Page 61

Instead, I pull out my personal phone and type:
Change of plans. Don't bring the reports. Just come.
I delete it immediately. Too direct. Too honest about what this really is.
Change of plans. Office crisis resolved, but I'm working from home tonight. Can you come to my apartment instead? We can discuss the prototype timeline over that dinner I promised.
Still too obvious.
Finally:
me:
Change of plans. Can you bring the review documents to my apartment at 7? I'll text the address.
I hit send before I can overthink it further.
Her response takes nearly a minute.
Layla:
Your apartment?
Me:
Office will be locked down by then, and this can't wait until tomorrow.
Another pause. Then simply:
Layla:
OK. 7 PM.
I send her the address to my penthouse as I head to my waiting car. It’s six-forty, giving me just enough time to gethome before Layla arrives. As I the driver pulls into the street, my phone buzzes.
Layla:
On my way. GPS says 15 minutes.
My pulse kicks up as I stare at her words. She’s coming to my private space. Where she'll see how I live when I'm not performing the role of corporate shark. Where there won't be a conference table between us.
Me:
Gate code 4728. Doorman will have a key fob for the penthouse elevator.
Her response is simple.
Layla:
See you soon.
The driver lets me out in front of the building, and I nod to the valet as I hurry through the lobby. Andrew, the evening doorman, greets me with his usual professional warmth.
“Good evening, Mr. Mercer.”
“I have a guest coming up,” I tell him, trying to sound casual instead of like a man who's been checking his watch every thirty seconds. “Layla Carmichael. Please give her an elevator fob when she arrives.”
Andrew's eyebrows rise slightly. In the three years I've lived here, I've never had a woman up to the penthouse who wasn't my housekeeper.