“Clothes,” Sophie said. “Maybe some throw pillows or shelves. I could use some shelves for that little corner by the patio door. I bought those two blown-glass sculptures at the pier last month, and I have nowhere to put them.”
“I don’t need anything,” Nat said.
“I respectfully disagree,” Sophie said. “Your studio needs a complete makeover.”
“It’s functional,” Nat said with a sniff.
“It’s criminal,” Sophie said. “All that glorious potential, and you haven’t done a thing with it.”
“I hung some pictures.”
“That I gave you. On hooks that were on the wall from the last tenant. The arrangement doesn’t even make sense.” Sophie turned to me. “We should go on a shopping spree for Nat’s place.”
“We should probably ask Brooklyn,” I said, thinking the weekend was supposed to be all about her. And I’d make it all about her, too, if I could only track her down.
My eggs Benedict arrived, looking outstandingly delicious.
“Brooklyn will go for it. She loves shopping,” Sophie said.
I took a first bite. It was to die for.
I’d be happy to shop or sightsee or hit the pool deck. I’d even go for another massage. I’d always go for another massage.
“In that case, we can shop for Brooklyn,” Nat said. “I don’t want to clutter my place up with knickknacks and dust collectors.”
“Another word for them is art.” Sophie smirked as she went for her phone. “If the bride says we’re redecorating your studio, we’re redecorating your studio.”
“That’s not how it works,” Nat said.
“It’s exactly how it works.” Sophie held her phone to her ear.
“I’m counting on you,” Nat said to me. “Talk some sense into her.”
“I can’t see redecorating your apartment being Brooklyn’s first choice,” I said honestly.
My money was on Fisherman’s Wharf or Golden Gate Park.
“She’s not answering,” Sophie said.
I hoped that meant Brooklyn was in a shower at the gym. She should really get over here and try some of these eggs.
“What the heck?” Sophie said, surprise in her tone.
I looked up.
She put her phone under my nose with a friend-finding app open. I squinted, but it was too close for me to see the little map.
When she spoke again, she sounded completely baffled. “What’s Brooklyn doing back at the airport?”
* * *
My first thought was Brooklyn had been kidnapped.
It was the only thing that made sense.
She had no reason to leave the hotel voluntarily. We had spa appointments, and there were Belgian waffles and hot chocolate on the menu. What more could a woman ask for?
I wanted to call the police right away, but Nat convinced me they’d need more evidence before they opened a missing-person case. Brooklyn was an adult, and she hadn’t been gone very long by law-enforcement standards.
Nat was right.
I was letting emotion overrule reason. That wasn’t like me at all.
Instead, we checked the hotel room and discovered Brooklyn’s suitcase was gone.
I took heart from that. I took that to mean she’d left willingly. Our best guess was that there’d been an emergency in the middle of the night—maybe a medical emergency, presumably one of her family members, maybe her mom or dad.
If something had happened to James, they would definitely have called me, too. Still, it made no sense that she wouldn’t wake me up. I’d have gone with her.
While I was pondering the mystery, I came across her note.
I opened my mouth to alert Sophie and Nat. But then I read it and my heart sank to my toes.
I didn’t say a thing. Instead, I hid the damning words in my jeans pocket.
“She’s off-line,” Sophie said, holding out her phone on the friend-finding app.
Brooklyn’s icon had disappeared.
“Did she get on a plane to Seattle?” Nat asked.
“Possibly,” I said.
“Should we go after her?” Sophie asked.
We should. We would. At least I would.
But I was going by myself. I didn’t know much, but I knew Brooklyn hadn’t gone back to Seattle.
“We don’t know for sure where she went,” I said. “Let’s not all rush off.” There, that sure sounded more like rational me.
It took me a few precious minutes, but I convinced Sophie and Nat to sit tight at the hotel, promising to track down Brooklyn and bring her back to San Francisco to finish off the weekend.
As I made my way to the airport, the note weighed heavy in my pocket.
Layla, it had said. I’m more sorry than you can know. I’ve tried so hard, but I can’t marry James. I’ve met my soul mate. Please forgive me.
Her soul mate? What was she talking about, her soul mate?
James was her soul mate. He was the love of her life. They were fantastic together.
Sitting on a hard, plastic chair in the airport, staring at the departure board, I hunted through my phone and looked up the airspeeds of commuter jets, considering the radius of the distance Brooklyn could have traveled by now, and mapping out the cities in the circle: Sacramento, Reno, Los Angeles.
I rehearsed the many ways I could talk some sense into her.
It had to be temporary insanity—the stress of a five-hundred-guest wedding, or her mother fussing over the dresses and the flowers and the dinner. Or maybe it was James wanting children right away.
I knew Brooklyn wanted to wait a couple of years before they had kids. I didn’t think the disagreement had been a deal breaker. But what did I know?
I knew I was going to find out.
I knew that much.
I thought about phoning James. But I couldn’t exactly call him out of the blue and ask about his future kids. Plus, he’d want to talk to Brooklyn. I’d have to say she wasn’t with me.
