Page 97 of Dial B for Billionaire

Layla:

Board meeting from hell finally over. Your place tonight?

I type back fast:

me:

Yes. Can you be there by 5?

Layla:

5? That's crazy early for you. Should I call a doctor?

Me:

Everything's fine. Just want more time with you.

Layla:

Now I'm really worried. Bennett Mercer leaving the office before 8? What's wrong?

She knows me too well already.

Me:

I'll be home by 4. See you at 5.

Three dots appear, disappear, reappear. Finally:

Layla:

It's a date. A very mysterious one.

A date. The word sends something warm spreading through my chest, which should probably worry me.

The investor call runs long. Patterson’s assistant calls twice. Three separate crises demand my immediate attention. By the time I make it home, it's 4:30, and the deliveries are spread across my bed like evidence of temporary insanity.

I work fast, the way I approach everything. The new built-ins were finished yesterday—I had an entire section of my walk-in closet transformed to fit a second wardrobe. Now I fill it like I'm organizing a hostile takeover: dresses by color and occasion, blouses and skirts by season, shoes arranged by the personal shopper I'd hired with strict instructions to match Layla's style.

It's too much. I know it's too much. But I've never done anything halfway.

At 4:58, the elevator arrives. A moment of panic hits me—which is not normal—as I realize I'm about to get caught red-handed, still arranging cashmere sweaters.

“Bennett?” Her voice echoes through the penthouse.

“In here,” I call back, giving the closet one last look.

Her footsteps approach. “Where's 'here' exactly? Your place is huge—” She stops in the bedroom doorway, taking in the scene: me standing in the expanded closet, surrounded by designer tags and empty boxes like somederanged personal shopper. “So this is why we've been at my place the last few nights.”

I gesture at the new section, hoping I look smooth instead of manic. “Making space for more joy in my life.”

Her expression softens at the callback to Lisbon. She steps closer, fingers brushing the hanging clothes. “Are these... for me?”

“I noticed you've been bringing the same overnight bag for weeks. Seemed practical to have some things here.”

“Some things,” she repeats, running her hand along a row of silk blouses. “Bennett, this is an entire wardrobe.”

“I may have gotten carried away.”

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