by BETH KERY
Realization hit her. “You’re mad about the Detroit visit next weekend, aren’t you? I’m sorry about that, Asher, but it’s been planned for months. I didn’t get a chance to explain about it.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m mad, exactly. Disappointed, maybe. Don’t you see? You’re still doing it, Laila. Trying to live in both worlds, never really committing to either one.”
“That’s not fair! What exactly would you have me do, Asher? You’re here for another week. Do you want me to drive you up to my parents’ house and explain to them how we’re sleeping together every chance we get, because apparently we have no self-control when it comes to each other?”
“No,” he bellowed so abruptly, she gasped in surprise. He exhaled and closed his eyes. “All I was saying before,” he said in a quieter, strained voice, “is that I was surprised you were so honest with Rafe about how you felt about me.” He opened his eyes and met her stare. “I was surprised you were so open with me. I didn’t mean to start a fight. I shouldn’t have said that about the curtain. I just meant that you can be careful at times, Laila. Part of you is always a bit of a mystery to me. Uncommitted. Unavailable. A little bit of you is always veiled.”
The burning in her eyes amplified. “I honestly don’t know why you feel that way. I’ve told you how much I regretted cutting all ties with you. You must know I’m crazy about you. I care about you in a way that I can’t completely put into words, but I feel it here,” she said, pushing her fist against her chest. “I feel it so much, I ache with it, Asher.”
“I do know that,” he said starkly. “But I also know you walked away.”
A pocket of air popped out of her throat. She looked up at the ceiling, helplessness nearly choking off her voice. “You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?”
“Yes,” he stated emphatically, coming toward her and grasping her shoulders. “I think I have forgiven you. There was probably nothing to forgive. You were a teenager, for Christ’s sake. I get that. I understand the expectations a Moroccan Muslim family would have for their young daughter. But I’m talking about right now. You still have it in you to walk away, Laila.”
“I’m not walking away! I’m right. Here,” she told him with succinct fierceness. She reached up and grabbed his dense biceps, squeezing them for emphasis. “If you want me, then here I am. What more can I do or say?”
A shudder coursed through his tense features. “I wish I could stop it, but I can’t. Ana kan bghik bezaf, gulbi ki darni.”
She winced in pain. Tears jetted down her cheeks. He’d said it better than her, both what she was feeling and what he was. I want you so much, my heart hurts. She’d never taught him that entire phrase in Darija. He’d learned it in the years they’d been apart. Somehow, she knew he’d learned and remembered it because of her. She began to tremble.
“Asher.”
They crashed together, their mouths battling, surrendering; their bodies straining. They fell onto the bed a moment later, clawing to rid each other of their clothing. Laila had the strangest sense of déjà vu. She didn’t understand why that was until after the storm of need had raged between them and left them exhausted and spent in each other’s arms.
It had reminded her of their intense anxiety once, long ago in Crescent Bay. They’d argued, and she’d expressed how confused she was. How torn. They’d made love wildly afterward. They’d been so mindless with desperation . . . so fearful of loss.
They’d been right to be scared. They’d been split apart within hours.
“It’s different now, Asher,” she whispered next to his neck. She raised her chin and saw that his eyes were open, and that he was watching her. “Please let it be different for us.”
He lifted his hand and cupped her face in that tender, focused way he had. She felt her heart swell and ache.
“I’ll let it be any way you want it to be, as long as you agree that there’s an us.”
“There will always be an us,” she promised in a choked voice before she pressed her lips to his.
Chapter Twenty-four
Asher awoke with a start. Sunlight streamed between the edges of the closed curtains. Someone was knocking persistently on the front door in the distance. He felt Laila rustle next to him, her silky, naked skin and long hair sliding against him. His body flickered with pleasure. Flashes of memory trickled across his consciousness, dragging emotion along with it. He delved his fingers into her long, unbound hair and cupped the back of her head.
“Asher?” she whispered sleepily.
He pressed his lips to her temple.
“It’s okay, beautiful. I’ll get it. Just relax.” He reluctantly released her, carefully covering her bare shoulders with the blanket. He slid along the mattress, getting out on his side of the bed.
Was he surprised when he opened the front door a few seconds later to see his mother standing there with a large box in her hands? Not entirely. No matter how bad the fight between them had been the other day, his mother had never missed one of his birthdays.
Besides. A birthday was an excuse to get together and bring him around to her way of thinking.
“Happy birthday,” she said brightly, stepping over the threshold and kissing him on the cheek. “Did I wake you? It’s past ten o’clock.”
“I was up late,” he said, accepting the box she thrust into his hands. “What’s this?”
“Oh, just a little something Lettie made for you.” Lettie had been working in the Winnetka residence as their cook since Asher was eight years old. He should have known his mother wasn’t responsible for the personal gift. “Lettie knows just what you like. She had it all boxed up and ready for you first thing this morning when I came down for breakfast.”
