Page 23 of Castaway Whirlwind
Russell shivers and braces his hands on the mattress on either side of my shoulders, our noses bumping. “Goodnight, darlin’.”
I open my mouth, ready to ask him to stay with me, when he straightens and moves to my front door. I want to tell him that even though I love my apartment and new freedom, it scares me to be here alone at night. But that would give him the wrong impression. It would givemethe wrong impression, too, if he did as I asked—laying beside me in bed, holding me close, maybe giving me a few more kisses goodnight that would travel down from my forehead to my mouth, then maybe lower…
Just because he has this weird sense of responsibility toward me and my safety, and he’s apparently a very tactile person, touching me here and there when he’s assuring himself that I’m ok, it doesn’t mean he sees me as anything more than a girl who still has a lot of growing up to do.I’m reading too much into it.
After I’ve gone to the restroom to wash my face and change into the pale pink nightgown and—my cheeks heat just thinking about it—white panties Russell picked out for me, I go to the front door to lock it. I’m stumped that it’s already locked, and it takes me a few seconds to figure out that Russell must have done so, though he’d have to have a key to lock the deadbolt.
And there it is, my keyring hanging on a little hook beside the door. The spare to my apartment is missing, which means Russell must have taken it in case I fell back asleep before I could lock the door myself. I make a mental note to ask for my key back in the morning, along with brainstorming ideas of what else I can do for him to pay him back for his thoughtfulness.
* * *
Russell
I narrow my eyes at Layla when she comes to bus my table at the diner after I finish my lunch, daring hernotto say anything when I lean on a hip to pull my billfold out of my back pocket. She tightens her lips when I pluck out the two one hundred dollar bills, tipping double now that she’s living on her own.
“Russell, please—” She groans when I place the purple business card on top of the cash. “No.”
I ask defensively, “Why not?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
She ignores the cash, business card, andmeas she stacks my silverware on top of my plate with my empty mug, turning on her heel. Her refusal is the same response she’s given me every time I’ve tried to hire her to clean my house since I discovered her new business venture. More than anything, I want to know for certainwhyshe refuses to takemeon as a client. Is it because she doesn’t want to take any more of my money, or because she doesn’t want to spend more time alone with me?The thought of the latter makes my chest cave in.
Frustrated, I shove the card back in my billfold, leave the cash on the table, and head out of the diner, needing to get back to work, of which I’ve missed too much recently. She knows I’m going to ask her again when she comes to clean the warehouse to “earn” her tip after she finishes her shift.
* * *
By now, Yamuna is in on the plan, intentionally leaving the receptionist counter messy without us once having a conversation about it. I take a stack of folders out of my filing cabinet, scribble a few notes on random sheets of torn-up paper, and spread it all out on my desk to give Layla something to do.
And then I wait, checking my wristwatch repeatedly as the minutes tick by agonizingly slow. My heart rate jumps when Yamuna clocks out, leaving me alone in the office. I watch the parking lot through the tinted lobby windows, my mood soaring when I spot Layla’s beater—which she’s unfortunately fixed, no longer needing me to drive her around—pull into the visitor lot.
She crosses the lot carrying a variety-pack of mine and Yamuna’s favorite probiotic soda that she likes to leave as a gift in the mini-fridge. It’s funny in an unfunny way that she has no problem giving gifts to show people she’s thinking of them when she hates receiving them herself.
Pretending to do some work on my laptop in my office, I only look up when Layla knocks twice on my door. I wave her in, and she sets her tote bag down in the corner, then smooths out her uniform. As sick as it is, I’m always thankful thatshe rarely changes before coming here, loving how often her buttons pop open.
Observing my desk, she says, “Seriously, Russell. It’s crazy how quickly your office gets all messy when I organized it, like, three days ago.”
I manage to keep my face straight instead of coming right out with the truth when I hate lying to her. “If you think this is messy, you should see my house.”
She shakes her head and walks around the desk, setting down one of the cold sodas left in the fridge from last week. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s supposed to be my line.”
Layla cracks a lopsided smile at that, and my dick twitches. She lightly finger-combs my longer, unfortunately too-gray hair back behind my ear, sending a delicious shiver up my spine. “Are you growing it out, or do you want me to schedule an appointment with your barber?”
I can barely force my throat to work when I answer, “An appointment would be great. Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” When she starts shuffling the papers into a neat stack with a shy smile, I vacate my office chair for her, though I’d much rather have her sit on my lap while she cleans. After I squeeze by her with my chest puffed out to brush her back, Layla eases herself onto my chair, stretching out her legs where I’ve set a little stool under the desk so she can put her feet up after being on them all day long.
A knock sounds at the side door leading to the warehouse. “Come in,” I grumble, crossing my arms, irritated by the interruption.
“Hey, boss.” Davis shoots me a grin, tipping his ball cap at Layla. “Funny seeing you here.” He’s being sarcastic. As my new Warehouse Manager after Jared left to work with Violet, he’s caught Layla in here plenty of times, and the sly bastard knows exactly why, too.
