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“Goodnight, Layla.”
“Goodnight, Bennett.”
He turns. Takes three steps. Stops.
“Text me when you're inside,” he says without turning around. “So I know you're safe.”
My heart does something stupid and fluttery. “I live in a doorman building in Lincoln Park, not a cardboard box in an alley.”
“Humor me.”
Then he's gone, and I'm left standing there like an idiot, watching his taillights disappear and wondering how maintaining professional distance can feel exactly like foreplay.
LAYLA
My hands shake as I pour the wine.
Not from nerves, but from leftover electricity. The kind that comes from spending an entire evening pretending you don't want to climb across a dinner table and into someone's lap while your father calls him Satan's accountant.
I kick off my heels with more force than necessary. One hits the coffee table, sending my laptop charger skittering across the hardwood. Good. Everything should be unsettled right now. At least my apartment matches my internal state.
The wine—a decent Pinot Grigio that normally tastes like relaxation—goes down like liquid courage I didn't know I needed. Three sips in, and I'm already reaching for my phone.
Shit. I only have his work number. I can’t text that.
Or can I?
While I contemplate how risky it would be to message Bennett on his work cell at ten p.m. I change into mysoftest pajamas and drop onto the couch, Pinot in hand and hair pulled into a haphazard knot on top of my head. I open up my laptop, trying to shift my focus to work instead of how badly I wanted Bennett to also insist on walking me upstairs to my apartment, pushing me against the wall of the elevator, pinning my wrists and telling me exactly what he planned to do to me.
No. Bad Layla.
Instead, I click open the NeuraTech project folder and quickly lose myself in the thicket of technical reports and team updates. Audrey's latest email is enthusiastic, bordering on manic:Good news, the external response time is down to 0.4 seconds (!!!) and we did not set anything on fire today. Do you realize how historic this is??
My mouth twitches. I picture her, bun askew, caffeinated to the edge of cardiac arrest, wiring up the world’s most expensive mannequin.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number
Safe?
My stupid heart does a backflip. I set my laptop aside and curl deeper into the couch, phone cradled in my hands like something precious.
Me:
How'd you get my personal number?
Him:
Flipped the last two digits of your mom's. That doesn’t answer my question.
A laugh escapes. Of course he did.
Me:
I only have your work cell. I didn’t think it was appropriate.
Him: