Page 12 of Layla Meets Her Match

Layla: *GIF of Zane Dalton*

Layla: *screenshot of Zane Dalton at a children’s hospital*

Astrid: Okay, okay! I’m convinced.

Lincoln: I don’t know about smart …

Layla: Astrid says Thursday works for her.

Layla: And you are thoughtful. Seriously.

Lincoln: I’ll pick you up at 8. At your new place. *celebration emoji*

Layla: *laughing emoji* Better make it Landon’s place. I’m sure mine will still be mostly boxes.

Lincoln: *thumbs-up emoji*

Lincoln: *crossing fingers emoji* Here’s hoping they fall in love. Dalton needs to settle down.

Layla: It’s going to be perfect. I know it.

CHAPTER 8

LINCOLN

I pull in front of the large Malibu mansion and release a long breath. I don’t want to be here, but I’m sacrificing for the greater good—that is, Layla. Nick Cane is an old friend of my dad’s and an executive for the network that airs LA Lights. From the minute I set foot in LA, Nick was reaching out to me, making sure I had “family” here to lean on. I had my grandpa, of course, but it’s been nice to have Nick too, especially after Grandpa died. Nick and my dad are close, and even though we only saw the Canes once or twice a year growing up, it’s easy to think of him as an uncle. I always accept invitations to have dinner at their house, but usually pass on the invitations to parties like this one. But Nick has talked about the TV business enough for me to know that, while he can suggest Layla’s name to one of his directors, they’re the ones who will have the pull in the end. So I’m going to take a deep breath and try to schmooze the best I can.

Which is nothing to write home about. I’m a terrible schmoozer. I’m not trying to be humble here. I should’ve brought Eli or Hurley. But I’m leaning on Eli too much as it is in pursuing Layla, and it’s a little bit embarrassing to admit to Hurley how much help I need.

I step out of my Bronco, and a valet moves forward to take my keys. I thank him, resist the urge to put my hands in the pockets of my blue suit pants, and walk up the gleaming white sidewalk to the front door.

My phone rings, saving me. I want to do this for Layla, but a part of me is hoping it’s some kind of football emergency requiring my presence.

The caller ID says it’s Mrs. Van Buren though. Which is kind of ironic. I wavered on calling in a favor with Nick for this for a lot of reasons. Like, would Layla want me to intervene like this? But mostly, if I’m doing this for her, am I doing it for the right reasons? Will I be okay if I do something like this for her and she never dates me? Of course, but I still can’t help questioning if trying to prove how I feel about her by doing favors like this is what I should be doing. Isn’t that what Grandpa was doing with all the “service” he did, even though he was betraying his family?

I push away the thoughts and try to see Mrs. Van Buren’s call in a better light. At least it’s a few minutes’ delay before I have to go in and try to be charming. That’s something. She makes a point to call me after I’ve dropped off treats if we don’t have time to talk when I bring them. When I can ignore how I know Mrs. Van Buren, the doting way she treats me is nice.

“Hey, Mrs. Van Buren,” I answer brightly. “How are you tonight?” I glance at my watch. It’s eight o’clock, so it’s surprising to get a call from her this late.

“I’ve been better,” she says in a tight voice.

I grimace. “I know I’ve been neglecting you. I promise, I’m planning on dropping off goodies after practice tomorrow so I have some time to visit with you.”

“Never mind that. I’m calling you about something more important.” She pauses, and in that beat my mind races several different places. We haven’t had a lot of time to talk the last couple days, and maybe she’s been meaning to tell me something about Grandpa that she can’t hold back anymore. Or maybe our relationship is too awkward for her to continue. I would understand, but surprisingly, I’d be disappointed.

“It’s about the sugar cookies you brought by yesterday,” she goes on. The pinched way she’s talking says whatever is important isn’t good news. But what does it have to do with the cookies? My thoughts collapse in a jumble as I try to tie in Mrs. Van Buren dumping me to the cookies I brought her.

“I thought Mila’s sugar cookies were your favorite.” I shuffle back through our most recent visits, wondering if she’s changed her preferences and I didn’t pay attention to know.

“Usually, they are. What I called to tell you was that everyone who ate a cookie yesterday has been sick all day today. The center doctor says it’s food poisoning.”

I suck in a gasp. “Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t say awful things about Mila’s cookies on a whim, Lincoln,” Mrs. Van Buren scolds me. “It’s never happened before, as you know, so none of us blame that sweet girl. But we thought she might like to know in case one of her suppliers has gotten lazy or tried to sell her old eggs or something.”

Despite the news, I can’t help a small smile at Mrs. Van Buren and her friends’ loyalty to Mila and her indignation that someone might treat her badly. “She would like to know. That’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Van Buren. Are you doing okay? Do I need to come help you with anything?”

“Well, I was a lucky one,” she says. “I had some blood tests yesterday and had to save my cookie. Of course, I didn’t eat it when everyone ended up getting sick.”

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