Page 9 of The Kat Bunglar

Chicago

Laila Malik

Laila stared, her lips parting slightly as Gabriel rolled up his sleeves, revealing the bold curves of tribal tattoos along his forearms. A mix of longing and something dangerously close to desire coursed through her veins.

Why had she stayed?It certainly wasn’t to help him clean.

The thought barely had time to settle before Gabriel caught her staring—and winked.

A warm flush spread across her cheeks.

“Thank you for staying; I didn’t realize people made such a mess in other people’s homes,” Gabriel said as he tossed cups and paper plates into a garbage bag.

“It’s fine. Luckily, I don’t need a cab to get home,” Laila replied, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to make light of the situation. She removed her constricting jean jacket and blew cool air over her dress in an attempt to calm herself.

“Your cupcakes were delicious, by the way,” he added while bending over to pick up discarded paper cups from the floor.

“Oh, yeah. Um... that’s great,” she responded, her gaze drifting to his posterior. It was almost midnight, and she had work in the morning—she should be tucked into her own bed instead of ogling this man.

“Maybe I overdid the celebration a little, but this tenured position means everything to me.” Gabriel sank to the edge of his sofa, taking a deep, satisfied breath. “My family lives in Morelia, Mexico, and unfortunately, we’ve had a long-distance relationship for far too long. But now, I can finally start the process of bringing them over and visit more often.”

At the mention of “family,” Laila quickly glanced at his left ring finger; it was unadorned. “That must be a wonderful feeling. I’m so happy for you—if there’s anything I can do—” she began, then stopped, realizing she had no business offering help.

“Do you know any good immigration lawyers?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Actually, I do,” she said with a smile. “Me.”

“I’m aware, Mrs. Malik—I did a little light Googling on you,” he replied sheepishly.

“You did?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Why?”

He glanced briefly at her lips. “Let’s just say when we spoke this morning, I thought you were...interesting.”

Interesting? What did that mean—was it a compliment, like ‘hot girl’ interesting, or more like ‘serial killer’ interesting? She needed more time—more time with him to understand what she was feeling and why. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Let me be your lawyer.”

“Perdóneme?” he asked, raising his left eyebrow.

Mesmerized, she gave a little laugh to cover the awkward silence. “I mean, if you’re looking for an immigration lawyer, I can help.” She moved over to the couch, retrieved her purse, and pulled out a business card. “My office is only a few blocks away. You should come by next week so we can discuss your case in detail.”

He looked at the address, perplexed. “If your office is only a few blocks away, why were you taking the Metra this morning?”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized her faux pas. “Oh, um, I was meeting a client in Logan Square. But then I realized I didn’t have her file with me.”

He met her gaze. “Because you left your work bag at home?”

Laila swallowed uncomfortably. Why did she feel like she was facing an inquisition? He took the card from her, his fingers lightly brushing hers. “Thank you, Penthouse. I’m going to take you up on this offer.”

She smiled in relief that he had abandoned his line of questioning. “You have a very pretty smile,” he said, lightly touching her cheek.

Alarm bells rang in her head. It was one thing to covet a man from afar, but until now, every desire had lived only in her imagination. Could she really do this? Was she capable of stepping out on her husband?

Noticing her discomfort, Gabriel backed away and walked over to the antique record player in the corner. Laila felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Did she want him to make a move? Should she make one herself? And what did “making a move” even look like in this day and age?

“Oh, that actually works,” she said, distracted by the music emanating from the record player.

“Of course it works—it belonged to my grandfather. He believed everything should have a purpose.”

A sweet melody swirled through the air. “And, um... what is the purpose of this music?” she asked, unnerved as he walked toward her.

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