Page 53 of Second Draft

“Okay. Open them.”

She blinks, once, twice, then her eyes widen as she takes in the room. The full oak bookshelves that line every wall, the extra wide armchair that sits in the corner, and the antique desk with its ergonomic leather chair.

“It’s a library or an office. Whatever you want it to be,” I say, watching her as she slowly starts to walk around the room, fingers brushing the spines of the books. “I thought you’d like to have your own space. Somewhere for you to read, or write, or whatever you want to do. The computer is only the finishing touch.”

She turns and blinks at me, brows drawn down. “You did all this? For me?”

There it is, the look that says she doesn’t think she deserves it.

I remove the distance between us and place my hands on her shoulders. “Yes. And this isn’t something I can take back, so don’t even think about arguing with me.”

She laughs, but there are tears in her eyes.

“Do you like it? I had an interior decorator choose the color, but if you–”

“It’s perfect.” Her arms lift, wrapping around my neck, and she stands on her toes to kiss me. “Thank you,” she says against my lips. “No one has ever done anything like this for me. I love it.”

Thank God. I breathe out a heavy sigh of relief.

She kisses me again, this time harder and longer, and her hands skim down my chest, then snake under my shirt.

“I thought you had to volunteer today.” I chuckle, seeing the intent in her eyes.

“I can be a few minutes late,” she grins up at me, her touch instantly making me hard.

We both frown when the doorbell rings.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

She shakes her head.

“Okay, I’ll get it.”

“Carter?” she says, stopping me before I can make it through the double doors. “Thank you.”

I smile, my heart swelling, knowing the fact that she accepted it is a huge step. The doorbell rings a few more times in an impatient manner. I grumble and make my way up the stairs, ready to give whoever’s on the other side of the door an earful.

“Kira?” I frown when I take in the woman’s worried, almost frenzied appearance. “Is everything all right?”

“Is Layla here?” she asks, stepping into the house when I open the door wider.

“She’s downstairs. I’ll get her.” A weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach when I call down for Layla to come up. It’s like that moment before something bad happens. You know it’s coming, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

I just hope I’m wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Layla must feel it too, because her face pales, and that fear that’s almost constantly in her eyes, but has been dissipating these past couple months, is back, full-force.

“You weren’t answering your phone. I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour,” Kira says, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“It must be turned off. Are you okay? Is it Max?”

I’m assuming Max is the boyfriend I still haven’t met.

“No.” Kira shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Layla.”

Layla doesn’t move, not even a fraction of an inch, but I can almost see herself starting to shut down.

“It’s your mom.” Kira looks at me, then back at Layla. “She had a stroke. She’s alive, but it’s…really bad.”

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