“So you’re here because Lettie remembered it was my birthday and made me a cake,” Asher said dryly, taking the box and walking with it toward the kitchen. He gave a silent nod of respect to Lettie. The cook clearly understood the undercurrents of strain between her employers and their son, despite all of his mother’s constant admonishments to not talk in front of the help. His mother would be floored if she ever actually understood how much the people she employed knew about her personal life.
“That was nice of Lettie,” he said neutrally.
“It wasn’t Lettie’s idea for me to come downtown and wish you a happy birthday,” his mother said as she followed him into the kitchen. He set the cake on the counter. Despite the fact that he didn’t want to, he heard the hint of hurt in his mother’s tone. He turned and kissed her cheek.
“I know that. Thanks, Mom.”
He hugged her. She reciprocated, albeit clumsily. His mom had never been much of a hugger. She squeezed his upper arms.
“My goodness, you’ve grown,” she said, sounding flustered as they separated. He laughed.
“I’m the same size as I was the last time you saw me.”
“Well,” she said, smoothing her bobbed brown hair even though not a strand was out of place. “You have grown, nevertheless. You’ve become quite an accomplished man,” she said, staring everywhere but at him. He opened his mouth to thank her. It had been the closest thing to a compliment that he’d heard from his mother in years. “Asher, go and put on some clothes,” she scolded before he could say anything. “You shouldn’t be answering the door naked.”
“I’m wearing pajama bottoms, Mom. What do you expect? I was sleeping,” he muttered, rolling his eyes at the fact that she had to revert to scolding instead of letting the warm moment unfold.
“Well, go and shower and get dressed anyway. I’ve scheduled a birthday brunch for us at the club.”
“Mom, I’m not alone.”
“What?” Her wide-eyed, askance look transferred to the entryway of the kitchen. Asher turned and saw Laila standing in the entryway, looking uncertain as to whether she should stay or try to escape. She wore the button-down shirt he’d
been wearing yesterday. The shirt fell on her pretty legs at midthigh. Her long hair spilled around her shoulders. She looked mussed and radiant and amazingly beautiful.
“Hello,” she said in her low, resonant, singular voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“You’re not interrupting,” Asher assured her. Part of his brain absorbed his mother’s stiff, increasingly imperious expression. It embarrassed the hell out of him, as usual. The familiar feeling was even stronger presently, because it was Laila witnessing it all. Out of long habit, another part of him was already determinedly ignoring his mother’s arrogance. “Mom, this is Laila Barek. Laila, this is my mother, Madeline Gaites-Granville.”
“Well. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” his mom said, giving Laila a puzzled, frigid once-over before she stepped forward and shook her hand. The formal gesture struck Asher as ridiculous, given Laila’s and his rumpled, just-rolled-out-of-bed condition.
“It’s nice to meet you as well. I’ve heard so much about you,” Laila said breathlessly, shaking his mother’s hand.
“That much? Really?” his mother said, stepping back and giving Asher a speculative, coldly amused glance. “You work fast, son. You’ve only been in town a few days.”
“I’ve known Laila for eight years,” he said, all too happy to puncture a hole in his mother’s superior bubble. It worked. She started and blinked, glancing at Laila more sharply this time.
“Eight years?”
“Yeah. In fact, I have you and Dad to thank for it. We met at Crescent Bay, that summer after I finished college,” Asher said evenly. He noticed Laila’s disbelieving, concerned glance, but it didn’t stop him from his mission of bringing his mother down a notch or two. “We fell hard for each other, back then.”
“And you’ve been in contact ever since then?” his mother asked in a high-pitched voice.
“No. We ran into each other unexpectedly a few days ago, here in Chicago,” Asher said. He stepped closer to Laila and put his arm around her, rubbing her hip. “You can imagine how happy we were to see each other again.”
“Yes, I can imagine. Barek, is it?” his mother asked, as if suddenly politely fascinated. Asher clenched his teeth hard at her sudden change of behavior.
“Yes,” Laila said.
“Laila Barek,” his mother mused. “I’m trying to recall if Asher has ever mentioned you, but I’m coming up short. I’m sure I’d remember the name. It’s lovely. Is it Spanish, by chance? You have a look I associate with traveling along the Mediterranean coast there—”
“Mom—” Asher interrupted impatiently, seeing where this was headed.
“Just on the other side of the Mediterranean from Spain, actually. My family comes from Morocco,” Laila said, cutting off Asher in turn.
“Morocco,” his mother said stiffly after a pause. “How . . . exotic.”
Asher refrained from rolling his eyes again. Instead, he pulled Laila closer. His mother noticed his protective gesture. She inhaled, as if to clear her head of the image of the two of them, and smiled widely. “Well, I can see you’re not available to celebrate your birthday with your mother. You have much more interesting company. Would it be too much of an inconvenience if I were to ask you to the house tomorrow for lunch? I’ll ask your father to be there, as well.”
“To celebrate my birthday?” Asher asked.
“Of course. And to talk, as well. We have some unfinished business,” she said briskly, buttoning her coat.
“I told you we were done getting together for business,” he reminded her quietly. Firmly.
His mother’s mouth trembled slightly. Guilt swept through him, the feeling annoyingly familiar. “Just to celebrate your birthday, then. You are still our son. Aren’t you?”
