Layla smiled. “It’s all yours. Pour some extra syrup on for me.” She stood, dropping some cash on the table before leaning over and kissing the top of Kitty’s blond head.
Her friend looked up, blue eyes wide. “You sure you’re gonna be okay? Because I don’t care if the man is nine feet tall and the scariest Dom alive, I will kick his tight, muscular ass into next week if he messes with you.”
Layla cracked a smile. “I know. Thanks for having my back, but I’ll be okay.”
“Just sayin’. I’ll let you know how the French toast is. You let me know how the scary-hot Dom is.”
Layla shook her head as she made her way toward the door. No one could cheer her up like Kitty. But the smile her friend had put on her face was temporary, at best. She had some big stuff to deal with, and she didn’t mean Duff’s unusual size.
But oh, his unusual size, and the way that in itself made her feel overpowered by him, made her want to melt into him. Under him.
“Fucking world, anyway,” she muttered, moving down the street to where her car was parked. “Fucking world. Fucking men. Fucking me and my daddy issues that always get me into these messes.”
On the drive to Duff’s shop she blasted some hard-ass, head-banging grunge metal, trying to drown out her thoughts. It didn’t help much. By the time she found parking a few doors down from SGR Motorcycles, her heart was pounding.
She approached the door carefully, reached out to push it open, paused and pulled her hand back, giving herself a moment to cuss under her breath once more.
If the man gloated she’d have to kick him in the balls.
That thought cheered her, and she grabbed the door and swung it open, stepping through.
Duff had his feet up on the desk, leaning back in his chair, a laptop on his knees. He wore the big black boots she loved most on a man, which she did her best to ignore.
“Surfing for porn?” she asked.
He glanced up, doing a double take. “Huh. I didn’t expect you to come back so soon.”
“I didn’t expect to come back at all,” she admitted truthfully.
He nodded, and there was some hint of respect in the gesture before he shook himself, closing the laptop and setting it on the desk as he got to his feet. “I’m glad you did.”
Lord, he was tall. And gorgeous. And tattooed, which was always a bonus—she could see an amazing steampunk biomechanical piece that looked like a graceful combination of a tree and a compass covering the inside of his right forearm. A forearm that was solid muscle. And the size of his hands . . .
Calm. The fuck. Down.
“Are you?” she asked.
“Yeah, I am. Our last visit didn’t go as well as it could have.”
She dropped her head. “I know.” Looking back up at him—and up and up—she told him, “That’s why I’m here. I need to . . . take responsibility for my actions. I’m sorry I was such a roaring bitch.”
He cracked a grin, his dimples flashing as he shoved both big hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans. “Were you, now? Could have been much worse, in my estimation.”
Her cheeks heated. “You’re teasing me.”
“Aye. I do love to tease a pretty girl.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Duff. We’re never going to get through a conversation if you talk to me like I’m one of your adoring subbie girls.”
He came around from behind the desk until he stood maybe a foot from her. Lowering his tone as he looked down at her, he caught her gaze with his. “Are you telling me you adore me, Layla? Because I could live with that.” He finished with a wink, one corner of his mouth quirking. She was about to argue when he stepped even closer, and God, she could see how long and thick his eyelashes were. How beautifully sculpted his chin was. And he smelled just right.
“But you know what I’d like even more?” he went on. “I’d like for us to put this rough start behind us and begin all over again. What would you say to a reboot?”
She blinked. “A reboot?”
“Yeah, a reboot. I’ll start.” He held his hand out to her. “Hallo. I’m Duff. Recent transplant from Edinburgh, cousin to Jamie, who you appear to already know. Dominant, hedonist and general buffoon, or so my little brother tells me.” He grinned. “Your turn.”
He motioned with his hand, and she took it, her mind a jangling battle between the pure chemical need to touch him and the wildly ringing alarm bells going off in her head, telling her she was moving into deep water. But when his fingers closed around hers, his enormous hand dwarfing hers, there was a comforting warmth underlying the zing of electricity that went through her like a small shock. She had to take a moment to review some of the things she knew about him, having seen him at the club—that he was a responsible Dominant, an excellent player. That he was as tender with his bottoms as he was wicked, which was something she felt was crucial. And there was that edge of gentleness about him and his good humor, contrasting with his hulking frame and natural alpha dominance, that was unlike anything—or anyone—she’d ever run into before. And which frankly made her knees weak.
She swallowed, and let out a breath. “Okay. This is silly but . . . Okay. I’m Layla. Lifelong New Orleans resident. Hedonist, which you already know. And Domme, as you also already know.”
His grin widened. “Very glad to meet you.” He leaned in toward her, lowering his voice. “We’ll put the head-to-head Dom battle on the back burner for now, yes? Yes.”
He straightened up and let her hand go, and she found herself curling her fingers to hang on to some of the warmth, then shook her hands out when she realized what she was doing.
“So, Layla, my shop is closed and I’ve no need to stay any later tonight—will you allow me to take you to dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah, dinner. You know—that American custom where people eat in the evening. Or ‘tea,’ as it’s properly called.”
She shook her head, cracking a smile. His charming affability was hard to resist. “Is that some sort of peace offering?”