C’est bon, she thought to herself. She knew enough French on her own for that.
Then the elevator doors opened.
And there was Griffin Testa.
Layla wished she could remember how the French saidFuck.
She stood at the threshold, hesitating. It would be weird not to get on; she knew this.
But you didn’t ride the elevator with a lightning bolt.
Except then—then he stepped slightly to the side, as though to make room for her, and she caught her reflection again in the mirrored interior of the elevator, looking polished and maybe alittleParisian, and he seemed to still be wearing the same clothes from the plane, so actually, who was the lightning bolt here?
She stepped over the threshold.
“Hello,” she said coolly.
He didn’t say anything back, which by now was unsurprising.
Laylatriednot to look at him; she really did. But it was impossible with all these mirrors, and once she did look, it was hard to stop, because…
Because there was something wrong with him, she was pretty sure.
For one thing, his breathing was labored, a quick rise and fall she could see in his chest. She couldn’t hear a wheeze, which was good, but when she turned her head to look at him directly, she saw a splotchy redness covering his neck. A bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His jaw held so tight, as though he was bracing himself.
She opened her mouth to speak.
“Don’t tell Michael you saw me,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Oh…kay?”
His shoulder jerked slightly. An involuntary spasm. When he reached forward to press impatiently at the button for the lobby, she thought he might’ve done it to cover the movement.
He pressed it again. Forcefully.
“I don’t think that’s going to make it go faster,” Layla said.
He lowered his hand again, blew out a breath. Shoved it back in his pocket.
The elevator started to move—an annoying validation of his frantic button-pressing—and maybe the corner of his mouth ticked up. Maybe.
Foolishly, it felt to her like an opening.
“Listen, are you all ri—”
“Are you the ex?”
Layla stared, stunned.
“The brother’s ex-wife, I mean,” Griffin clarified.
“I’m—” She paused, cleared her throat. God, hadshewheezed? “I’m Emily’s friend.”
“Right. But you’re her brother’s ex-wife.”
His voice was different than it had been on the plane, even than it had been in the lobby. Quieter and raspier, but not any less effective. Less of a slice, but definitely a death-by-a-thousand-cuts situation.
Her silence must have served as an answer.
