She yanked the phone from his hand, but the number was blocked, probably sent from a burner.
“I don’t understand. Why would someone do this?” she muttered to herself. Unfortunately, Mateo heard.
“Do you even hear yourself?” He was outraged. Well, outraged for someone who never got outraged. “This is all about what someone did to you? Never mind what you did to me, to us. Layla—”
She looked at him. Usually she loved the sound of her name on his lips. The way his voice lifted when he’d call to her after too long an absence—the way it dipped low and gravelly when he was caught by desire. She’d never once heard him address her like she was little more than a stranger, even back when she was.
Unlike most guys she’d dated, Mateo never hid behind a facade of forced manliness, never pretended the heart was just an overlooked muscle in an otherwise well-honed body. He was totally authentic. Mateo approached the world in such a genuine way, it left her in awe. But now, well, she couldn’t help but wish he’d been better at stuffing his feelings like everyone else. If for no other reason than to spare her the sight of seeing him squinting in confusion, as though he was trying to find the best way to ingest a revelation that would inevitably upend everything he once thought he knew about her, about them.
Maybe he loved her too purely.
Maybe he loved her in a way she clearly didn’t deserve.
And maybe his love for her had blinded him to the truth that Layla wasn’t the wonderful person he believed her to be.
“I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”
A single tear coursed down her cheek. She did nothing to stop it.
“I think we should take a break.”
Her bottom lip trembled, her eyes burned; still, her gaze met his and she nodded in reply. There wasn’t a single thing she could say that wouldn’t just make it worse. She’d lied, withheld information, and no matter how much she loved him, and she did, probably always would, truth was, she’d had one foot out the door since the first night she’d met him.
Mateo could do better.
With any luck, she’d get what she deserved.
She watched him leave. Slipping away like a ghost.
Intangible.
Indiscernible.
No longer hers to hold.
She mashed the back of her hand against her cheeks, refusing to cry, or at least not in public. Her feelings could wait. Her dad needed this night to be a success.
She headed for the bar, grabbed a glass of red wine, and went in search of her dad. Her heart nearly stopped in her chest when she found him in a corner talking to Ira.
?
?I was just telling your father how much I admire his work.” Ira grinned.
Layla forced a half smile and glanced all around. The gallery owner was making the rounds, talking up the work, but no one was biting.
“I’m thinking about expanding the Vesper. Adding a private VIP space. One of your dad’s murals would really liven up the place. We were just negotiating the terms when you walked up.”
Layla looked at her dad. He was playing it cool, but it was clear he really wanted the deal.
“My dad does great work. You won’t be disappointed.” She swallowed hard, shifted her gaze between them, feeling slightly dazed. As though she’d wandered inside one of her dad’s paintings. Then, hugging her dad tightly, she said, “I’ll leave you to it.” Wishing she could say more—warn him not to go through with it—that there was most likely a whole web of strings attached to the project he wouldn’t see coming until it was too late and he was completely entangled. But they were desperately in need of a savior, and if Ira was willing to step in and deliver her dad from mounting debt and the prospect of homelessness, who was she to stop him?
Besides, there was a good chance she was being completely irrational. After what had just happened with Mateo, it was entirely possible.
She exited the gallery and made her way down the crowded summer sidewalk, making a mental list of all the reasons she should be happy.
The temperature was a balmy seventy-five degrees, just how she liked it!
But tomorrow would be hot, sunny, nearing triple digits.