Joseph wined and dined her, courting her in an almost old-world fashion. He brought her flowers and took her to nice restaurants, trying to spend time with despite her busy schedule and his status as a big man on campus.

  And Laila had let him do all that, a first because she was angry and then because she was numb. But, eventually, she began to feel better. And then Joseph’s attention started to be fun. The new man in her life was charming, the son of a good family, who realistically entertained political aspirations. He lived hard and played harder, but seemed to keep his head about him at all times.

  Joseph had surprised her when he first told her about his off-campus apartment. Then he’d downright stunned her when he’d asked her to move into it with him.

  “How is it that Joseph has a place off-campus?” Rosamie asked, jarring her back into the present. “Aren’t all frat brothers supposed to live at their frat house?”

  “When there is room, but even Alpha Omega has an overflow code.”

  Frats were little fiefdoms unto themselves, with their own rules of governance. While some didn’t allow their members to live outside of their home, some required it because they didn’t have enough space. Alpha Omega was one of the fraternities that let some of its most senior members live off-campus to make room for the newer recruits.

  Laila didn’t think that rule applied to the president of the fraternity. Indeed, it didn’t. Joseph had a room at Alpha Omega, which he jokingly referred to as the presidential suite. But he still wanted his own space, and despite the fact real estate was at a premium in L.A., he could afford to pay for the privilege of privacy—or, rather, his parents did.

  Joseph visited Alpha Omega every weekday between classes, but he only slept there on Friday and Saturday nights. The rest of the time, he stayed at his high-rise penthouse apartment, a gorgeous place he wanted to share with her.

  Laila was tempted to say yes for the bathrooms alone. And who could blame me? There are three!

  Rosamie threw her arms around Laila. “You know I don’t want you to move out, right?” she said, kissing her on the cheek. “It’s that I don’t want you to miss your chance. Joseph is who you should be setting your cap on.”

  Laila smiled. She could always tell when Rosamie had been reading historical romances before bed.

  Jasmine hesitated. “Or could you be reluctant for some other reason? You aren’t still pining for the mercenary from next door, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Neither of her friends mentioned Mason by name anymore. “I’ve taken your persistent and strongly worded advice—I moved on. That’s not the reason I haven’t told Joseph yes. I just believe this step is too big for such a new relationship.”

  “But he’s not even there half the time,” Rosamie said, almost bouncing with her trademark enthusiasm. “It would be like time-sharing a glorious apartment or having a part-time gigolo—one that only comes by Sunday through Thursday.”

  Laughing, Laila shook her head. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him—I promise to think about it.”

  “Fine, fine.” Jasmine sniffed. “I suppose that’s all we can ask.”

  Laila raised a brow. “We?”

  “Jas, Joseph, and I just want the best for you,” Rosamie said with a grin. “I think he’s good for you, and you’re good for him—especially given his desire to follow in his father’s footsteps. Dating you is a good move for him politically. Marrying you would be even better.”

  Laila scowled. “How do you figure that?”

  She didn’t come from money or had no connections a future politician could exploit.

  “You’re smart, photogenic, and most importantly—brown. Unless he plans to leave California, most of his constituents will be the same.”

  “How…romantic,” Laila deadpanned.

  Rosamie shrugged. “Among the upper-class, marriage is still a business. But nowadays, we can be both romantic and practical.”

  “Okay, now I know you have been reading too many Regency romances,” Laila said flatly. Screwing her face up, she pointed at another dress laid out on the bed, this one a simple A-line silhouette in a burnt-orange color. “How about that one?”

  Grinning, Rosamie snatched it up and tossed it over to her before running to their shared bathroom. “So glad you asked about it. I have the perfect earrings to go with it.”

  Jasmine held up a makeup case. “And I have the perfect eyeshadow color to match.”

  “I can’t wear makeup to work,” Laila protested. The heat from the ovens made it run into her eyes, and Joseph was picking her up directly after her shift.

