Page 37 of Layla

“Don’t worry,” she mutters. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I stand in the hallway for a long time, just looking at her closed door, feeling like shit. It hadn’t really occurred to me that in trying to put professional distance between us, I would be hurting her feelings. But it was clear from the tone of her voice just now, the expression on her face, that I had done just that. And beyond that, it’s really fucking obvious that she’s lonely and feeling separated from her friends.

Which is basically all your fault,I think with a sigh. And I’ve been making it worse for her by being a grumpy ass.

I know that I should drop this. She’s in her room for the night, she’s safe. That’s the only thing that matters. But I can’t seem to shake off that desolate look on her face.

I’m moving towards the elevator before I consciously make the decision to, pulling out my phone as I go, trying to ignore the stern voice in my head telling me that this is a bad idea.

Thirty minutes later, I’m back in front of Layla’s door. There’s a long silence after I knock, long enough to make me worry that maybe she went out without telling me after all. I knock again and am relieved when the door swings open.

She’s changed since I left her, dressed again in flannel PJ pants—pink and purple ice cream cones this time—and a strappy little tank top that shows off way too much skin for my own good. Her face is clean of any makeup, her hair piled up on top of her head. And she’s gaping like she isn’t quite sure what to make of me.

I hold up the cardboard box in my hand. “Did you eat yet?”

She shakes her head mutely but steps aside so I can enter the room. The pizza box is hot, so I set it on the coffee table then hold up the other thing I brought—a DVD. “You said you might watch TV,” I explain. Why do I feel so fucking self-conscious? “I thought you might like this.”

She takes the case from me and stares it for a long moment. Finally, she looks up and I’m shocked to see that her eyes look wet. But she blinks quickly, and the moisture disappears. “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.This is my favorite movie.”

Her gaze is like a magnet, pulling me in, and I can’t look away. “I figured that.” When she looks confused, I add, “you read that book all the time.”

She blinks again, swallowing several times. “It’s kind of my comfort read.”

She looks embarrassed, vulnerable in a way I’m not used to from her. I want to ease that look in her eyes. Hell, I want to wrap her up in my arms and tell her there’s nothing for her to feel self-conscious about. That I love the fact she’s read that stupid book half a dozen times since I met her. That it’s the last book I would have ever expected her to love and there’s something so fucking endearing about that. I want to tell her that I sleep better on the bus when I know she’s feet away on the couch, that ratty paperback clutched in her hand.

But I can’t tell her any of that so instead, I plaster on what I hope is a neutral expression, and say, “for me it’s Jurassic Park. I’ve read that book at least twenty times.” I gesture at the pizza. “Hope you like everything on it.”

She just watches me for a long moment, like she’s trying to figure something out. Finally, she smiles, her grin so big and bright it makes something hitch in my chest. “I’m starving.”

Layla pulls beer from the mini-fridge while I set up the movie. “Where in the hell did you get a DVD at this time of night?” she asks. “Hell, where did you get a DVD thisdecade?Did you run down to Blockbuster with your secret time machine?”

I grin at her over the TV. “Turns out fancy hotels like this have concierges who will do just about anything to keep their big celebrity guests happy.”

She stops on her way to the living area, the hand not holding our beers going to her hip. “Are you telling me that you dropped my name to get that movie?”

I hold her gaze “Are you telling me that you’ve never used your fame to get something?”

She stares at me for a moment before laughing. “Well what the hell’s the point of being a famous rock star if I can’t use it to get cool shit?”

We both sit on the couch, Layla handing me a beer while I open the pizza box. Steam pours off the pie and Layla makes a little moaning sound that has all the blood rushing south of my belt.Stop being a creep,I tell myself.That’s not what you’re here for.

Which begs the question—what in the hellamI here for? There’s nothing in my job description that says it’s my responsibility to check on her, to cheer her up, to keep her company. There’s nothing in my job description that says I should be in her room at night, while she’s wearing PJs, acting like this is some kind of sleepover or something.

If I was smart, I would sit as far away from her as possible, not so close on the couch our knees are in danger of brushing. Hell, if I was smart, I would drop off the pizza and movie and go.

But I don’t do either of those things. Instead I settle back on the couch with a slice of pizza and a beer, Layla at my side, and I press play.