Page 4 of Starving for Her

Layla

I haveto do two laps around the block before I park. My heart is racing too fast and I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack.

Did that really just happen?

It was exactly what I told myself wasn’t going to happen and exactly why I almost didn’t even go to the interview. James Russell is a billionaire playboy. Women throw themselves at his feet, and he expected me to do the same. Why wouldn’t he?

All I wanted was to prove myself to him, show him I could cook, and get the job so I could quit working at the bistro. I showed up with no make-up, wearing what I’d wear at home watching Netflix with Gina, and he still came on to me.

And you kissed him, you big dummy!

“Shit, shit, shit!” I exclaim, smacking my fist against my knee. Groaning, I slump forward against the steering wheel and breathe.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson from the last one of these jobs I tried to keep. I went to work for a man named Charles Harton, an investment banker, who wanted someone to make dinner for him and his wife, Karen, every night. I may not have much experience with men, but I saw the looks he was giving me —and so did she.

I got fired, not just from that job, but from my sous-chef position at The White Oak, an incredible restaurant working on its Michelin star. Karen just happened to know the owner from when they were sorority sisters, so I was out on my ass. Now I’m working at the bistro making sandwiches and reheating meatloaf and spaghetti. It’s embarrassing, but I have to do something to keep the lights on.

A knock on my window almost scares me out of my skin, and I look up to see Sam, my absolutely batshit landlady, glaring at me through the glass. I can already tell she’s either just had a fight with her boyfriend or is high—or both. Her make-up is a mess and she looks like she hasn’t washed her hair in days. Cautiously, I crack the window.

“You have something for me?” she snaps. Gina and I are two months behind on the rent.

“I’m working on it, Sam,” I tell her. “I just got back from a job interview—”

“Do I look like I give a fuck about your sob story?” she asks, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “You owe me twenty-four-hundred dollars, okay? And either you pay up, or I’m tossing your skinny ass out on the street! Both of you!”

This is not what I need right now. I feel terrible about being behind on the rent payments, but Sam is also an absolute nightmare. She breaks all her own building rules, screams at her boyfriend every other night, has insanely loud sex with him when they make up, and leaves her yappy, aggressive dog tied up out almost all day long. She also never fixes anything.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” I tell her as I get out and head for my apartment. “I’m working on it. And I really, truly apologize.”

“I don’t need your apologies,” she replies. “I need cash. Benjamins. Green backs. You know?”

Oh, and she also talks like an aspiring rapper sometimes.

“I do,” I tell her as I unlock my door. “And I’m working on it!”

I slam it shut behind me and lock it. She’s barged in behind me more than once already. I can hear her shouting at me from outside as I head into the living room to find Gina on the couch, legs spread, tits out, holding her phone at arm’s reach.

“Jesus, Gina,” I scoff with a laugh. “Do you really have to do that here?”

“Relax,” she tells me, snapping a pic. “You’ve seen it all before.”

“I may work with food,” I reply, slumping down in a chair. “But I’ve had enough with your roast beef.”

She puckers her lips and flips me off. “Shut it, bitch. We can’t all be blessed with a pussy that looks like it was painted by Galileo.”

“Galileo was an astronomer,” I tell her. “You must be thinking of someone else.”

“Oh,” she frowns. “That Ninja Turtle guy, then.”

“Leonardo?” I laugh. “Leonardo DaVinci painted my vagina?”

“Well I’m sure he would have if someone asked him to,” she says, sending the pic to whichever lucky guy paid for access to her premium Snapchat this week. “Was that Sam yelling at you about the rent again? You really should get into this line of work, you know. You’d make a killing.”

“No thanks. My catypaty is just for me and my future husband,” I reply. I’m not one to shame other women for doing what they want to do, but the thought of selling my nudes to nameless, faceless men online simply makes my skin crawl. Gina may not agree, but I still consider my body to be something I’m saving for the man who really sets my soul on fire.

Honestly, I’m still buzzing a bit from my encounter with James. He’d caught me completely off-guard with that kiss, but what had shocked me even more, was how I responded.

It was completely automatic; there was nothing I could do about it. My body instantly came alive for him. When our lips met, my knees went weak and I could have sworn I was going to fall over; that’s one of the reasons I pulled away when I did.

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