Page 17 of Layla

Once he has the coffee brewing, he opens an upper cupboard, rooting around. I swallow—Haylee really wasn’t kidding about him being built—and avert my eyes so I’m not staring at his flexing back muscles through that snug white dress shirt.

A few minutes later, he joins me on the couch, a sleeve of cookies in one hand, a mug in the other, a bag of pretzels lodged under his arm. “I didn’t know if you’d want salty or sweet,” he says, his voice back to that same businesslike tone from earlier.

“I always vote for chocolate,” I say, reaching for the cookies.

“Good to know.”

He settles on the couch next to me, just far away enough to be appropriate, and takes a sip of his coffee. I munch on my cookie, watching in fascination as he sets his cup down and begins to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt. He works quickly, his movements precise and efficient, the way he seems to do everything, rolling each sleeve up to reveal toned forearms, his skin golden in the dim light of the bus. There’s something about the way his tan skin contrasts with the white of his dress shirt. Something about the juxtaposition of the relaxed look of those rolled-up sleeves and the rest of his tightly restrained, carefully controlled persona. My throat goes dry.

“Watch out, John,” I say, needing to make a joke out of it so I’m not tempted to lean over and lick the flexing muscles in his forearms. “You might actually get comfortable if you roll your sleeves up. Next thing you know you’ll lose the tie, too, and then you’ll be completely disheveled.”

His expression doesn’t change but his eyes travel over to my legs, stretched out to rest my feet on the coffee table. “Nice jammies.”

I wiggle my toes against the edge of the table, showing off my polka-dot clad fleece pajama bottoms.

“Why is it that I keep running into you when I’m wearing something completely inappropriate and you’re wearing a suit?”

“A suit requires a jacket, Miss Perry.”

“I am shocked that you’re a stickler for details, Mr. Whitmore.”

“You can call me John, you know.”

“You always call me Miss Perry.”

His gaze is inquisitive as he studies my face. “That bothers you?”

I shift in my seat. “I’m not the biggest fan of my last name.”

His expression remains neutral, just like always. “Why not?”

Because it’s the only thing I have left from my garbage mother, I think, but I don’t say that. “I just don’t.” I grab my milk and take a long pull, hoping he gets the hint and drops it. Unfortunately, he turns his attention to my beverage of choice instead.

“So, you drink chocolate milk when you can’t sleep,” he says. “Does that happen often?”

“Jesus, you ask a lot of questions.”

He shrugs. “Part of the job.”

“You have late night inquisitions over cookies and milk with all of your clients?”

He raises his cup. “Only one of us is drinking milk.”

“Let me guess. You don’t even put milk in your coffee.”

“I prefer black coffee, yes.”

I nod. “Figures.”

He shifts on the couch so he’s facing me more fully. “Why does that figure?”

I gesture at him. “It just goes along with this whole shtick you have going on here.”

“I have a shtick?”

“Come on. You’re Mr. By the Book.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”