Page 7 of Castaway Whirlwind
“Fine,” Russell says, standing up and walking around the desk to close the thin aluminum blinds over the Plexiglass window so no one can see inside, then locks the side door. He yanks the hem of his shirt out of his waistband, flashing a thin strip of hair between the subtle ridges of his lower abdominal muscles. He’s thickandfit, which I didn’t know was possible. “You want to earn it? I’ve got something you can do.”
My survival instincts kick in, my heart sprinting as my adrenaline spikes. It doesn’t matter how unbelievably handsome he is—he’s a virtual stranger twice my size who could easily overpower me. I back up against his tall metal filing cabinet, feeling trapped. I can hardly get the words out through a tight throat suddenly gone dry when I whisper, “What do you want me to do?”
Russell drops the wad of cash on his desk, then goes to the door that leads to the lobby, presumably to lock it, too. Gripping the doorknob, he says, “If you can get my desk organized, you’ll have earned every bit of that money.” He gives me a weird little salute, then leaves me alone in the office.
I collapse on his chair, an elbow on the desk with my hand pressed over my heart, breathing deeply as my blood pressure returns to normal. I laugh quietly at myself and how ridiculous I was for being a scaredy cat and thinking Russell wanted something sexual. A man his age, who’s been nothing but respectful in our interactions, wouldn’t look twice at me, especially since he knows I’m engaged.
Once I’ve calmed, I survey the mountain of papers with all kinds of notes scribbled across them, an endless number of invoices, some dating back to two years ago, and manila folders spilling half their contents. I roll up my metaphorical sleeves, tapplayon the Hot Country playlist in my phone’s music app, and get to work.
Singing along to the music, it’s easy to ignore all the questions I have about what else Steven has been lying about. And also why I feel more trapped by the engagement ring on my finger than I did by being locked in the office with Russell.
* **
Russell
I’m so wrapped up in wondering why Layla stopped singing, slightly off-key but beautiful nonetheless, with my eyes closed and my ear pressed to the office door that I don’t hear my receptionist, Yamuna, walk in after her lunch break.
I take a jerky step back from the door, hiking my jeans up by my belt loops for something to do when she asks, “Mr. Russell?” Her deep brown eyes dart from the door to me and back again.
Yamuna has been working for me for just over ten years and has seen me at my sickest, concerned for my health, sending me straight home when I still try to come into work. But this is the first time she’s looked at me like I’m mentally unstable instead of physically unhealthy.
“Is everything ok?”
“Yup.” I pop theP, rocking back and forth on my heels and toes, apparently unable to play it cool enough to ease her worry.
Yamuna looks to the doorway again but accepts my answer for now, though I know she’ll be keeping an eye on me, which means I need to get out of here before she figures me out. Jared pokes his short-cropped dark head in and tells me I’m needed in the warehouse, providing me a way to escape her scrutiny.
By the time I can get away from the warehouse, the sun has set, most of the day crew have left, including shit-stain Steven, and I missed my chance to see Layla, who would have been done organizing my desk hours ago. I’m not sure how Layla would have explained her presence in my office in her waitressing uniform to Yamuna, but I hope Yamuna didn’t give her the third degree. It’s silly to be disappointed sinceI’m going to see Layla the next morning when I go to the diner for breakfast. And also because she’s engaged, which leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I wave goodbye to Yamuna as she’s leaving the lobby, and I book it into my office, locking the door in case Yamuna decides to corner and interrogate me.
“Layla!” I cross the office in two strides, finding her with her head down, cheek flat on the mostly clean desk, tears leaking from her closed eyes even while she’s asleep. “Hey, hey.” I tap her cheek, scared witless by how pale her skin is.
Layla sits up straight with a gasp and an alarmed expression.
I press a hand to my chest, my heart pounding. “Are you ok, darlin’?”
“I’m sorry. I just had to rest for a minute.” She winces as if in pain and wraps an arm around her lower belly. “What time is it?”
I check my wristwatch, panicking. “Just after six-thirty.”
Layla hunches over when she stands, sucking in a breath, still hugging her torso. More tears spill from the corners of her eyes, and she covers her mouth with her hand.
“What? What’s wrong?” My hands are all over her, trying to get her to look up.
She shoves me away and trips over her feet to land on her knees in front of the little trash can in the corner of my office, retching.
In an instant, my stomach sinks, though god knows I shouldn’t be upset that she’s in the family way. I rush out of the office and into the employee bathroom to wet a paper towel and grab a bottle of water from Yamuna’s mini fridge beneath the front counter. When I return, Layla’s done heaving, sitting on her heels. I kneel beside her, press the paper towel to herforehead, then blot her cheeks and chin.
She meets my eye for half a second before looking away. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t gotta be sorry about that. My ex-wife had hyperemesis gravidarum when she was pregnant. Didn’t go a day without throwing up.”
Layla’s shoulders shake when fat tears roll down her cheeks, and I turn her chin up to swipe them gently away. “I wish,” she says brokenly.
I want so badly to pick her up and sit her on my knee so I can comfort her. “Wish what, darlin’?”
“I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
