Page 47 of Layla

I don’t know exactly why, but I have a feeling he’s right.

* * *

I’m confusedwhen I wake up in the morning. The room is bright with sunlight—a complete anomaly for me. I can’t remember the last time I awoke to sunlight. Because I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. I roll over and catch a glimpse of a pile of messy blankets on the floor and it all comes rushing back to me. John showing up with pizza and the movie, helping me dye my hair. Sleeping next to me. I peer over the side of the bed, terrified of what I might see. And I don’t know what sounds scarier—that he’ll be gone or that he’ll still be there.

John is sleeping on his side, his hands under his cheeks like a picture of a baby angel, his knees curled up towards his chest. He looks for all the world like a little boy, innocent and sweet. Relaxed for once. No hint of his usual scowl or careful control.

My breath slows as I watch him sleep, his dark eyelashes long and splayed out over his cheeks. His stubble is more prominent than it had been last night, and his undershirt is pulled up a little on the side, displaying the smooth tan skin of his hip. He shifts a little and I realize that he’s wearing boxers—he must have taken off his pants while I was in the bathroom last night.

Suddenly his eyes pop open, his gaze going straight to my face like he knew exactly where he’d find me. “Purple,” he murmurs sleepily, and I touch a strand of my hair. “I forgot.”

“You clearly haven’t looked at your fingers yet.”

He pulls them out from under his cheek, frowning. “This will be fun to explain to my team,” he mutters.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t give me your fragile masculine bullshit, John. Purple is a perfectly acceptable color for any gender.”

He yawns, sitting up, and my heart stutters at the sight of the skin on his belly when he raises his arms over his head to stretch. “Acceptable for any gender,” he agrees. “Not so acceptable for tough and scary bodyguards.”

I give him a confused look. “Sorry, are you under the impression you’re scary?”

He swats my shoulder as he stands and heads to the bathroom. “You wanna go down for breakfast?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Sure,” I call back. Shit, this feels so…domestic. Waking up in the same room. Talking about breakfast plans. I have no idea what to make of it so I get out of bed and get to work on making the coffee. By the time John emerges from the bathroom, the sharp aroma is already filling the room.

“Oh, thank God,” he moans, reaching for a mug. I notice that he’s put his pants back on. Bummer.

“Wait your turn. I get the first cup.”

“Yes ma’am.” He rests his hip against the counter while the machine continues to brew. “What’s on the agenda today?”

I shrug. “I can never keep track anymore. We give interviews, I play my drums. Rinse and repeat.”

He chuckles. “I think it’s a few radio spots this morning.”

“Sounds fun.”

He watches me. “Do you enjoy your job?”

I look up at him in surprise. “Of course I do. Why?”

He shrugs. “Seems like it stresses you out.”

I frown, thinking about that. “I mean, it does, I guess. Sometimes. But there’s nothing else in the world I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“I suppose this tour is more stressful than usual.”

His words make me tense, reminding me of why he’s here, of the danger I might be in. “What about you?” I ask, feeling a little sharp all of a sudden. “Do you enjoy your job? Because youdefinitelyseem stressed out.”

“It pays the bills,” he says and that stings for some reason.

“Well I’m so happy to be able to help you out with that.” I turn back to the coffee maker, needing a distraction.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, voice soft.

“I’m not mad,” I snap. Why in the hell is this coffee taking so long?

“Layla.” His voice is quiet, but firm. Demanding. For some reason I feel the little hairs on my arms stand on end. “Look at me.”