by Jeannie Watt
She studied him warily. “I, uh, wanted to thank you for bringing me home Saturday night. And…I hope your eye is all right.”
“It’s feeling better.”
She drew in an audible breath. “Yes. Well. Sorry about that. I can see that you’ve been taking something for the pain.”
“My favorite painkiller.” He lifted the bottle of Black Butte Porter he held in his right hand, and Layla suppressed a grimace. Dark beer. Uck.
“How many have you had?”
“A few. The game’s on and you know how it is with guys, beer and games.”
“You sit home alone, drink beer and watch sports?”
“The hookers should be arriving any minute.”
“Don’t start, Justin. We’re not fourteen anymore.” She met his eyes. “Well, I’m not, anyway.”
“You wouldn’t have known that from the other night.”
She didn’t have an answer for that one, but she did have another question. “Uh…what all did I tell you? After you brought me home?”
“You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”
“Let’s see…that bastard is sleeping with your trollop of a coworker.” He shrugged. “That about sums it up.”
Did she see pity in his eyes? Dear heavens, she hoped not, because she would not tolerate pity from Justin. “That’s all?”
“For the most part. I’m sorry about what happened.”
“I’m sorry about parts of it,” Layla said, thinking it was a sad day when she was confessing her troubles to Justin, even if he was rather intimately involved. But the situation was gnawing at her.
“What part?”
She looked up at him, meeting those rather amazing green eyes. Such a waste. He’d grown from an obnoxious skinny kid into a very striking guy. “The part where it affects my job.”
“Because of the trollop?” His shoulders were hunched against the brisk breeze that was blowing past him into his condo, and Layla heard the furnace kick on. Yet he stood in the open doorway, waiting for her response instead of sending her off and stepping back into his warm house.
“Yes, because of the trollop. I…” Layla gave an impatient, dismissive gesture. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
She blinked at his unexpected response. His expression remained serious. No smirk. Nothing. She narrowed her eyes slightly, gauging him. Something about this didn’t seem right.
Was it possible that he didn’t want to drink and watch the game alone? Well, if he was soliciting her company, then he must truly be desperate for companionship.
The hookers must have canceled.
Justin stepped back before she answered one way or the other, and gestured for her to come inside. Layla fought with herself briefly, then shrugged and walked into his front room, trying not to be too obvious as she took a quick inventory.
It was a guy place. Leather furniture, a giant TV where the Celtics were playing the Bulls with the sound muted. There was a pile of running shoes against the wall next to the front door and a cardboard box filled with women’s clothing. A black, lacy bit of lingerie was tossed carelessly on top. Oh, criminy. Was the woman, whoever she was, going to come home while Layla was here?
No. This looked more like a moving-out box. A toothbrush was jammed into one corner. No wonder Justin was looking for company. He probably wouldn’t mind a bit of sympathy, too.
“Have a seat,” he said as he shut the door and led the way across the room to the U-shaped sectional. Chalk-colored leather. Surprisingly tasteful, with a dark oak coffee table, strewn with cookbooks and sports magazines, nestled in the center of the U. Two empty beer bottles stood side by side at one end.
Layla perched on the edge of the sectional, impressed with how comfortable it was, and Justin settled a few feet away.
“So let’s hear this long story.”
“How drunk are you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not very, but if you don’t want me to remember, I won’t.”
He gave her that roguish Justin grin she was so familiar with, and Layla smiled in spite of herself. But the smile faded as she said, “One of the students at the lake took a photo of me throwing up in the bush and posted it on Facebook. Many concerned parents phoned in, and ultimately my principal decided to demote me to Life Skills and give Melinda my advanced English classes.”
“Who’s Melinda?” he asked. Layla raised her eyebrows significantly and he formed a silent “oh.” “The trollop?”
“The same.”
“Life Skills is bad?”
“Life Skills is a class for the kids whose parents can pay the steep Manzanita tuition, but who don’t perform at the desired level.”
“They have learning disabilities?” Justin asked with a slight frown.
“No. This has nothing to do with ability and everything to do with attitude. Students who can’t achieve but want to learn are in special tutorial classes. This class is for kids who won’t achieve. They are entitled and lazy, and the teacher’s job is to try to motivate them when they know they’re safe in their parents’ protection no matter what they do.”
“Why aren’t they just kicked out of the school?”