  Rosamie came back, then handed her the earrings.

  “Let me see the eye shadow,” she told Jasmine. Jas opened the case, displaying a colorful palette.

  Rosamie whistled. “Those are perfect. Good choice.”

  “Again, I can’t wear makeup near the ovens unless I want to go blind,” Laila reminded them.

  “Don’t put it on until you are ready to leave,” Rosamie said, handing her the case. “Trust me—it will make this dress.”

  “If you insist,” Laila conceded, throwing the palette into her bag.

  Rosamie smirked. “I always do.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Laila didn’t answer her door. Mason knocked for a solid five minutes before he gave up, vowing to try again once he’d settled in. It was midmorning on a Saturday. She would be at work, serving the wealthy patrons of Gardullo’s their weekend indulgences.

  Frustrated to be so close to his goal, yet still so far, he set down his bag, struggling to insert his key in the lock with his left hand. His right arm rested in a sling against his chest, still useless for the time being.

  The arm should have been fine by now. However, a few weeks into his recovery, X-rays had shown the break wasn’t healing right. They’d had to re-break his bones to reset them properly. Thankfully, they’d given him ample drugs at the time, so it hadn’t been unbearable. But it had extended his stay in Mexico.

  The full chest and arm cast had come off a few weeks ago. Now, a smaller plaster cast kept his arm immobile. Mason was dying to get the damn thing off, but he was following the doctor’s orders to the letter. He didn’t want to risk his future mobility by being impatient.

  When he finally opened his door, he sucked in a breath of pained surprise. His plants were dead. Almost all were shriveled and wilted.

  Fuck. Scrubbing his face with his good hand, he reminded himself he’d been half-expecting this. Ransom hadn’t been able to get ahold of his neighbor the entire time Mason had been laid up. His friend had even stopped by the building personally, but Laila hadn’t been home either time.

  Mason hadn’t thought to send his key along with Ransom, so he hadn’t been forewarned about the state of his apartment. Tossing his bag on the couch, he spun around in a slow circle, taking stock.

  He really couldn’t blame Laila for not watering the plants. Given the way she steadfastly refused all his calls and texts over the last few months, it was obvious that she wanted nothing to do with him. It still hurt, though.

  After taking a moment to regroup, Mason ordered take-out before fishing a few garbage bags of out his supply closet. He started to throw away the dead plants, salvaging the few that might be revived.

  That was a little weird, he thought, stacking the now-empty pots. All the plants were in bad shape, but it almost appeared as if some had been watered a bit more recently than he’d supposed. If Laila hadn’t set foot in here since he left, then all the greenery would be dead. Even the trees.

  At a loss to make sense of it, he finished cleaning up, taking the full garbage bags down to the dumpster.

  When he got back upstairs, Laila’s door was swinging shut. Mason knocked, his heart hammering as footsteps approached.

  The door swung open, revealing a short, bespeckled Asian man. The stranger blinked up at Mason. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

  Mason’s lips parted. He took a step back. “Is Laila here?”

  Confusion wrinkled the man’s brow. “Who?”

  The fear this was Laila’s new live-in boyfriend dissipated. Shoulders slumping in relief, Mason explained. “Laila James. She lives here…”

  The man shrugged. “Not anymore, man.”

  He was about to close the door when Mason forestalled him, gesturing behind him. “Hey, that’s my place over there, but I was away for a while. How long have you been living here?”

  “More than three months,” the man volunteered, sticking out his left hand before retracting it in chagrin.

  “Sorry,” he said, waving at Mason’s brace. “It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah, nice to meet you,” Mason said, his mind racing. Laila must have moved out a few weeks after he left. “I guess I have to track her down.”

  The guy stood there, staring at him. “Okay, then. Bye.”

  He began to close the door before yanking it back open. “Hey, I do have some mail addressed to the previous tenant. They never came back for it. If you’re going to see them, maybe you can pass it on.”

