Page 20 of Layla

His eyes are steady on my face. “Yeah. I’m starting to think that myself.”

Something about the tone of his voice has my stomach flipping, but he straightens a little, as if bringing himself back under that tight control. “It will be interesting. To do something different.”

“We’re definitely different,” I mutter, thinking about my bandmates, and he chuckles.

I hold up my now empty bottle. “So does that mean you don’t do cookies and milk with all of your clients?”

He looks down at me for a long moment and something in his face seems to change, to soften. His eyes look warmer, his mouth softer. It’s funny how those little details can alter a face so much.

“I can assure you, Layla,” he says, his voice low, “you are nothing like any of my other clients.”

For some reason, those words send a rush of warmth right through me. I’ve been given a lot of lines by a lot of guys—usually the ones trying to get into my pants. But somehow those simple words, coming from John, feel like one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever gotten. And he barely said anything at all.

“You should go to bed,” he murmurs, his expression still soft.

I look down, fiddling with the hem of my pajama top. “Are you going to sleep?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m going to try.”

I look up to see his expression has hardened again. I don’t know why that bothers me so much. “You have trouble sleeping too?”

He nods once, the motion curt, and I get the feeling that I’m being dismissed. I stand, not looking at him. “Well, I hope you have better luck tonight.”

“You too.”

I don’t look back at him as I stash my bottle in the recycling bin and hurry back to my bunk. But I can’t stop thinking about that look on his face, the hard, almost haunted one.

And I don’t sleep another wink the whole night.