“Are you kidding? In this economy?” Layla rubbed her thumb and first two fingers together. “Money…”
Justin leaned back against the cushions, obviously more comfortable with the conversation than she was, and studied his beer for a moment.
“I taught this class before,” Layla continued darkly. “My first year. It was rugged. I hated it.”
And she’d never told anyone that before. Maybe she felt safe because he was drinking. Maybe she just needed to tell someone the sad truth—that she was in some ways a rotten teacher. “I meet with the principal tomorrow and we’ll hash this out.”
Hopefully, she’d be able to convince Ella that it would be disruptive to the students to change teachers nine weeks before the school year ended. Then she would convince her boss that the parents would forget about the unfortunate incident by the time the long summer break was over.
“What if she doesn’t budge?”
Layla’s throat closed slightly. “I…think I’d quit.”
“And then what?”
She gave a quick shrug. “I’d probably work for Sam until I get another teaching job.” She looked him in the eye before saying adamantly, “I’m not going to back down.”
“I don’t blame you. Life is too short to do something you hate for very long.”
Layla stared at him for a moment. As a teen, Justin had always done as he damned well pleased, and she’d often told herself that he was wrong to do so. That it was immature to follow the heart instead of the head. But honestly? She hadn’t been all that happy following her head, and life was short.
“What does Sam do now?” Justin asked. “Does she still have the bead store?”
“No. She has a small clothing and gift boutique that she started last year after the bead shop tanked. Sunshine of Your Love.”
Justin smiled. “No offense, but it sounds like a head shop.”
“It’s worse than that. She, uh…” Layla raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Sunshine of your love…”
“Sex toys?” Justin asked, unable to keep the delight out of his voice.
“Gifts for lovers to share,” Layla said primly. “Along with funky clothing, lingerie and regular items. Balloon bouquets, greeting cards.”
“I’d love to see the balloons.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“Your family is nuts, Layla.”
“I know.”
“I mean that in a good way.”
“What kind of good way? What could possibly be good about shirking responsibility?”
“How is it irresponsible to run a business?”
“If you saw how Sam did it, you’d understand.” The bead business had sunk slowly but surely as her sister bought stock and put off paying for it. But Sam had
n’t had much business traffic, either. Sunshine was doing much, much better. Apparently more people wanted to invest in their love life than in jewelry making.
Layla let her head fall back against the buttery-soft leather sofa cushions, but resisted the urge to close her eyes and luxuriate for a moment. None of her furniture was this good. She’d bought cheap stuff, saving her money for more important things, like her retirement fund.
This seemed so wrong. She’d formulated a plan, made sacrifices to stick to it, and everything was supposed to turn out all right. The end. She wasn’t supposed to be demoted back to Life Skills. Or have to go work for her sister, who couldn’t afford to pay her.
Justin got up and went into the kitchen on the other side of the breakfast island and opened the fridge. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asked. Layla shook her head and he pulled out a single beer.
“Do you always drink alone?”
“I’m trying hard not to,” he pointed out.
Layla scowled at his purposeful misinterpretation. “Did your girlfriend move out?”
Justin glanced over at the box. “Very astute, Watson.”
“It was the toothbrush.” And it explained why he was drinking.
“But, no, I don’t usually drink alone and it isn’t because of Cindy.” Spoken like a man.
“Why today? Special occasion?” To Layla’s surprise, there was a fleeting touch of bitterness in his answering smile. There, then gone.
“In a manner of speaking.” He held the unopened bottle loosely, contemplating it for a moment. “An anniversary of sorts.”
“I see.” But she obviously didn’t. And she’d never known Justin to be anything close to morose. It bothered her. “What kind of anniversary?”
He shrugged, and she could see he wasn’t about to give her a straight answer. Instead, he cocked his head, and the old Justin was back. The one she knew and could deal with. “What do you think about me, Layla?”
“Can I use long words? Or shall we stick with monosyllabic?”
“Your choice.”
“I think you’ve never had boundaries. You live life in a free-form way. I don’t believe you give a hoot for consequences. And because of that, sometimes you have to drink alone.”
“You think I’m irresponsible?”
Layla sighed. “Not exactly. I’m saying that in some aspects of your life you are more haphazard than in others.”
He studied her intently for a moment before saying, “Which aspects?” For some reason he needed her to spell it out. Fine. She’d spell.
“Well, judging from what went on in high school, you tend to be mercurial in your personal relationships.” She gestured toward the box. “How many of those have you had in your life?”
