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“May have?” She turns to face me. “There are at least twenty pairs of shoes here.”
“Twenty-four,” I correct automatically. “The personal shopper said variety was important.”
“Of course she did.” Layla laughs, the sound that's become my favorite notification tone. “So you're telling me I never have to wear the same thing twice when I sleep over?”
“That was the general idea,” I say, stepping closer until I'm right behind her. “But don't feel pressured. You can tell me to return anything that doesn't work.”
She shakes her head, turning to face me. “This is insane. You know that, right?”
“It's efficient. Now you don't have to plan ahead or rush home for clean clothes.”
“Efficient,” she repeats, shaking her head. “Only you would frame a grand romantic gesture as a productivity hack.”
“Is it working?”
“The efficiency or the romance?”
“Both.”
She laughs again. I'm becoming addicted to that sound.
“Don't answer yet. There's more.”
“More?” Her eyes widen. “Bennett, what did you do?”
“I told you, I don't do things halfway.” I take her hand and lead her through the living room to the door I've been nervous about all day. The one beside the windows overlooking the city.
“Your library?” she asks as I pause at the door. “Did you buy me books?”
“Better.” I open the door and watch her face.
She gasps. The room is split between my piano in one corner and a full art studio in the other—drawing table, easel, shelves stacked with every art supply known to humanity.
“Bennett...” Her voice trails off as she steps inside, fingers trailing over the neatly organized pastels and paints. “Is this for me?”
“Yes.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her move through the space like she's in a dream. “I thought it might inspire you to start creating again.”
“I... I don't know what to say.” She turns to me, eyes bright. “This is incredible.”
“I want you to feel at home here, Layla. Your creativity deserves space to breathe.”
“Home?” she repeats softly. “You want me to feel at home here?”
“I do. Do you like it?”
She steps closer, sliding her arms around my neck. “It's pretty spectacular. In a completely over-the-top, billionaire boyfriend kind of way.”
Boyfriend. The word hits me like a shot of good whiskey, warm and slightly overwhelming.
“So you'll stay?” I ask, arms circling her waist. “More often?”
“I've stayed three nights out of the last seven. The other four, you were at mine.”
“That's not an answer.”
Her expression grows serious. “What are you really asking?”
This is where words usually come easily. I've talked my way through billion-dollar deals with less anxiety than I feel right now. But standing here with Layla, surrounded by evidence of how completely she's taken over my life, I find myself speechless.