wondered what had happened to him. Was it an accident? Surgery? She watched the expression on his face tighten. For a moment he closed his eyes while he massaged his thigh. What would that thigh feel like under her expert fingers? She knew she could take the pain away.
“Um, excuse me.”
Layla blinked. A smile flickered across her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I’m daydreaming,” she said to the couple standing behind her that was waiting for her to move along. She walked with her plate back to her table, taking furtive glances in Maurice’s direction.
He was reading the paper and sipping on a cup of coffee. Maybe she should go and join him. No sense in the both of them eating alone, she thought. A dozen different scenarios played in her head on how she should approach him and what she should say and what he would say to her in return. The minutes ticked away.
Maurice put down his coffee cup and turned slightly in her direction then away before doing a short double take and looking back again. He lifted his chin in salute. Layla waved. Her heart pounded. Maybe he would come over. Maybe he would ask her to join him. Should she go over and sit down? What if he was waiting for someone and she looked silly?
Maurice folded the paper, finished off his coffee and reached for his cane.
He was going to come over. She could hardly breathe. She swallowed over the tightness in her throat.
Maurice stood slowly offered her a brief smile and walked out.
Layla felt as if she’d been pumped full of air and then suddenly stabbed with an ice pick. As the air in her balloon dissipated, so did her appetite. She pushed her food around on her plate until it was sufficiently cold then gathered up her things and went out to get her car for the drive into town.
Maurice returned to his room. He’d wanted to say something more to Layla. But what was the point. He tossed his cane into a corner. He plopped down on the couch. Even if he was attracted to her, what would she want with him? She probably felt pity for him just like everyone else.
He stretched out his injured leg and absently massaged the never-ending ache.
It had been longer than he would have liked since he’d been with a woman, through choice as well as circumstance. After his injury and then rehab he continued to struggle with what happened that night. The guilt was almost as painful if not more so than the injury that ended his career. The therapy sessions helped, but only so much. He still could not get beyond the feeling that had he done something differently, lives would have been saved and he would be one hundred percent man. Without his career as a Navy SEAL, the job he’d worked so hard for, trained for, lived for—all of that was gone. Being a SEAL defined who he was. The loss of that combined with his debilitating injury was almost more than he could stand. He didn’t feel like a man anymore. And if he didn’t feel it, what woman would feel it? He leaned his head back against the cushion of the couch and closed his eyes against his inescapable realities.
Layla spent the better part of the morning shopping for supplies for the suite. Her car’s trunk was loaded and it took several trips back and forth to unload and get everything inside the suite. She’d purchased plants, artwork, oils, lotions, CDs, mats, small bowls, oil burners, hand sanitizers, disinfectant, cases of fruit juice and water, and soft lightbulbs. She’d placed an order for a dozen terry cloth robes and shower slippers. The boutique where she’d made her purchases promised that her items would be delivered within the next two days.
She spent the next couple of hours organizing her supplies and rolling towels to be stacked. She hung pictures and poured the aromatic oils into the burners. Aromatherapy was just as important in creating the perfect atmosphere as the treatments.
Layla took a look around and was finally satisfied with what she’d accomplished. She took some pictures of the space for the flyers, then locked up and walked back to the main building in search of Desiree.
“It looks fabulous,” Desiree was saying. “Let me download them to my computer.”
Layla touched a few icons on her iPad and sent the images to Desiree.
Within moments Desiree was loading them into her graphics program. “You’ve been busy,” she said while she worked.
Layla laughed. “To keep my mind off of other things.”
Desiree looked up at her friend for a moment. “Other things like what? Don’t tell me New York.”
Layla sat on the edge of Desiree’s desk and folded her arms. “No. Not New York.” She leaned closer. “Do you know that guy…with the limp?”
Desiree frowned in concentration. “Limp?”
“Yes and gorgeous.”
Desiree grinned. “Oh, Maurice Lawson.”
“Him.”
Desiree crossed her legs. Her right brow rose with her question. “What about him?”
“What do you know about him?”
“Hmm, not much. He checked in about three days ago. Booked his cottage for six weeks. That’s about it really. I see him around from time to time.” A slow smile moved across her mouth. “And you want to know all this because…”
Layla blew out a breath. “I wish I knew. Well, maybe I do know. It’s hard to explain. I mean, I only saw him for a minute a couple of times…but…” She looked away as if searching for the answers somewhere in the corners of the room. Finally, she shrugged. “No big deal. Forget it. He looked like he’d rather be alone.”
Desiree stared at Layla’s profile. “Hey, this is the twenty-first century, girl. If a woman is interested in a man she doesn’t have to stand on protocol and wait for the man to make the first move anymore.”
Layla slowly shook her head. “That is so not me. In my head I’m bold and aggressive. But then reality sets in.”
Desiree reached out and touched Layla’s hand. “Bold and not standing on protocol is you. Brent screwed up a perfectly good relationship. But you can’t let what he did diminish you. Every man is not like Brent.”
Layla hopped down off the desk. “I know that. I’m over Brent.”
“Are you? Really? I’m not saying that you still have feelings for him, but I am saying that what he did messed with your confidence, challenged your womanhood.”
Layla snapped her head away. She tightened her arms around her waist. The words to refute Desiree’s assertion were on her lips. They lingered on her tongue. She couldn’t say them. What Desiree said was true. It was painfully true. It had been a year since she’d come home to have him tell her that he was leaving, that he no longer loved her. But there wasn’t a day that had gone by that she didn’t remember how small and insignificant she’d felt; how could he so easily stop loving her. It wasn’t until months later that she found out why.
She’d gone over that night a million times. In some versions she threw a lamp at Brent and then dumped all of his clothes out of the window. In another he came running after her, begging her to forgive him. But in all the versions, in the end, she was alone. Probably what stung the most was that she’d heard from their mutual acquaintances that Brent and Grace—his assistant—the woman he’d stopped loving her for—were still together and there was talk of them getting