“A few,” he admitted.
“But on the other hand, you’re part of a successful business.” She shifted her head on the leather sofa cushion to look at him. “So who am I to judge?” And what could you possibly care about my thoughts after all these years?
She got to her feet. It seemed like a good time to go. In fact, suddenly she felt as if she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Something was off here…something that didn’t feel like it used to, and it was making her patently uncomfortable. Why was Justin asking her opinion of him? And in such a deeply serious way. And why was he suddenly looking like an attractive guy instead of her archrival?
“I need to get back home,” she said lamely. “I have…stuff to do.” More lameness.
“Do you make a spreadsheet or something for that?” he asked mildly. Layla didn’t bother answering. She picked up the case and Justin walked with her to the door. When they got there, he put his hand on the knob as if he was going to open it for her, then said, “We’ve been through a lot, you and I.”
“Meaning you made my life miserable when I was a kid? Yes.”
“If you hadn’t been so easy to mess with, so…reactive…”
“Blaming the victim, Justin?” she asked softly.
“You were never a victim. You gave as good as you got.” He touched his bruised cheekbone.
Funny, but she didn’t remember it that way. Maybe she’d tried, but… “I was never in your league, Justin, so it wasn’t a fair contest.”
He frowned a little, his expression distant, as if calling up a long lost memory—something that involved her, no doubt.
“No. You held your own.”
Never argue with the intoxicated—even the slightly intoxicated. She couldn’t judge how drunk he was. A little? A lot?
Layla smiled tightly and reached for the doorknob. Before she could turn it, Justin put his hand over hers, startling her. When her eyes flashed up at his, he slowly and deliberately lowered his head until their lips met. And heaven help her, she opened her mouth to his. Instinctively. Because that was what one did when kissed.
She could taste the beer on his tongue, felt an unexpected flash of heat shoot through her. Then she put both hands on his chest and pushed him back.
“You owe me an apology, Justin.”
He let out a soft exhalation. “I don’t agree, but I’ll tell you what. Do you want to work for your sister? If you do end up quitting tomorrow.”
“I…no.” She wasn’t going to argue that she wasn’t planning to quit. Justin wasn’t listening.
“Work for me then.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That would be so much better.” He was going off his rocker or he was much, much drunker than he looked. That was the only explanation for the kiss, the job offer. There was no explanation for her own response, except for the surprise and novelty factor. That was it. She didn’t have enough spontaneity in her life. Everything was always planned to the T. She’d have to do something about that—in a way that didn’t involve Justin.
“It’d be a perfect solution if worse came to worst. I need temporary help. Patty, my assistant, will be out for surgery next week. She’s supposed to be gone for six weeks, but if she knows I have another assistant, I bet she’ll be back in four.”
It figured that he had an angle. “I—”
“I’m not asking you to bake. I’m asking you to follow directions. In return, you’ll get a handsome paycheck and something new on your résumé while you look for that perfect next job. Plus I can probably give you more hours than Sam.”
What was Layla dealing with? Pity? Lust? Rebound effect? The thought of Justin rebounding with her was ludicrous. “No,” she said, taking refuge in extreme politeness. “But thanks for the offer.”
“Why not come work for me?”
She lifted one edge of her mouth in a gently smirking half smile. “Because you’re drunk and will regret making this offer in the morning. A condition I’m certain you’re used to, but this time I’m going to save you from yourself.”
She reached up to lightly touch his stubble-roughened cheek, just to show that she wasn’t the least affected by his kiss. “But thanks for the offer, Justin. I’ll see you around.”
He smiled at what was obviously a lie, since she was going to take great efforts not to see him, and stepped back. “Yeah, Layla. Sounds good.” He hoisted the bottle in a salute.
She was barely outside the door—retreating, as she always did after a confrontation with Justin— when what he’d said sank in: she’d given as good as she’d got.
Had she?
Maybe not, but it was never too late to set matters straight. She turned and knocked. Justin opened the door, a questioning expression on his face that froze there when she pulled his head down and kissed him.
“What was that for?” he said when she released him.
“That was for every time I’ve taken the high road and didn’t respond in kind to all the stuff you and Derek and Eric did to me.”
He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip. “I like the way you retaliate.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well…good.” With that Layla spun around and walked down the steps. It did feel g
ood to retaliate, and she wasn’t going to think about the part where kissing Justin was a turn-on.
CHAPTER FOUR
