Page 6 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
Layla meets me at the passenger side of my car. The black make-up around her eyes is gone and her lips show the hint of a smile that was absent minutes before. There’s a slight tremor in my hand as I open the passenger door for her.
Once Layla is seated, Greta sticks her head between the seats and licks her cheek.
I lean down and meet Greta’s eyes. “Greta, no.” She’s always been a face licker, and I’m never not embarrassed when she does her thing.
Layla laughs. It’s a laugh I’ve become familiar with over the last six months, and I can’t get enough of it.
“It’s okay,” Layla says. “Greta and I became best friends on our quick trip around the parking lot. She’s a sweetie. Aren’t you a sweet girl? Yes, you are.” She scratches Greta’s ears.
Greta is a great wingman. I’ll need to give her an extra treat tonight.
I shut the door and walk in front of the car.Do not screw this up.I slip into the driver’s seat and drop the half dozen candy canes into the cup holder next to my empty Dr. Pepper.
Layla glances at me for barely a second before turning her attention back to Greta. “How did you get into therapy dog work?”
I back up the car and ponder her question. Therapy dog work? “Greta isn’t a therapy dog. She belonged to my former neighbor, but when he moved to Brock Pine he couldn’t keep her.”
Layla tilts her head and studies me. An adorable wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. “You’re not a professional therapy dog handler?”
I look away before I do something stupid, like take her hand. For months, I’ve wanted to ask her out, and now she’sright here.
“No.” I’m proud of myself for sounding unaffected by her proximity. “I started visiting Norman, my neighbor, with Greta after he moved in. Greta’s so friendly, the activity coordinator asked if I would mind taking her to visit other residents. It’s become our thing.”
I find a break in the traffic and speed across four lanes to the parking lot of the drive-in. I find an empty stall and park. This place has been here forever, and it’s rundown and old school. We have to wait for someone to come out and take our order. I hope they don’t rush.
“I know Norman, and he’s never mentioned you before.” There’s a teasing tone to her accusation.
“Do you think I’m lying?” I say with a laugh.
“I’ve talked to Norman about Greta, though he didn’t tell me she was once his.” She purses her lips. “He talks about his nephew Clark like he wants to set me up on a date with him, but Norman has said nothing aboutyou.”
Norman has tried to set me up on a date with Layla? I had no idea. I clap my chest like I’m Tarzan. “I’m Clark. It’s my last name. Owen Clark.”
She studies my profile as if she’s memorizing my face so she’ll know exactly what to tell the police sketch artist when I get arrested for lying about knowing Norman.
“Clark is Norman’s nephew, not his neighbor.”
“He calls me his nephew because he only has nieces.” I hold up my hand and twist two fingers around each other. “Norman and I are close, like family.”
She smirks like I’m cute for making up this elaborate lie. I pull out my phone and call the man, putting it on speaker.
“Clark!” Norman says. His voice rumbles like he smokes five packs a day. It’s only one. “I just saw you. What do you want?”
Classic Norman. “I’m here with Layla, and she thinks I’m lying about being your neighbor.”
“You finally got up the courage to do something about your infatuation, eh?”
This was obviously a mistake. Layla’s heard enough to know I’m not lying, and I use my thumb to take it off speaker. Or at least, I try to, but the phone slips from my hand and falls to my feet.
“Maybe now you’ll stop talking about how beautiful she is when I’d much rather watchSeinfeld.” His voice is muffled, but definitely still audible.
I reach for my phone, but it’s by the pedals and my fingers brush against the corner, pushing it further. I can’t get my shoulder far enough under the steering wheel to grab it.
“Layla, Clark has smelly feet. Don’t let him take his shoes off. I might call him my nephew, but we are not related by blood. My feet smell like daisies.”
Unlike Greta, Norman is a terrible wingman. Using my foot, I knock the phone closer to my hand and finally pick it up. When I sit upright, Layla’s cheeks are a bright pink, but she’s also laughing. She looks happy to hear what Norman is saying, so maybe I can still redeem this night.
“Thanks for that, Norman.” I hope he catches my sarcasm. “Good night.”
