Page 84 of Layla

John

It blows my mind how Layla Perry continues to be able to surprise me.

I thought I’d gotten to know her pretty well out on the road. After all, I spent about sixteen hours a day, every day of the week, watching Layla’s every move. I had never imagined how much more there is to her. How much more there is that apparently only comes out when she’s with Dee.

Layla was wrong when she told me she had never had a home. After a single day, it’s obvious to me that Dee is her home. There might not be a house she can call her own, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a home. It wouldn’t matter where Dee moved—Layla will always be home with her.

For the first day, Dee encourages Layla to rest. She babies her, nagging her to nap, whipping up special treats in the kitchen, basically waiting on my girl hand and foot.

All that goes away on the second day. Apparently one day of coddling is enough in Dee’s book because as soon as we get up on morning number two she expects us—both of us—to get to work. Layla is still performing her usual morning routine of grumbling and hiding her head in the pillow when I make my way down to the kitchen. I figure I’ll bring her back a quick cup of coffee to help her get moving. Instead I find Dee holding out a flowered apron, dressed in the same hat and silly boots from the day before. She pushes me towards a cutting board on the counter. “I need to get out to the coop and gather up the eggs. You can chop those peppers for the omelets.”

She has the apron and a knife shoved in my hand before I can respond, bustling out into the cold with the oversized wool hat pulled low over her ears. That’s where Layla finds me ten minutes later. “You look good in florals,” she tells me, grinning at my apron.

I’ve barely managed to glare at her when Dee bangs into the kitchen, a basket in her hands. “Someone finally dragged herself out of bed,” she says pointedly. “Come crack these eggs, lazy bones.”

I’m surprised when Layla doesn’t offer up a snarky response. Instead she does as she’s told, taking the eggs from Dee with a kiss on the older woman’s cheek before she joins me at the counter. “Put you to work already, huh?”

“She’s kind of scary,” I say in a loud stage whisper.

Layla snorts. “Told you.”

After breakfast, Dee volunteers us to clean out the chicken coop and haul endless amounts of firewood from the barn to the house. When we’ve finished with that she insists on a long post-lunch hike, in spite of the frigid temperatures. When Layla moans about this, Dee tells her that fresh air and exercise is important and clearly lacking in her busy touring life. Layla grumbles the entire time, but I can tell that her heart isn’t in it. She might complain but the peaceful expression on her face tells me just how comfortable she is in this place.

On our third night at the farm, Layla catches me watching her over mugs of hot chocolate in front of the fire. She’s curled up on the worn couch across from me, engrossed in a ratty paperback. Dee went to bed about half an hour ago and from the way Layla keeps yawning, I have a feeling she won’t be far behind, even though it’s only ten o’clock—positively early for a rock star accustomed to touring. Out on the road, Intrigue wouldn’t even be finished with their last set at this time.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I jump a little when Layla slams her book down on her thigh. “What?”

Realizing that I’ve been staring at her for at least the last ten minutes, I shrug. “Nothing.”

Layla’s eyes narrow. “What, John?”

There’s something about the glint in her eye that has my heart rate picking up. Maybe I can convince her to go up to bed sooner than later.

“Just looking at you,” I say honestly.

She rolls her eyes. “Can’t take time off from the job even out here in the boonies?”

I shake my head. Could she really be unaware of how captivating I find her? How impossible it feels tonotlook whenever she’s near?

Since I know pointing that out will get me another eye roll, I change the subject. “What are you reading?”

Her cheeks pink a little as she holds up the book even while her expression turns fierce. Almost defiant. I read the title on the cover—something about a rouge duke—and grin. “Layla Perry, are you reading a romance novel?”

That defiant expression grows harder. “So?”

“Nothing.” I know I’m smirking as I try not to laugh. She just looks so gorgeous when she’s all pissy and fierce like this. “It just doesn’t seem like your type of thing.”

“You have a problem with romance novels?”

I hold up my hands. “I have zero problems with romance novels. I just saw you reading that Narnia book so many times—”

“So, a girl can’t enjoy fantasyandromance? Adventure stories are for boys, right?”

I’m not even attempting to hold back my chuckles now. She looks like she’s building up into a nice little rant and heaven knows I have no desire to stop it.

“Why are guys so judgmental about stereotypically feminine things?” she demands. “Just because romance is a genre completely centered on women it gets classified as less valuable than any of the equally fluffy things men like.”

I don’t bother to respond—her hands have started to wave in agitation, a clear sign she won’t be listening to me, anyway. “Romance is one of the top selling genres, did you know that? It practically pays for all the other genres! And it’s primarily written by women, for women, so of course men have to belittle it. Not to mention the fact that it focuses on female desire and might even help some women to feel less sexually repressed and—why are you looking at me like that?”