversary?”

He shrugged, and she could see he wasn’t about to give her a straight answer. Instead, he cocked his head, and the old Justin was back. The one she knew and could deal with. “What do you think about me, Layla?”

“Can I use long words? Or shall we stick with monosyllabic?”

“Your choice.”

“I think you’ve never had boundaries. You live life in a free-form way. I don’t believe you give a hoot for consequences. And because of that, sometimes you have to drink alone.”

“You think I’m irresponsible?”

Layla sighed. “Not exactly. I’m saying that in some aspects of your life you are more haphazard than in others.”

He studied her intently for a moment before saying, “Which aspects?” For some reason he needed her to spell it out. Fine. She’d spell.

“Well, judging from what went on in high school, you tend to be mercurial in your personal relationships.” She gestured toward the box. “How many of those have you had in your life?”

“A few,” he admitted.

“But on the other hand, you’re part of a successful business.” She shifted her head on the leather sofa cushion to look at him. “So who am I to judge?” And what could you possibly care about my thoughts after all these years?

She got to her feet. It seemed like a good time to go. In fact, suddenly she felt as if she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Something was off here…something that didn’t feel like it used to, and it was making her patently uncomfortable. Why was Justin asking her opinion of him? And in such a deeply serious way. And why was he suddenly looking like an attractive guy instead of her archrival?

“I need to get back home,” she said lamely. “I have…stuff to do.” More lameness.

“Do you make a spreadsheet or something for that?” he asked mildly. Layla didn’t bother answering. She picked up the case and Justin walked with her to the door. When they got there, he put his hand on the knob as if he was going to open it for her, then said, “We’ve been through a lot, you and I.”

“Meaning you made my life miserable when I was a kid? Yes.”

“If you hadn’t been so easy to mess with, so…reactive…”

“Blaming the victim, Justin?” she asked softly.

“You were never a victim. You gave as good as you got.” He touched his bruised cheekbone.

Funny, but she didn’t remember it that way. Maybe she’d tried, but… “I was never in your league, Justin, so it wasn’t a fair contest.”

He frowned a little, his expression distant, as if calling up a long lost memory—something that involved her, no doubt.





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