“You can go home now, Justin.” She was certain he probably couldn’t wait to get out of there, even though seeing her like this was probably entertaining as could be. “Thanks for everything.”
“All right.” He stayed where he was, though, and for once he wasn’t smirking. He looked tired.
“Where’d you sleep?” she finally asked, after a few beats of silence. For some reason, he wasn’t leaving.
“In one of those baskets you call a chair.” He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “How many drinks did you have?”
“Three.” Layla closed her eyes for a second, hugging the pillow to her chest, fighting the urge to topple over. “And a half,” she added, for the sake of honesty.
“How many after Robert dropped the bomb?”
“I told you about that?” Had she no pride when intoxicated? Heat rose in her face, scalding her cheeks.
“I’m not a mind reader.”
Layla felt like melting into a puddle on the bed. “He told me in the room when we were getting ready to go down to dinner.” Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She’d guessed and then he’d confessed. “I hid out in the lounge and called Sam.”
“Just wondering if I need to hook up with this Robert guy for leaving you drunk and alone in a hotel lounge.”
The last thing she wanted was for Justin, of all people, to defend her honor. That would be so wrong.
“Justin…I’d really like to be alone now.”
“If you’re sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.” He cocked his head, and she added, “Physically.” Obviously, she had some other nonphysical issues to deal with.
That seemed to satisfy him, and a few seconds later the front door closed. She heard the purr of a powerful engine coming to life.
What had they driven home in?
She couldn’t for the life of her remember. Perhaps because her memory was so jumbled with other more humiliating images. The bush outside the hotel came to mind. And…oh, yeah. She’d tossed her cookies once again along a road somewhere.
What did they put in those drinks?
Lots and lots of alcohol. And she was a lightweight.
She gingerly crawled off the bed, realizing only then that she still had on her slightly damp T-strap high heels. Justin hadn’t taken off her shoes, although he had removed the duvet cover. Well, they were buckle shoes, perhaps too complicated for him.
She’d started for the bathroom when the doorbell rang. What on earth had Justin forgotten? She glanced at the domed mantel clock on her way to the door. Ten-thirty? Criminy. She’d lost twelve hours of her life.
The doorbell rang again, the sound reverberating through her skull. Must disconnect that thing. She pulled the door open, about to ask, “What did you forget?” and then almost slammed it shut again as she found herself facing the sweet, round face of Kristy Mendoza, the girl who lived next door.
CHAPTER TWO
KRISTY’S©MOUTH©DROPPED©OPEN, as did her mother’s. But Mrs. Mendoza, who stood a few feet behind the girl, managed a polite, if wary, smile.
“I have the cookies you ordered,” Kristy said abruptly, shoving the box forward.
Layla took them. Smiled. Resisted the urge to look down and see what her very expensive black silk cocktail dress, perfect for a night out in Tahoe, looked like after being slept in. “Thank you, Kristy.”
“Are you all right?” the girl blurted out before her mother clamped a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Hard, judging from the way she winced.
“I’ll get my wallet,” Layla said, hoping she had five bucks. “Just a sec.” She left the door open in spite of the cold and turned to find her purse in one of the living-room chairs. She dug through the contents. Frowned. Dug again, then dumped everything out.
“Uh, that’s all right,” Mrs. Mendoza called.
“No, really. I have the money.”
“You can run it over when you find it. We have more deliveries to make. Come on, Kristy…Kristy!”
“No, wait…” Layla called. She really didn’t want to face these two later today.
But it was too late. Mrs. Mendoza was already guiding her daughter firmly down the sidewalk toward safety. Layla sighed and shut the door, the click of the lock making her head throb.
After another futile search for the wallet in her coat pockets, she headed for the bathroom and faced her reflection with a sick feeling growing inside her stomach.
She was a raccoon. A punk raccoon with ratted hair, and wearing morning-after clothes.
What? What had she ever done to deserve all this?
Dated Robert Baldwin?
Her stomach twisted and she was afraid she was going to be sick again.
JUSTIN©PARKED©IN©THE©ALLEY behind Tremont Catering and sat in his car for a minute before turning off the engine. Hell of a night. Well, the next two days weren’t going to be any kind of a picnic, either, so maybe it was just as well to tune up on an unrelated event. Tomorrow marked the tenth anniversary of the day he’d signed the papers that had changed his life, and even though he’d been happy at the time, now he wondered if he’d made the right choice. If he should have pursued other options....
Not that there was anything he could do about it now.
Justin let himself in the back door of the kitchen, where the smell of tomato sauce instantly hit him. It was Sunday and his sister Eden, who moonlighted as a personal chef in addition to her duties with Tremont Catering, would thankfully be busy making a week’s worth of meals for her client families—one of which she’d cooked for since beginning the business and the other brand-new, replacing the family she’d lost after her fiancé discovered they were involved in the drug trade. A tough chapter in both Eden and Justin’s lives.
His eye was still throbbing where Layla had decked him, and he couldn’t say he was in the best of moods after spending a nearly sleepless night at her house. Hell, he could have easily stretched out on the bed beside her and been comfortable, but knowing his luck she would have woken up and smacked him again.
If only she’d had a sofa…which made him contemplate just what kind of person didn’t own a sofa. Well, Layla wasn’t your normal type.
He stifled a yawn as he came into the main kitchen area after kicking off his street shoes and putting on his clogs. He didn’t spend as much time standing in front of a stove as his sisters, but still put in long hours on his feet, creating every flower known to man, and some that weren’t, out of butter cream and a piping bag.
It was a living, and fortunately, since he spent so much time at it, one
