Page 44 of Layla Meets Her Match

Astrid passes Lincoln’s box to him just as the woman asks for a dozen of the sugar cookies, so Lincoln waves and heads away.

I’m only half concentrating on taking the woman’s order as I watch him. Especially when a short guy in jeans and a T-shirt stops Lincoln and holds out his phone. Probably asking for a selfie, which is confirmed when the guy holds it out and leans toward Lincoln. I’m too far away to see if he tries to tamper with Lincoln’s box, but Lincoln must be on the same wavelength. As the man is walking away, I catch Lincoln holding up his phone as though he’s looking at a text. I’d be willing to bet he’s snapping a picture of his own. That’s two possible leads, just when I thought the case might be going cold.

“What’s the total?” the woman says, snapping my attention back to her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. I rattle off the price, still furtively watching Lincoln walk away. For the case, of course.

I can’t believe how much I miss Margot when I have to work all day away from her. I lie on my bed with her when I get home and try to convince her to snuggle with me. The problem is that she’s too busy. She doesn’t even have the decency to miss me as much as I missed her. I steal kisses from her soft, chubby cheeks every chance I get though, even as we play a hide-and-seek game on the bed with her small stuffed teddy bear that Mila got her when she was first born. It’s navy blue and has a little Rays sun logo on the chest, and it’s uber soft. Every time Margot “finds” it, she rubs her face in the bear.

The doorbell rings about an hour after I get home, and I wish again that I’d bought the video doorbell that I keep meaning to. Then I could decide if it’s worth opening before alerting whoever’s there that we’re home.

Margot squeals with delight at finding the bear just a few feet away from her, and I know whoever is on the other side of the door knows we’re home. I transfer her and the bear to the rug and head for the door, leaning in to check through the peephole.

My jaw drops in utter surprise to see You Know Who himself standing on the other side of my door. Not Voldemort, if that’s what you were thinking. I swallow and take a deep breath. Number One Jerk rings the doorbell again, and the door is thin enough that I catch a grunt of annoyance. So he’s pretty much still the same.

I pull open the door, standing in the small gap that I’ve made. “What do you want?” I ask.

He flashes me that same charming grin that I fell for when we met—the one that lights up his face, making his blue eyes sparkle and women in general swoon. “Hello to you too.”

I stare at him, unaffected by his America’s sweetheart act, and let the silence stretch between us into awkward.

He clears his throat. “Can I come in? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Everything in me tenses. My stomach, my chest, my pinky toe. I think maybe even my eyelids. Margot is behind this door. Margot, the sweet baby girl he hasn’t cared a thing about for months, still doesn’t, that I know of. He thinks he can just waltz in here and into her life as a second thought? Absolutely not. The day he meets Margot will be a day I’m prepared for.

Is there a part of me that longs for her to have the father she needs? Yes. But I want a man who will dote on her, who will follow her around when she’s learning to walk because he can’t stand the idea of her falling. A man who will get his fingernails painted and his hair done like all the green flag guys on TikTok.

“No. You can’t come in.” It surprises me that my voice is firm, given how tight unwanted emotion is in my throat. “What do you want?”

Mr. Charming (not) glances around the hallway and spots the doorbell cameras on at least three of the doors in this hallway. The one at the end of the hall, about ten feet from us, probably gets a perfect shot of his face every time he looks that direction. “This isn’t very private,” he says under his breath.

I arch an eyebrow. “Then maybe you should have called first and arranged for me to meet you somewhere private.”

He looks around again, and I almost laugh to think that apartment number 105 is getting plenty of shots to sell to the paparazzi thanks to his paranoia. I cannot wait to see what the gossip accounts say about this. Love triangle? Is America’s Hero trying to steal Lincoln Knight’s girl? I bite back a laugh.

“I need to talk to you,” he reiterates. “Please, let’s go inside.” He gestures to the door of my apartment like it’s his, and he’s graciously asking me in.

“No,” I repeat.

He huffs and clenches his jaw. “Is the baby sleeping or something?”

The baby? Anger surges through me. Not only has he ignored Margot’s existence, he’s forgotten that she’s a girl. That she has a name. I told all of this to him on the day she was born in a text message to him that he never responded to, yet I saw the read receipt.

“No. Your daughter is not sleeping.” How did I not see how entitled he was, even before the Phantom Hex part? This guy is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, even if I don’t regret for a second having Margot in my life. Was he like this before? He’s not trying to charm me right now—I’ll give him that. When he wants to lay it on, he could sell Kryptonite to Superman. So what’s his endgame right now, and why does he want into my apartment if he hasn’t come to his senses and realized that dumping me was as stupid as turning down the Phantom Hex would’ve been?

“Layla?” a voice asks from behind Jack, and he stiffens.

I peer around him. (He’s refusing to turn around like the paparazzi has stalked him here or something.) It’s my neighbor, Isabella. We’ve chatted a couple of times because she has a toddler and a four-month-old, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to develop our mom friendship like I want to.

“Everything okay?” she asks, her brows furrowed. She’s stepped halfway out her door, and she’s holding a baseball bat in one hand.

“Layla, just let me in, please,” Phantom Father hisses at me.

“It’s fine, Isabella. Thanks.” I give her a big grin. She can only see the back of Jack’s head, so she probably hasn’t recognized him. But I know she’ll be watching on her doorbell camera now, and I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about America’s Hero showing up on my doorstep.

She nods at me and shuts her door.

“Layla,” Jack insists.

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