  “Yes,” Mason answered. He had no fucking clue where Laila was, or why she had moved out, but he was going to find her.

  His new neighbor disappeared, returning in a minute with a small stack of envelopes, mailers, and magazines. Mason took them all, pressing the bundle against his body to keep from dropping them.

  When his takeout finally arrived, he stuck in his fridge. Then he fished out the keys to his Mustang to drive to Gardullo’s Gourmet Grocery.

  Driving one-handed was…challenging. But Mason did it, anyway, struggling a bit to make the sharp turn on Fifth. When he pulled into the grocery’s parking lot, he sighed with relief that he hadn’t crashed his car.

  The cold February wind whipped across his face as he ducked inside the door of the small, privately owned grocery. Laila’s bakery counter was empty.

  Fuck. Mason hung his head, fighting the urge to kick the wire stand of advertising circulars next to him across the room. A worry that she wasn’t here because she had left town twisted his stomach into a knot. He told himself it wasn’t likely, but then he hadn’t imagined she’d move apartments either.

  It’s okay, he told himself. Even if Laila was no longer employed here, she had been all through school. Someone would know where she lived now. He would find her.

  Mason was about to flag down the store manager to ask him about Laila when suddenly the woman herself appeared from the back of the store.

  It was as if the angels in the heavens had decided to take a sideline as lighting directors. A shaft of sun from the front window hit Laila as she walked past the two checkout stands. She wore a sleeveless burnt orange dress that showed off her sleekly muscled arms. Her dark creamy skin looked as if she had a thin sheet of gold pressed over it.

  Damn. Laila glowed. Mason put his hand over his heart. He was a little bit afraid it had just exploded.

  She ducked behind her counter, bending to fiddle with something before rising, a tray filled with French macarons in her hand.

  When she saw him, she stopped short, sending the multicolored pastries flying.

  “Wha—” she cried out in surprise, snatching up a green-tinted macaron before it flew off the tray. At least half-a-dozen others weren’t as fortunate. They hit the floor, scattering all around her in a rainbow of sweet litter.

  “Hi,” he said slowly.

  Laila’s gorgeous brown eyes were fixed wide on his face. For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Finally, she blinked, her head jerking back. “H-hi.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You didn’t,” Laila said quickly, then she gave herself a little shake. “Well, you did, but it’s okay. I’m just surprised to see you.”

  Her eyes ran over him, lingering over the sling and arm in the plaster cast as well as the spot high on his cheek that was still shiny after a scab had fallen off.

  His face was otherwise unmarked, but given the way Laila gaped at him, Mason half wondered if he’d sprouted horns. Or she’s noticing how much smaller you are. He was a lot thinner than he’d been, having lost some muscle mass in recovery.

  She set the tray on the counter. “What happened to you?” she asked, gesturing to his arm.

  “I got hurt. It happened not long after I saw you last,” he said. The words felt thick on his tongue. He shut his eyes briefly, torn between turning away because it would be easier to speak and drinking her in.

  Hungry for the sight of her, staring won. “I just got back to town.”

  Laila paled. “Recently?

  “Yes. Today, actually.”

  “You’ve been gone this whole time?” Laila asked, her voice a touch unsteady.

  Mason nodded. “Things went sideways on my last mission. I sort of got blown up.”

  Her lips parted. “You what?” she squeaked.

  He managed a weak one-sided smile.

  “I’m fine now. Or I will be. But that’s why I’ve been gone so long. I was laid up in a hospital in Mexico City, wearing a cast up to here.” Mason gestured to his neck.

  Laila appeared horrified. He was almost concerned she was going to faint.

  She sucked in an audible breath. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Are—are you in pain?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Her eyes were skeptical.

  “Well, I will be fine,” he amended.

  The light was playing tricks on him. It almost looked like Laila had tears in her eyes, but then she blinked, and the telltale shimmer disappeared.

  “I moved out,” Laila blurted.

  Mason nodded. “I figure that out when I knocked and met our new neighbor—I mean, my new neighbor,” he corrected.