“Of course. If you still want to be my parents.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So it will just be a pleasant lunch? No talk about the trust fund or my job?” Asher pressed.
His mother lifted her chin. He could see her mind whirring, trying to come up with a loophole.
“Mom?” he asked warningly. “And you’ll remind Dad of all that?”
“Oh, all right. Fine,” she snapped. She glanced at him skittishly. “I’m just worried about your father and you. It’s not right, this falling-out you’ve had. I don’t want you to disappear to the other side of the world again with things the way they are.”
“I don’t want that either,” Asher admitted honestly.
He spied her anxiety, her vulnerability . . . a fragility that was usually masked so well behind her cool indifference. He glanced quickly at Laila while his mother fussily rearranged her purse on her forearm. One look at Laila’s compassionate expression, and he knew Laila had noticed it too.
“You’ll come, then?” his mother asked crisply, her armor back in place.
“I’d like to bring Laila.”
His mother’s fiddling fingers froze. He was aware of Laila looking up at him in disbelieving surprise, but he didn’t meet her stare. He just continued to stroke her hip as a means of assurance.
“I don’t think I can,” Laila said. He looked down at her. “My agent is in town, and I have a rehearsal scheduled tomorrow at twelve thirty.”
“Can I come and watch?” he asked earnestly.
She glanced over at his mom, clearly tongue-tied as to how to respond.
“What about the next day for lunch, then?” his mother snapped before Laila could reply. Asher just raised his eyebrows expectantly as he looked down at Laila.
“Um . . . I’m so sorry, but I’m busy then too. But please . . . don’t not go on my account,” she told Asher.
“I’d like Laila to be there,” Asher told his fuming mother calmly. “Is there any other day we can make work?”
His mom looked scandalized and furiously tight-lipped. Laila appeared totally confused. He prompted both of them until they came up with a day they agreed upon.
“Friday for lunch, then,” Asher finally said. “It’s all settled. We’ll be there, Mom.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, Asher,” Laila said quietly once the door had closed behind his mother and they were alone.
“Why not? I want them to meet you,” he said, walking past her and picking up his phone to check messages.
“They won’t want me there. Did you see the way your mother was looking at me?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “I did. I’m sorry about that,” he said honestly.
“You invited me to go with you to get back at her for being rude,” Laila said, her mouth tightening into an angry line.
He tossed down the phone onto the desk and walked into her. He took her into his arms and dropped a kiss on her mouth, softening it from the anxious frown she wore. “You’re right,” he admitted. “But only partially,” he interrupted when she opened her mouth to scold hm. “Mostly, I want them to meet you because they’re the only family I have. I want them to know the woman who is so important to me. It’s probably just like your cousin Driss wants your family to meet his fiancée. It’s not so strange, Laila.”
He took advantage of her lips parting in disbelief and leaned down to taste her.
• • •
Later that afternoon, Asher hung up his phone and checked the time. He’d just gotten off the phone with the Gazette’s managing editor. Apparently, his father hadn’t been successful in his threat to call in a favor and have Asher’s new job taken away from him. Avery Sennet, his new direct boss, sounded as firm and enthusiastic as ever about Asher reporting for work in London in a few weeks. Sennet’s secretary had even gotten on the phone and described some details about how he could pick up the keys for the flat they’d arranged for him to lease near Leicester Square.
Sennet had given him some good news during the phone call. Maybe that news had contributed to Sennet’s enthusiasm ab
out him starting work. Maybe it also related to Sennet’s apparent willingness to ignore Asher’s father’s intrusions into him taking the job, if his father had indeed tried to interfere as he’d threatened.
At any rate, the phone call made his impatience to see Laila again spike. He wanted to share the good news. Talking to Sennet and making plans for his move to London also made him anxious.
He’d be leaving Chicago so soon. Leaving Laila’s arms.
He checked the clock on the desk and frowned. Where was she? She’d left after she’d showered and dressed earlier, insisting she just needed to run a couple errands downtown. She’d been elusive about what the errands were and why they were so important. It had been nearly three hours since she’d left. Had she been put off by that comparison he’d made to him wanting her to meet his parents and Driss bringing his fiancée home to Detroit?
He was in the process of trying to call her when a call came in from the front desk. It was his doorman. Laila had arrived.
He opened the front door a moment later. The question he’d been about to ask her about where she’d been and what had taken her so long faded from his tongue when he saw her glowing expression and the bag hanging at her side. A plaid gift-wrapped box stuck out of the top of it.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” she exclaimed, crossing the threshold and going up on her toes to kiss him. She smelled like autumn air and her fresh floral perfume. He resisted an urge to pull her closer and bury his face in her neck when she backed away. “I was having trouble finding exactly what I wanted.” She dangled the bag in front of him. “Happy birthday, Asher.”
“That’s where you were this whole time? Looking for a birthday present? For me?”
“Who else, goofy?” she asked, grinning and unbelting her long suede coat. She paused as she slid her coat off her shoulders. “Why are you frowning like that?”
