How much had she learned in her year off from men? Enough? How could she possibly know?
Turning from the mirror with a small huff, she reached for the small window next to the sink and unlatched it, pushing it open. What was on the other side was a little secret, of sorts, something she used to comfort herself. It wasn’t really ridiculous, if she didn’t allow herself to think too much about it. She reached through to let her fingertips drift over the tiny house made of twigs and bits of copper wire that had turned a lovely aqua shade with oxidization, with a single tiny brass dragonfly on the roof and glass marbles inside—her little faery house. She’d made it soon after she’d moved in, after one of her terrible breakups. It was set in the crook of an old crepe myrtle tree that was just beginning to drop its bright pink blossoms. She pulled at the hinged door, pushing the blue and green marbles nestled inside around with one finger. The tiny structure was always charming, but it had been a while since she’d needed the comfort of it. Duff was messing with her head, and she didn’t like it.
Except that she kind of did.
Turning back to the bathroom mirror, she pushed her curls back from her face, blowing out a long breath.
“Okay. Get it together,” she murmured.
But all she could think of was his scent, his touch, the vulnerability in his voice when he’d talked to her about his past. The man had opened up to her, and she had a feeling that, like her, it wasn’t something he did often, if at all. She loved that he made her laugh, but she also sensed the jokester in him was partially a cover for some not-so-deeply-buried pain. It made her feel for him, and his openness reached out to the pain she carried herself. And it was all a little too overwhelming.
Stalking from the bathroom, she moved through her bedroom, intending to go out to her studio and lose herself in clay. But she stopped just short of the front door, knowing she was too damned distracted to work. She paced the living room for a few minutes, her hands fisted at her sides as she fought the sensations in her chest—the tightness and flutter that felt so good and so awful at the same time—before giving in and picking up her cell phone to dial Kitty at the salon.
“Allure Salon. This is Kitty.”
“Hey, it’s me. What time are you out of there tonight?”
“I’m almost done. Why do you sound weird?” her friend asked.
“I do not!”
“Okay. But, yeah, you do. All breathless and stuff.”
“Jeez, Kitty. Thanks for not cutting me any slack.”
“What kind of friend would I be if I did? So, are you gonna tell me?”
She blew out a breath. “Yes. That’s why I called, I guess. Can you meet me after work?”
“Sure. Want me to come over? I can bring chocolate. And booze, ’cause it sounds like it’s going to be one of those nights. It’s been a hell of a Monday, so I don’t mind.”
“Crap. I’m sorry, Kitty. You okay?”
“Yeah. Just too many clients who don’t understand why I can’t take them from their natural brunette to platinum blond in one day without their hair cracking and falling out. The usual. But luckily I’m out of here in a few minutes, so I won’t have to kill anyone. How’s seven fifteen?”
“Perfect. I’ll order some Indian food.”
“Oh, goody! I love it when you cook for me.”
That made her laugh. “I actually can be domestic. Sometimes.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. Meanwhile, Indian is just fine. Be there in a bit, honey.”
She felt a bit better after they hung up. She only had to make it through another half hour without driving herself crazy.
By the time she’d dug up the menu to her favorite local Indian delivery and placed their order—tikka masala for her and butter chicken with jasmine rice for Kitty—Kitty was knocking on the door. She opened it and hugged her friend.
“Thanks for coming.”
“For you? Anytime, honey—you know that. Let’s get a good buzz going while we wait for the food, and you can tell me everything.”
They settled on the sofa with the Malibu and pineapple juice Kitty mixed for them in the kitchen, and Layla leaned back into the pile of pillows, her feet curled under her.
“I love Malibu,” she said.
“I know you do—that’s why I brought it. So, tell Mama Kitty what’s made you all weird.”
Layla grinned, shaking her head. “You know I love how straight and to the point you are, but tonight I just wish . . . that you could read my mind without me having to say it out loud.”
Kitty reached out and patted her arm, her sweet face softening. “You know I would if I could, hon.”
“I know.” She smiled at her dear friend, then took a breath and simply began. “Okay, be honest with me—is it crazy to think I’m falling for him after only eight days?”
“I don’t know. How is the sex?”
“Amazing. Off-the-charts amazing. Fucking fireworks on the Fourth of July. But that’s not all it is.”
“Well, it never is just the sex, is it? But that can be where it starts.”
“This is the thing, Kitty—this man is so big and tough, and I mean really badass. He’s so damn dominant, I can’t even begin to fight it. I know that’s part of the attraction—sort of being sucked under by his natural dominance. But he doesn’t lord it over me the way a lot of men do. The way most men seem to feel they have to. He simply is that way. But he also doesn’t take himself too seriously. He shows me who he is, warts and all. I know there’s a lot more to him than what he’s told me, but he really has opened himself to me in this short period of time we’ve had. And I don’t think it’s an act. I really don’t. I know my judgment has been absolute shit when it comes to men, but this last year off has been good for me, and I think I’ve learned a lot. Some, anyway. I’m much better at protecting myself from the dogs and the Dom wannabes. I think this guy could be the real thing.”