And maybe, for once, Michael thought it, too. Because before he turned to go, he pointed a warning finger at Griffin and spoke, even though his voice shook.
“I’ll keep your secret, Griffin,” he said. “And you’ll keep on keeping mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The text came when Layla was getting out of the shower.
She was notsupposedto shower, the masseuse said; she was supposed to let the oils or whatever elsesoak in; she was supposed to give theenergyfrom the massage time tosettle throughout her body. Manon said, “Layla, you can’t goshower!” and Layla lied and feigned a need to scratch at her neck, saying she thought she might be allergic to something.
But really, the massage made Layla feel restless and uncomfortable: the troubling conversation with Em too fresh in her mind, the traces of Griffin too fresh on her body. She felt as though she spent the whole ninety minutes clinging to both—worrying over whether to tell Griffin what she’d heard, and resenting every touch that covered over one of his.
When the massage finally ended, Layla dressed hastily, relieved that the rest of today was intended as “free time” for the guests to rest before tonight. She took out her phone before even clearing the spa’s doors.
Text me when you’re back, she wrote to Griffin, which, onreflection, might have read as overeager in a vague but still somehow too-specific way: a realPlease let me into that hotel room againplea.
That he hadn’t replied right away had perhaps driven her more quickly into the blazing-hot shower. A new reason to rinse—the shame of accidentally coming off as desperate.
So when she heard the pinging notification at the same time she shut the water off, she purposefully did not rush over to read the screen. She wrapped up her hair carefully, toweled off completely, tied herself into the room’s now-familiar white robe. She tried to ignore the hope that his reply would be a simpleCome up, that she would follow his instructions, that he would draw her into the faerie kingdom of his room, that he would make it so she wouldn’t have to think about any of his secrets and what they might mean for Em and Michael’s wedding.
But when she finally checked, she had a sinking feeling.
We need to talk, his text said. Then, an address for a café a few blocks away.
Much like her own text, it was vague but still too specific.
A prologue toWe made a mistakeif she’d ever seen one.
She sent back a curtOK, which was howDoctorLayla Bailey replied to texts that annoyed her, and this felt good to do—armoring and appropriately defensive. When she dressed, she did so without a care for all the concerns she’d had earlier in the week about the chicness of Parisian café culture; probably if she’d had access to Rosie’s neon-green crop top, she would’ve put that on in some kind of petty defiance.
As it stood, she still only had neutrals, but she picked her slouchiest ones to wear. She left her hair wet and slicked it back into a bun, put on her sunscreen and her lip balm and nothing else, shoved her feet into her sneakers. She put on her sunglasses in the elevator and didn’t smile once as she crossed the lobby. Shethought,I’m not even going to let him say it was a mistake. I’m going to make it about Michael and Emily, because that’s what I said today would go back to being.
It took her ten minutes to walk to the café, a nondescript corner spot with a faded awning and tables and chairs that were a little shabbier than she was used to seeing. It was crowded—not with tourists, she could tell, but with people who looked as comfortable as if they were sitting in their own homes, with family or friends they had over.
So it took her a few seconds to spot Griffin.
Obviously, he was alone. All-black, his hat on and his hands clasped loosely on his lap. Remote and magnetic, his own whole universe. He did not have his phone out; he was not reading. There was a bottle of Perrier on the table, two empty glasses, and another tiny cup of what was probably decaf in front of him. Layla thought he looked so strangely like he belonged there. Like he had somehow nailed Parisian café culture, no cigarette necessary.
“Annoying,” she muttered to herself, shoving down the unruly twist of desire in her stomach, striding gamely toward him and thinking about how she was going to start by saying,Actually, I thinkyouneed to fix this wedding now.
But before she even got to his table, he stood. A column of smoke himself, and when she reached him—when his gravity had succeeded inpullingher to him—he set his right hand beneath her elbow, cupping it in the softest touch.
And he leaned in and kissed her. Right at the corner of her mouth. A Parisian kiss, but more possessive. He smelled likebutter, butter and sugar and cinnamon, and he said, “You look pretty,” in a voice so low she could not be sure whether she’d dreamed it.
She practically slid into the chair he held out for her.
Emily and Michael, she said to herself desperately, not wantingone single kiss, one simple compliment—You look pretty—to stop her from preempting this gently deliveredWe made a mistakebusiness.
“Jamie knows,” Griffin said—not gently—as soon as he sat down across from her.
She blinked.
She was so startled that it almost felt as though she had no idea who Jamie was.
“About Michael and Emily?” she finally said.
Griffin shook his head. “About us.”
For what felt like a long time, Layla didn’t say anything at all. She was thinking about something Griffin had told her yesterday as they’d searched for a comfortable place to sit in the elegant, secret-seeming Jardin du Palais Royal. He’d said,Usually, I’m scanning for a feeling. I’m making sure I’m not too far gone.