He’d try to call her, and who knew where that would lead. Nowhere good, that was for sure.
The marker for Brooklyn’s phone suddenly appeared on my screen.
My heart jumped. I’d found her!
She was in Las Vegas.
I was on my feet and heading for the bank of check-in counters while I scrolled to see which airline had the next flight to McCarran Airport.
A few more searches on my phone, a plane ride and an Uber ride later, and I was in the lobby of the Canterbury Sands Hotel.
Brooklyn’s phone told me she was here. Since I wasn’t with NASA or the CIA, the accuracy of the app was spotty, and I couldn’t pinpoint her, but she was definitely here somewhere.
I glanced around. The hotel lobby was posh luxury as far as the eye could see: marble columns, carved woodwork, potted palms, discrete lighting and leather armchairs set into corners and alcoves.
Since she wasn’t conveniently hanging around in the lobby, I tried the front desk. Brooklyn wasn’t registered. Or maybe she was registered, but the professional staff knew better than to reveal personal information about their guests.
I tried explaining I was Brooklyn’s maid of honor and we were getting ready for a wedding. But the female desk clerk seemed unimpressed.
I supposed a wedding in Vegas was hardly a monumental event. I’d seen a bride in a limo as my Uber had turned into the hotel drive and another was visible right now posing for photos outside in the garden.
This bride looked gorgeous, and her groom looked happy, as he joked and jostled with his friends. I loved weddings. Who didn’t love weddings?
When the bridal party moved on, and Brooklyn still wasn’t anywhere in sight, I found an empty table in a lounge at the side of the lobby. I was going to wait it out. Odds were she’d pass by this central point sometime.
I’d tried calling her again, but she hadn’t answered. I wasn’t about to let her know I was in Vegas. I didn’t think she’d run from me again, but it was possible.
I decided it was better to confront her in person. I wanted to see her expression when I asked what I had to ask—which was what the heck did she think she was doing?
It was hot, and I was thirsty, so I ordered a five-dollar cola. I was hungry, too, since I hadn’t had a chance to finish my divine eggs Benedict. But I couldn’t bring myself to order a twenty-five-dollar snack.
This might be a weekend of indulgence, but I had limits. I’d seen the waiter pass by with the order for another table. They served designer food here. Three shrimps and a swirl of greenery weren’t going to impact my hunger in any meaningful way. So why waste the money?
I’d texted Nat before the plane took off, so they knew I was on Brooklyn’s trail. I kept the soul mate thing—which struck me as a temporary thing—to myself for now. Instead, I let them assume Brooklyn was blowing off steam in the run-up to the wedding.
She was, in a way. Just not in a good way.
Halfway through my glass of cola, my attention caught on a man on the other side of the lounge. He rose and was moving in my general direction. He stopped at one table and chatted, then he stopped at another, and then he waved to a third.
I’m admittedly not the best at facial recognition. Every September I have to make a seating chart for each class and then work really hard to memorize the students’ faces. But even with my limited skill, and at this distance, I could swear this was shaggy-neat-hair guy from San Francisco.
I squinted in the dim lounge light, watching him walk and talk and smile.
Then he looked me straight in the eyes, and my chest jolted with that same electricity. Either this was him, or I was a huge sucker for a particular type.
He was coming straight toward me now. Then again, I was sitting near the exit. I told myself not to get too excited. But when it came to good-looking, possibly eligible men, myself didn’t listen much.
My brain started to hum. I should keep eye contact. I should smile. I should say something.
“Hello,” he said, slowing to a halt next to my table.
“Hi.”
A beat went past in silence.
I started to break it. “Were you by any chance—”
I stopped, distrusting my own memory and not wanting to look foolish. Then I told myself to speak up. That was what I told my students. If you have a question, speak up. There are no stupid questions.
“Were you by any chance just in San Francisco?” It did sound foolish when I said it out loud. Worse, it sounded like a line. I might as well have said: “Do you come here often?”
Sweat instantly gathered at my hairline.
“The Archway?” he asked.
Relief rushed through me. I wasn’t imagining things. “Yes.”
“I thought I recognized you.”
My embarrassment disappeared, but my hormones zipped off like a rocket ship. Up close, he was a hunk, superbuff, great-looking, oozing sensuality.
“Business or pleasure?” he asked in a gravelly voice that seemed to come straight from his deep chest.
It was neither, but I wasn’t about to go into detail.
“Pleasure,” I said.
He swung his gaze around the lounge. “Are you here alone?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t found Brooklyn yet, so I was currently alone.
He smiled at that. “I’m Max Kendrick.” He looked at my drink. “Would you like something more interesting than cola?”
I almost said no. I wasn’t here to get picked up in a bar. Then again, this was far from a honky-tonk. It was a fancy hotel lobby. And hadn’t I been fantasizing about this very thing just yesterday—meeting a great guy on my gals’ weekend?
