“Let her boyfriend help her,” he added. He saidboyfriendlike the word itself was an embarrassment to his mouth.
She thought of explaining the weak stomach thing—an old instinct to protect Jamie. She wondered if that ever left you, once a marriage ended.
Somehow, though, she didn’t think this explanation would be much of a protection from Griffin’s poor opinion of her ex. Theboyfriend, as it were.
“It’s my job,” she finally said, sliding her arms into the soft sleeves of the sweater, the texture on her still–goose bumped skin pleasantly shivery.
From the other side of the curtain, Griffin snorted derisively. “It’s not your job. You’re not on the clock here.”
She pulled the sweater over her head, heedless of what it would do to her hair. It didn’t matter now, if they weren’t going back.
Should they go back?
“It’s amoral obligation,” she said as her head popped through the neckhole. “I took an oath.”
Do no harm.
I do.
You promised you’d always be my sister.
She tried to sound confident, like all the oaths of her life weren’t suddenly colliding uselessly in her brain, but even she knew what was coming next.
Another snort. More scornful this time.
Fine. Mentioning the Hippocratic oath was a long shot. Samantha wasn’t having a heart attack. She wasn’t even a minor on a transatlantic flight traveling alone. The father of medicine himself would probably snort at Layla right now.
Butstill. Still, he didn’t have to be such adickabout it.
About everything.
She yanked the sweater over her bare stomach, spun on her heel, and fisted her hand in the curtain, yanking it back. A slice of petty satisfaction went through her as he took a half step of surprise back, and she wanted to keep him there. On the ropes.
So she reached, again, for what little she knew of him.
“At least Ihavea job,” she snapped, setting her hands on her hips, readying herself to stare him down with the same sort of judgment he constantly seemed to be leveling at her.
But it…did not work.
Because Griffin did not stare back at her with the same sort of judgment, not this time.
Instead, he blinked once, and then…looked.
His gaze running over her, from the top of her surely messy hair down to her bare toes.
A long look, a leisurely look, and as it was happening—as the practical part of Layla was thinking,What is he looking at?another part of her, an insensible part of her, was thinking about a couple of hours ago, about walking into the hotel lobby in her boring but elegant dress, and not having anyone look at her any kind of way at all.
Which was the point. Which was exactly what she wanted.
Or it was, at least until right this second, with Griffin Testa looking at herthisway, what shethoughtshe wanted.
She swallowed at the exact moment she watched his Adam’s apple bob along the column of his neck: a synchronicity neither one of them seemed to be able to abide.
She said, “What?” as in,What are you staring at?right as he said, “Socks,” and then she was caught in his gaze again.
Until she noticed that he was holding a hand out toward her.
Where he held a pair of casual black socks folded into a tidy cardboard sleeve.
