Damn. Just – damn.
“Up already?” He asked in a mildly snarky tone, though it was better than his usual, his green eyes slightly humorous today. He was usually nicer after a long, hard ride – of any variety.
Layla blushed as she had that thought. Nothing had happened last night, but it had been a while since they’d slept in the same bed, and looking at his body being flaunted before her now reminded her of how it had felt curled around her last night. It had been six months since Layla had last gotten laid, and pent-up frustration was not helping her now. She almost gave Luke a snarky quip for flaunting his body in her presence, but he’d been a gentleman last night. Sometimes she and Luke could get along – if one or the other of them didn’t fuck it up. Which Layla had been doing a lot since her employment debacle three months ago.
“Thanks for taking care of me last night,” Layla spoke directly, shutting her computer on the Red Letter Hotel and aiming for reconciliation with Luke. “I was in bad shape.”
“No problem.” He eyeballed her as he moved to the kitchen and ran a glass of water, chugging it. Filling it again, he returned, questions in his eyes as if he wanted to actually start a conversation today, or hear about her life. It was a distinct change from how they’d been at each other’s throats the past few months – Layla in a funk and bitter about the U.N., Luke stressed to the max entering his final year of med school at UW.
“Feeling better today?” Luke asked, loitering with his amazing body sweaty and within touching distance.
“Much.” It took everything Layla had to not lean over and lick her tongue up those well-defined muscles.Nope. Do not do, Layloo. Do not do.
Glancing at her computer, Luke lifted his chin. “Looking at Concierge positions?”
Dammit.He was amazingly insightful sometimes. “Thinking about it.” Layla pushed her computer away on the tabletop.
“Anything in Seattle?” Hauling out the chair next to her, Luke sat, scratching his hands through his thick waves to air the sweat from his workout.
Layla blinked, realizing he was actually interested in her job search. “Not yet. A few in L.A., some in New York, some resorts, some international. One in Paris caught my eye.”
As she said it, she didn’t know if she meant the Hilton listing in Paris or the one for the Red Letter Hotel. Luke glanced over, then filched her last piece of bacon and munched it. Layla normally would have fought him for it, but today she let him have it. Luke was a bacon fiend despite his health craziness, and she cooked his often enough from their shared fridge.
“Paris, huh?” He mused, watching her. “That’s a long ways.”
“I would have been in Paris now if the twats at the U.N. had decided I was good enough.”
“You’re too good for them.” Luke’s gaze was fierce. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“I’mnotgood enough for them, apparently. So said their rejection letter three months ago.” Layla sighed, trying to shake off the familiar pattern of bitterness that had consumed her these past months.
Leaning back in her chair, she watched Luke. For some reason, he was being inordinately nice today. It was rare these days, and Layla suddenly recalled how pleasant he’d been when they first met – both of them freshmen in college at UW and in the same dorm. Nine years ago, gods. Layla could hardly believe it. But med school had weathered him, making him grouchy and possessive of his sleep and fitness. Luke was straight-edge and had been since a bad incident with alcohol his junior year that had landed him in jail overnight and put a friend in the hospital. He’d been on a mission to heal people ever since, but Layla saw how much it was costing him.
“How was your shift this morning?” She asked, genuinely wanting to know.
His dark brows lifted, his face priceless in its astonishment. “Good.” When nothing else was forthcoming, he continued, “It’s not really a tough shift, orthopedics. Just looking at x-rays and MRIs, popping ribs and dislocated shoulders back into place. Football’s back practicing now, so we get a few of the team in with sports injuries. Pretty interesting, actually.”
“Cool.”
Luke glanced at her again, then set his water glass on the table. “You know, I think working Concierge might be a good thing for you, Layla. Get you out of the bar scene, get you over this fuckup with the U.N. Besides, every bartender turns into a drunk if they stay too long in the profession.”
It was some of his regular tirade against bartending, but without its usual vinegar. Layla cocked her head. “You think I could do Concierge?”
“Sure.” He smiled at her, actually smiled – and when he did it was glorious. Few people smiled like Luke, those grass-green eyes bright and a dimple in his left cheek. “It would use a lot of your skills, get you traveling internationally again if you took a job in Paris or somewhere. You know how you like to hoof it around the world.”
She did know. Layla wanted to travel everywhere and see everything, and had made it a priority to take every college break and do just that, even if it had been on the slimmest cut-rate budget. Egypt, Peru, Spain, New Zealand, Italy, Greece, South Africa. There were far more places on her bucket list, a desire that went all the way back to her small self at four years old – hiding her grandmother Mimi’s National Geographic magazines under her bed to leaf through at midnight with a flashlight.
Layla’s maternal grandmother, Mimi Zakir, had been Moroccan, a famous chanteuse who’d traveled the world in her heyday singing for royalty, but had been retired by the time Layla was born. She’d had the most amazing stories about the glamorous life of Paris in the 1950’s, Marrakesh, Cairo, Beirut, and such. Layla had been born in Morocco but she didn’t remember it, and hadn’t traveled back there yet. But Grandma Mimi’s stories had fueled her love of other cultures, and Morocco was on the bucket list. Mimi had died just three years ago from lung cancer, all her smoking with her long black cigarette-holder finally catching up to her. She’d died just a year before Layla’s parents had been in a severe car accident – leaving Layla alone in the world but for her housemates.
“Why are you being so nice today?” Layla asked Luke suspiciously, cocking her head. She was generally direct and didn’t like it when people sucked up or gave her B.S. She thought Luke might get pissy, but he had enough endorphins rushing through him this afternoon, and he just shrugged, his green eyes honest.
“You had a bad night. I hate to see you have bad nights. Especially when rich assholes are involved. I know you don’t have much except the furniture and jewelry Mimi left you, but you don’t need some rich fucko to run your world, Layla. Or hurt your heart.”
Coming from him, it was almost sweet. But then Layla remembered how Luke had caused her plenty of bad nights back when they were dating. He was a storm wrapped in a hurricane, stuffed in a bottle and put on the shelf to ferment in Irish whiskey. He wasn’t rich except for this house, but he could definitely be a fucko. He’d actually decked Gavin, when Gavin had come to the house begging Layla to take him back after the blowout over the harem. Luke had punched Gavin hard, laying him out flat on the front porch, and had to be held off by Charlie and Arron to stop from doing worse. Luke was a fighter, a lover, and a furie.
But now, he was simply being level with her.
“Yeah,” Layla spoke at last, a slight smile on her face. “I did have a bad night, and I don’t need that guy’s money. Thanks for saying something.”
