Just held her for a beat longer than necessary, then pulled back and smiled.
“Come on inside,” I said, gesturing toward the door. “Have a seat. I’ll let the chef know to set an extra place.”
Her face lit up.
“Really? You’re not mad I just showed up?”
“Why would I be mad?” I lied smoothly. “It’s a nice surprise.”
It wasn’t.
But Alexis didn’t need to know that.
She followed me inside, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors as she looked around with the kind of appreciation that came from someone who understood wealth but didn’t live in it daily.
“I love it here,” she said. “Every time I come, I notice something different.”
“I’m glad.”
I guided her toward the sitting room and pulled out a chair for her at the table.
“Sit. Relax. I’ll be right back.”
She sat, crossing her legs and smoothing her dress over her thighs.
She looked perfect.
Polished. Put together.
And I felt like shit.
Because I could see it in her eyes—the way she looked at me, the way she smiled, the way she’d driven across the city to surprise me.
She was falling.
And I wasn’t.
I wasn’t even close.
I turned away before she could see the guilt on my face and headed toward the kitchen.
The smell hit me first—garlic, butter, something rich and savory that made my stomach remind me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Layla was at the stove, her locs tied up in a wrap, her body moving with the kind of efficiency that came from years of knowing exactly what she was doing.
She didn’t look up when I walked in.
“Smells good,” I said.
“Mm-hmm.”
Her tone was flat.
Cold.
I stopped just inside the doorway and watched her for a moment.
She was pissed.
