Page 30 of Business Casual
“What sort of meeting?”
“A necessary one.” I point at the empty seat next to Beckett. “Take a seat.”
She remains standing, hands tightening at the edge of her foil until it’s bent beneath her grip. “I’ll stand.”
Beckett sighs. “Layla, come on.”
Her head snaps in his direction. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”
He swallows heavily. “We’re still doing this?”
“Yeah. We’re still doing this.” She rips back the top of her container and extends it in my direction, not looking away from Beckett for a second. “Here, Charlie. Would you like a slice of zucchini bread?”
Zucchini bread happens to be Beckett’s favorite. He makes a pained noise as the tray passes in front of his face, fingertips at the bridge of his nose. I shrug and decide this really can’t get any worse. I might as well have a snack. I pluck out a piece with what must be ten thousand chocolate chips and take a bite.
Beckett looks offended.
“All right,” I say around a mouthful of crumbs. “This is your opportunity to get it all out in the open. No more fighting after today.” I gesture toward Layla. “You first.”
She drops her tray on the empty chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “No, thank you. I have two more batches of apple cider donuts to make this morning—”
Beckett shifts in his seat. Layla doesn’t even glance at him.
“—and I’ll know if someone sneaks into my kitchen to steal them. I’m too busy to have this conversation.”
“Layla,” Beckett sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you make my wedding cake. You could—” He drags his palm along his jaw with a long-suffering look. “You could make it now, if you wanted? I’m sure it would be amazing.”
The compliment falls flat. Layla turns her head slowly, narrowing her eyes. “You think you deserve my cake? After everything?”
He drops his head back against the chair and sighs at the ceiling. Prancer hops off his lap and darts beneath the desk. “I’m trying here, Layla. I really am. I hate fighting with you.” He glances at the discarded zucchini bread and swallows heavily. “What can I do to make this better?”
She watches him for a long minute. Tension blankets the room. Part of me wants to leave, but another part of me is afraid of what might happen if I do.
Finally, Layla’s shoulders curl forward, defeated.
“I didn’t even know you were thinking of proposing,” she says. “You didn’t tell me. You told me about Clarabelle biting through her fourth leather leash, and you told me about the duck’s feeding schedule, but you never once mentioned that you planned to make Evie your wife.” She sniffs. “I should have been there. With a cake and a very tasteful speech. But instead, you snuck off in the middle of the afternoon and got married by some—by some hot dog cart vendor.”
Beckett blinks, shifts in his chair, and then clears his throat. He looks uncomfortable and for good reason. No one likes to see Layla cry. “He didn’t marry us. He was just the witness.”
“Who was?”
“The hot dog cart vendor.”
“Whatever.” She turns her face away. “I don’t care.”
She very much does care. It’s why the three of us are sitting in an awkward silence that’s only interrupted by Beckett’s cat digging her nails into the wood beneath Stella’s desk.
“Layla,” Beckett says. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. It was…it was a spur of the moment decision.” Layla snorts, but Beckett sits up in his seat, hand messing with his hat again. “Really. It was. I didn’t even propose, I just—I woke up and saw her in the kitchen making coffee. Her socks were mismatched, and she had this line from her pillow on her cheek, and I don’t know, I asked her to marry me. I didn’t even have a ring. Or a plan. Obviously.”
Layla glances at him, weighing the truth of his words. “Where did that fancy emerald come from, then?”
I reach across the desk and pull the tray of zucchini bread on my lap, captivated.
The tips of Beckett’s ears turn red. “There was a pawnshop down the street from the courthouse.”
I groan. “You got your wife a ring from a pawnshop?”
Beckett shrugs and looks down at his boots, fingers plucking at some of the stuffing that’s squeezing out of the beaten-up cushion he’s sitting on. Stella really needs to replace the furniture in here. “Neither of us wanted to wait. She said it didn’t matter.”