  There was another long silence.

  “Why?” he murmured.

  “I…I had to leave,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It was such an expensive place, and my friend Rosamie put our names in the university housing lottery. She got us a room in graduate student housing. It’s much cheaper.”

  “I see.” And he did. Between this bakery job and her classes, Mason knew how many hours she worked. Sometimes, it had seemed as if she were dragging herself up the stairs. More than once, Mason had been tempted to pick her up and carry her up himself. I should have done it.

  A cheaper place would help relieve some of that burden. “How long ago was that?”

  His voice was sandpaper rough.

  “The week after you left.”

  He nodded, throat perilously tight. “And your phone? I called you a few times.”

  More like a few dozen…

  “I broke it in the stairwell,” she said in consternation. “I have a new one. My old number couldn’t be ported to my new carrier.”

  “Oh.” In a way, it was a relief. At least she hadn’t blocked him. “I’m glad you’re okay, too. I was worried when I saw my plants. I thought something had happened to you.”

  Laila’s brow creased. “What was wrong with your plants?”

  He laughed. “They’re all dead.”

  Her hand flew up to her to cover her mouth. “Oh, no! But Mrs. Turnbull was supposed to water them. I showed her what to do step-by-step.”

  Clearly, Laila had never gotten his note. “I guess she forgot,” he said softly.

  Laila staggered, leaning on the counter for support. “I can’t believe she didn’t do it. I even gave her all the money you paid me, too!”

  He couldn’t help but smile, despite the circumstances. Laila was so adorable in her indignation.

  “Is that why you’re here? Because of the plants? Are you—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “Are you mad because they’re dead?”

  “Who’s dead, babe?” a man asked at the same time Mason opened his mouth to say no.

  “His plants,” Laila said as Mason whirled to face the newcomer.

  “His what?” The guy laughed, causing a few heads to turn. The females in the vicinity paused to admire the younger man.

  The brown-haired man was only a few inches shorter than Mason but almost as wide. His chest and arms were muscular, indicating he worked out, although his legs were too lean for real stamina. The guy was strong, but he didn’t do manual labor. That much was clear by his preppy clothes and expensive watch.

  From his easy and familiar manner—and the ‘babe’—it was obvious he and Laila knew each.

  Mason instantly hated him.

  “It’s not funny, Joseph,” Laila admonished. “Mason had a lot of plants, some very expensive ones, too.”

  She put her hand to her forehead. “Oh God, the orchids alone were worth hundreds of dollars—maybe more.”

  There was a slight sway as if she were going to be sick. “Mrs. Turnbull agreed to water them for me. I gave her all the money you’d paid me for the last two times you were out of town. She’s a retired teacher—I thought she’d be reliable.”

  “Babe, calm down. He’s not going to sue you over some plants.” Joseph smirked, turning to Mason. “You’re not, right?”

  This time the ‘babe’ was reverberating so loud in Mason’s mind that he didn’t answer right away, making Laila visibly more anxious.

  “Of course not,” he choked out, forcing a soothing tone. “I was just concerned that something had happened to you. I take it that Mrs. Turnbull is now in possession of my spare key?”

  “Yes,” Laila said, her eyes going from him to the preppy dude and back again.

  The man put his hand out. “Joseph, Joseph Dubey.” The way he pronounced his name, stressing the syllables in such an obvious way, raised Mason’s hackles.

  Even more than his clothes, Dubey’s smug confidence screamed money. Mason wouldn’t have held that against the other man, but there was something off-putting about him. Maybe it was the wafts of privilege. They stank like a fine cologne that made everyone sneeze. It was certainly too much for Mason.

  This guy expects everyone to know his name. Mason suppressed a snort. In his circles, everyone probably does.

  However, Laila was watching him so intently that Mason couldn’t be rude. He shook the offered hand with his only available one, letting go as soon as good manners would allow. “Mason Lang.”

 

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