This one seemed pretty seriously great, and he was dropping right into my lap, and I was sitting here tongue-tied and questioning every breath I sucked into my lungs. I had to get a grip.
“Have you seen the price list?” I don’t know why that silly question popped into my head. If he was staying here, and if he was offering, he must be able to afford the prices.
His smile broadened. “A time or two.”
“Sure,” I said, before I could come up with anything more senseless to blurt out.
“Great.” He sat down at the table. “What’s your pleasure?”
I considered pulling a Brooklyn by asking him to choose something for me, maybe batting my eyelashes and pretending to be überfeminine.
But überfeminine wasn’t me. Neither was batting my eyelashes, or pretending I didn’t know my own mind.
“A chardonnay.”
“Any preference on the label?”
“No preference.” Whatever the house served was going to be fine with me. Given what I’d seen so far of the house, I was betting their wine would be spectacular.
He gave the waitress a glance, and she came straight over.
“Can you bring us a bottle of the Crepe Falls Reserve?”
“Right away,” she said.
“A bottle?” I asked, wondering if he was less of a gentleman than I’d guessed. Was he expecting me to knock back a few this early in the afternoon?
“Better value that way.”
“So you’re not trying to get me drunk?”
“Do you have a reason to get drunk? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” The answer was automatic—even though fine was quite the stretch at this particular moment.
“Okay,” he said, looking suspiciously at my expression. His gaze seemed perceptive.
I had to tell myself he couldn’t read my thoughts. “It’s all very fine.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” I took another sweep around the lobby looking for Brooklyn. I couldn’t let her slip past me because I was distracted by Max Kendrick.
“You sure you’re not with someone?” he asked.
I gave him a look of reproach. “I’m sure.”
“You’re jumpy,” he said.
“You’re suspicious.”
He shrugged without denying it.
Fair enough, I supposed. We’d only just met.
“I’m watching for someone,” I said.
“Who?”
“A friend. A girlfriend. I’m meeting her here and I don’t want to miss her.”
“That’s not exactly alone.”
“It is until she gets here.”
“You lied.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You omitted. You’re hiding something.”
I wasn’t about to touch that one. “You thought I was a cheater.”
“Maybe.”
“Is that a takes-one-to-know-one statement? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you a cheater?”
“Nope.”
“How do I know you’re not lying? Cheaters probably lie.”
His smile said he got that I was joking. I felt warm about that. Not everyone caught on to my sense of humor.
The waitress returned with our wine, and we both fell silent as she poured.
When she left, he held up his glass for a toast. “To honesty and integrity.”
“Faith and loyalty.” I thought about Brooklyn as I touched my glass to his.
I took a sip. The wine was outstanding—crisp, buttery and light on my tongue.
“Now that we know we’re on the same wavelength,” he said. “Tell me something about you. Maybe start with your name.”
I realized then that he’d introduced himself, but I hadn’t.
“It’s Layla—Layla Gillen.”
“Nice to meet you, Layla Gillen. Will you be in Vegas for long?”
“I certainly hope not.”
H
e quirked an eyebrow. “You have something against Vegas?”
“No, nothing. It’s the first time I’ve been here.” I scanned for Brooklyn again. I spotted a blonde woman in the distance, but she turned and I saw her profile—not Brooklyn.
“Where are you from?” Max asked.
I turned my attention back to him. “Seattle. You?”
“I have a place in New York, but I travel quite a bit. What do you do in Seattle?”
I didn’t want to sound nerdy. Then again, I sure wasn’t about to lie.
“I’m a teacher.”
“What grade?”
“High school.”
“What subject.”
“Math.”
His smile said he’d discovered an embarrassing secret.
My pride kicked in. “You have something against mathematics?”
“You don’t look like any math teacher I ever had.”
“I’m fully qualified.”
“I’m not questioning that.”
“It sounded like you were.”
“No.” He cocked his head and his gaze grew warm. “I was thinking if my math teachers looked like you, I’d have enjoyed the subject a whole lot more.”
My heart fluttered. It seriously, embarrassingly, fluttered there for a second.
My cheeks grew warm, and I told myself to get a grip, covering the reaction with another sip of wine.
This was obviously a crush-at-first-sight, and I’d never felt anything like it.
* * *
I didn’t want to check into a 700-dollar-a-night hotel room when I had a perfectly wonderful prepaid room waiting for me back in San Francisco. But evening was falling, and there was still no sign of Brooklyn.
Max had said goodbye after lunch, and I’d left the table pretending I had somewhere to go. I didn’t, of course. But I’d found a comfortable seat at the opposite end of the lobby with a good view of the main entrances and exits.
The vibe of the lobby was beginning to change from daytime to evening. I knew if I wanted to continue blending with the crowd, I had to get out of my jeans.
There were shops dotted around the periphery of the lobby. The clothes were very high-end, but I managed to find a little black dress on a sales rack.
The Twin Switch (Millionaires Legacy Book 13; Gambling Men) Page 3
