Page 65 of Layla

I’m reaching for her arm before I can stop myself. I know she’s pissed, know she has every right to be, but I can’t seem to control my hand. I have to be touching her. “Of course it does.”

She watches me for a long moment and I can’t read her expression, the mixture of anger, sadness, and what I’m pretty sure is fear too complicated to wrap my mind around. Finally, she pulls her arm away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m sotired.”

My chest tightens at those words, pain lancing through me. “I know.”

She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. “I’m going. Please don’t follow me.”

I can’t do that. Haylee’s room is on the floor below us. There’s no way I’m letting her get on the elevator alone at this time of night, still drunk. The fact that she feels she needs to get away from me twists the pain in my gut. “I’ll get someone to walk you down.”

For just a second, I think she might start crying. She looks so defeated, so completely unlike herself. Every instinct in my body is telling me to touch her, to hold her, to find a way to make this go away for her.

Before I can do more than take a step towards her, the elevator dings at the end of the hall. Layla’s eyes go wide as she peers over my shoulder at whoever just got off. I glance behind me to see Dylan staggering towards us, an open bottle of beer in his hand. “Layla! I didn’t think I’d see you for a while. Don’t tell me—Conner was a disappointment?”

She laughs and all I hear is bitterness in the sound. “You have no idea.”

“Bummer. Maybe next time you’ll pick someone more worthy.” He waggles his eyebrows at her. Then he seems to notice me for the first time, his gaze darting between us. “You okay?”

Her expression relaxes but I can see the effort behind it. I wonder if Dylan can too.

He takes a step closer, angling his body between us, and I realize he can see a hell of a lot more than I might have given him credit for. “Trouble sleeping?”

“You know me,” she murmurs.

He glances back at me one more time, then slings an arm over her shoulder. “Come on, then. I have some chocolate chip cookies in here.”

“Dyl, you don’t have to—”

But he’s already nudging her towards his door, away from me. “Girl, you know you sleep better when you can hear me snoring. I’ll take the couch.”

As he opens the door, she lets her head drop to his shoulder. “Thanks,” she mumbles.

“My pleasure,” he says in his usual bright voice. Then the door is closing behind them. Neither of them looks back at me. Neither of them say goodnight. Instead I find myself alone in the hallway for the second time tonight, staring at a closed door hiding the woman I want more than anything to comfort.

But once again, she found someone else to comfort her. Someone who can do a damn better job at it than me.

* * *

I didn’t thinkit was possible to feel worse, but the next morning I sure as hell do. I barely slept and my head is pounding. And neither my sunrise run or the gallon of coffee I drink do anything to banish the sick feeling that took up residence in my stomach last night.

Layla looks about as bad as I feel when I walk her and Dylan down to breakfast in the hotel restaurant the next morning. The band is supposed to be meeting there before heading out for whatever promo Louis has planned for the day. Layla, of course, doesn’t spare me a glance, walking immediately to the table Haylee is sharing with James and bypassing the breakfast buffet entirely. I take up position on the side of the dining room, trying to do my job and keep an eye on the room—instead of just staring at her the way I want to.

“I don’t think she slept at all, man,” I hear Dylan mutter to Lance as they pile their plates with pancakes at the buffet.

Lance looks worried, his gaze drifting over to where Layla sits with Haylee and James, drinking coffee silently while the two of them laugh about something.

“…I’m pretty sure she didn’t even hook up with that guy,” Dylan is saying, and I’m ashamed of the rush of satisfaction I feel at those words. “Which is totally not like her.”

“He was a loser,” Lance argues, slapping another pancake on his plate before they move off. “Layla doesn’t fuck around with losers.”

They walk away from the buffet and since I can’t exactly follow them to eavesdrop, I don’t hear the rest of their conversation. But I can’t help but notice how often Lance’s eyes drift over to Layla while he eats. He’s worried. Dylan is worried. Fuck,I’mworried.

And when Louis walks in fifteen minutes later, I can tell that he’s worried too. His eyes narrow on Layla for a long moment. “Over here,” he calls to Dylan and Lance, gesturing at the table next to the others. “Schedule.”

Dylan’s expression is optimistic. “You’re getting us out of this stupid hang-out with the Rolling Stone reporter?”

“You’re doing the hang-out,” Louis says. “But the venue has changed.” He waits for Dylan and Lance to take their seats.

“You mean they’re not going to follow us around while we smooth-talk radio hosts?” Lance asks. “Good, because that contrived bullshit drives me crazy. Let’s just sit in a room with them and answer their questions like a normal interview and be done with it.”