Page 18 of Masked Sins
But I couldn’t do it.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I needed a way to be around her.
And now, I don’t give a shit if I’m too obsessed.
Because she’smine.
It takes me a minute to realize the server has been asking me a question for several seconds.
“...steak? Or perhaps you’d like to try one of our specials? The mussels are new to the menu, and the lamb is served with couscous and marinated eggplant…”
Her words float in and out of my ears, and my eyes find the back of Layla’s head.
“I’ll have the mussels. Thank you.”
She nods and smiles. “Would you like to keep the menu?”
“Yes, please.”
The next hour passes with me slowly eating my mussels while Layla—to my delight—eats the same dish as me. Her date doesn’tstop talking the entire time, and when I see the server walk back over and ask them about dessert, he shakes his head.
Layla’s spine sinksjustbarely, and when I look back down at the menu, I see blackout cake served with fresh strawberry ice cream.
Smirking, I make eye contact with the server, and when she comes over, I ask her to send a cake with extra ice cream to their table.
Just like last time, I hold the menu in front of my face when the runner brings the cake to their table, knowing there’s a much higher chance of her thinking I’m here. Especially now that she’s been brought two separate things she didn’t order.
When I lower the menu, Layla eagerly eats the cake and ice cream while her date talks and talks some more. Between bites, she tries to hide her yawns behind a hand. She also spends three minutes inspecting her spoon. He doesn’t notice of course.
Fucking bastard.
She’s probably wishing she was at home reading a book and snuggled up with her cat.
Without thinking, I pull my phone out and text her.
My chest aches when I realize the last time we texted was two years ago when Scott was admitted to the hospital for a suspected stroke. He ended up being fine, but Layla and I had been cordial as we coordinated when to visit him in the hospital and for how long. There had been thousands of times when I wanted to text her.
Damn, I miss her.
These past few years have been painful, knowing that I couldn’t talk to the person I considered my best friend.Nottalking to her feels unnatural—like an acute sense of loss. We were always calling and texting before that fateful audition seven years ago.
Not a day passes that I don’t think of texting her.
I don’t think she realizes how desperately I need her. I’m not sure why I feel like today is the day to break the silence, but something about watching this asshole talk over her all night has my mind spinning with fury.
I ordered you an extra scoop.
As soon as I hit send, I pull the menu back in front of my face and angle my body behind a beam so she won’t see me unless she looks. Peeking over the top of the menu, I smile when I see her pull her phone from her purse.
My smile widens when I see the way she stills—how her legs instantly uncross like she’s been discovered. She looks around quickly as her date drones on and on without even realizing she’s not paying attention.
I wait for her to respond, but of course she doesn’t.
Do you think he’ll be hoarse later after all that talking?
This time, she says something to him and stomps to the bathroom, phone in hand. I lean back in my chair and watch three dots appear once before disappearing.
Is she texting me in the bathroom? Did I get under her skin that badly?
