Page 33 of The Best You've Ever Had

But I’ve seen her empathy and generosity. I remember how she stuck up for anyone when we were in high school, and made it her own personal agenda to defend those that were bullied, taking them under her wing. I’ve heard the stories from her mother, of her taking countless pro-bono cases for women in abusive relationships that are trying to escape. All the volunteer efforts. The food pantry donations.

Layla Reed has the heart of an altruist—a quality she keeps hidden, which only makes it all the more admirable.

We finally get to the bar, where I order a soda, wanting to refrain from drinking alcohol. I already spiraled and drank myself into a depressed hole once before. And then yesterday was yet another example of why I shouldn’t drink—even though my brain was foggy, I remember clear as day the way her thighs trembled from my touch, and the tiny inhale of surprise when I first licked her. It’s best to keep my brain clear or else I run the risk of making more bad decisions where she is concerned. Even if Idowant nothing more than to make those same mistakes with her, again and again and again.

Following my lead, she also orders a non-alcoholic drink—a Shirley Temple. Maybe we’re both aware that we can’t cloud our judgment for a second time.

She sees me staring at her, and quirks an eyebrow in response. “What the hell are you staring at?”

I shake my head, not knowing if I should tell the lioness of a woman that she looks adorable holding a drink beloved by many children. “Nothing.”

“Spit it out. I’m nosey.”

She bites one of the cherries off the stem, her soft lips wrapping around it before using her teeth to pluck it off the stem in the process. The simple action looks so fucking sexy that it takes everything in me not to groan as my dick throbs in agreement. I can guarantee that if I turned around I’d find ten other sets of eyes glued to her mouth and that damn cherry. “I just didn’t expect you to order a Shirley Temple, that’s all. It’s cute.”

“If you think this is cute, you need to get out more. Go visit a litter of kittens or something.”

I huff out a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Christmas music fills the room, one of the popular upbeat classics that I’ve heard on a loop for the last three decades of my life. Most of the room drunkenly heads to the dance floor, as we sit on our respective barstools, people-watching like it was our sole intention for coming here tonight.

She stares out into the crowd, watching everyone busting out their worst dancing. “So, these are your coworkers, huh? Sure seems like a rowdy bunch.”

“They can come on a little strong, but they’re like family.”

“So you enjoy working here?”

“I like the people.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I blow air between my lips, attempting to find the right words without sounding like a complete tool. “I had always dreamed of going and working for a bigger department. In Havenbrook, most days we’re just sitting around the firehouse. I’d like to do more than that.”

“Well, do it then. Go apply to bigger departments.”

“I did. I was actually supposed to interview for the Seattle Fire Department. I had been applying for years. But the timing now…”

Realization washes over her as towhyI don’t exactly want to simply up and leave. Taking a sip of her drink, she crosses her legs and bounces one black stiletto heel in thought. “Life sure is one giant buzzkill, huh?”

“Nah. It’s not all bad.”

With a raised eyebrow, she gives me a skeptical look.

“I’ll make it through. It’s going to hurt like hell when we lose him, but hard now doesn’t mean hard always.”

“And here I thought this would be the wake up call that would make you as bitter as me.”

“No one could be as bitter as you,” I tease, throwing her my most charming smile.

She moves to playfully slap my thigh, but as her fingertips graze my leg, I catch her hand, holding it gently in mine and intertwining our fingers. Her eyes scan my face with a mix of emotions—curiosity, contemplation, and eventually acquiescence. I had fully anticipated her to tell me to fuck off, but she doesn’t. She keeps her hand in mine, like we’ve done this countless times before. Like she wants to too.

My thumb strokes the delicate skin of her inner wrist, and I want more. I want to be consumed by her if it’s the last thing I do. Not only because I’ve known her for decades and love every part of her. Not because she’s more beautiful than any other woman I’ve seen before. And not just because she commands the attention of a room like she was born to do it.

Layla is different. She’s dependable, as if her very existence relies on it. She knows exactly what she wants and will fight to the death to get it. And underneath it all, she has a heart bigger than any other person I know.

In the chaos of people laughing and yelling over the music around us, she lies her head on my shoulder. I soak her in. This feeling. This honor of having a tiny vulnerable piece of her resting on me. We sit there, watching the drunken, festive crowd, while we sit under our own dark and thunderous rain cloud of unfortunate events. Wallowing in it. Feeling every single thing together.

The opening notes of “All I Want For Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey begins blasting from the dusty speaker in the corner.

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