Page 22 of Fighting Chance

“If they’re cranky and don’t want to eat something, yes.”

“How do you know so much about this stuff?” I ask as she adds colorful plastic spoons, forks, and knives too. “You don’t have a secret kid in hiding, do you?”

“Funny,” she snorts. “But no, my cousins all have kids. I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.” Rounding the corner, she pops that bottom lip between her teeth, back to checking out the items.

Fuck, I should be reading alongside her. She shouldn’t really be doing this at all and yet here I am, leaning against the cart, following her like a distracted puppy because well…

Layla’s back.

Not that she ever left my mind.

“And yes, I’m still looking for a job.”

My eyes snap up. An emotion passes across her face but before I can decipher it, it’s gone.

We finally stumble upon the clothing aisle and sift through the racks, guessing Emmy’s size. I decide to go up two sizes from the clothes she’s currently in now and it seems Layla had the same thought. I pick out onesies, dresses, tops, and pants. It’s the middle of August so winter gear isn’t needed yet; I’ll do another large haul for her before then.

I’ll take her shopping next week to children stores to let her pick stuff out. If she chooses her own clothes and toys, maybe it can give me a peek into what she likes and that shy little personality she’s hiding.

Layla and I fall into a comfortable silence but the words I need to speak are building on my tongue and I don’t know why I can’t seem to force them out. Squaring my shoulders, I take a steadying breath, pushing my panic, and oddly, my fear of rejection down deep as I turn to her and ask, “Would you work for me?” I quickly go on to explain as she cranes her head to look at me. “For Emmy…would you be interested in a nannying job?” I have no fucking clue why I feel so exposed right now. “I don’t want to hire a stranger to look after her and, well, after you got her to speak, I feel like she would be comfortable with you.”

To give myself something to do as Layla continues to stare at me, I place the sunflower top in my hands in the cart, adding to the pile. “I’d pay you a very comfortable salary, along with health insurance. Your schedule would have to be flexible because of my games, and when I go away, you’d have to stay at my house with Emmy?—”

“This isn’t a pity job, is it?”

I trail off, in shock. “Why would it be a pity job?”

Layla’s swallow is audible as she averts her eyes, embarrassment tinting her cheeks. “Because I haven’t been able to land a job yet.”

Stepping forward, I gently place my hand on hers, drawing her attention. “I don’t pity you, Layla, far from it,” I say earnestly. “And no, it’s not why I’m offering. I trust you and clearly Emmy sees the goodness in you too, otherwise she wouldn’t have spoken.”

Something I said landed, and in replacement of her wariness is elation.

“I’d love to,” she breathes. “I love children. I want to be?—”

“An elementary teacher,” I finish for her, smiling as she reacts with surprise.

“How did you know?”

Stepping back, I shrug. “Bella told me.”

“Keeping tabs on me, Ashford?” she asks, cocking her hip.

“Always,” I half joke, though it’s not entirely a lie.

She licks her lips. “I feel like we need to have a conversation about my health before you officially offer me a job to take care of your daughter.”

Leaning against the clothing rack, I fold my arms over my chest, noting how her gaze flicks to my biceps and lingers. “How was Berlin?” I ask, although I only do that so I don’t sound like a creep. Little does Layla know I hounded Bella almost every day for updates on her medical treatment. When it became apparentLayla wasn’t going to respond to me, I had to get creative. Something tells me Layla would cuss me out for that.

Is it weird that I want Layla to cuss me out?

She nods, a small smile stretching across her plush lips. “Good. Actually, really good. Just a pill a day and it keeps my symptoms at bay.”

I make my brows rise in feign surprise, pretending like this is the first I’m hearing of it. “That’s amazing. I’m really happy for you, Layla. You deserve it.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “But it didn’t fully heal me. I still have lupus, always will. I could have a flare-up any day.”

Despite her words, she lifts her chin with such determination it takes everything in me not to smile. You wouldn’t know it when you meet Layla—the kindness that is so ingrained in her is disarming—but beneath it, there’s a type of spark that only a survivor has. She’s endured a lot and she’s a fighter through and through.