Beyond Layers: Layer Series Book Four (Layers Series 4) (3 page)

I let her cry for a minute. I’d laugh if I didn’t know the real reason behind her hysterics. She’s terrified of losing them.

“I’m coming home.”

“No.”
Honk.
“I’m fine and there’s nothing you can do. I just needed to cry on my sister’s shoulder for a bit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. How many millions of times have I cried on your shoulder?”

“I’ll be fine, Sam. I’m just… going a bit crazy. And I’m… scared.”

Five years ago, my sister would never have copped to being scared. She’s come a long way. And even though I’d like to cut my brother-in-law’s balls off with a butter knife, I can’t help but love him for helping my sister become the woman she is today.

“I know you are, Lex. If it makes you happy, I’ll stay. But promise me you’ll call if you need me.”

“I promise.”

“Have you told Gram?”

“Yes. She and Stewart are over the moon. Well, after she came to.”

“Came to?”

“She pulled a Casper on us and passed out.”

I can’t hold it in. I laugh. “Oh, my God. Is that even possible?”

She smirks. “I know, right? Never saw it coming. She’s been freaking me out, buzzing around like a queen bee on acid. She’s in great-grandma heaven and Stewart is right there with her. They’re picking out names and what college they’ll be attending. We don’t even know what sex they are.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

“Have you told Marco and Henry? Jules?”

“No. I wanted to tell you first.”

“Jules will flip out. Then she’s going to threaten to cut off Jax’s balls with a spoon.”

She giggles. “You’re right about that. I told him last night he’s lucky Jules is living in Florida, because she’ll go all Barbie ballistic. I woke up at three this morning, found him in the closet going through his drawers. He said his feet were cold and he was looking for socks. But I know he was looking for some kind of nut-hat or whatever the hell they call them.”

I belly laugh. “Oh my God, that’s hilarious.”

“Babe, are you talking about me?” I hear Jax purr.

Lex giggles. She’s stupid in love with the man.

“I’ll let you go. Sounds like you’re going to be getting
busy
.”

She stifles her giggles. “Okay, sis. We’re going to Ryan House for breakfast tomorrow. I thought it best to tell Marco our news in person. He’s going to cry when I tell him. Dear Lord, can that man cry.”

“Got that right. They’ll both be excited and scared for you. So prepare yourself.”

“I love having my best friends close. But at times like this, I kind of wish they hadn’t opened the B&B. They’re going to hover like a drone. I wouldn’t put it past them to look into private droning. Is that even possible or legal?”

“I don’t think so. For now, anyway.”

“Okay, sister, I’ll let you go. You take care and for God sakes, be careful. Only open your door if it’s the hot-bowl-of-running-man.”

“What hot bowl?” Jax asks.

“None of your business,” Lex tells him.

“None of my business? I’ll show you business,” he teases.

She giggles.

He growls.

“Yuck. I’m hanging up now.”

“Love you, sis. Talk to ya soon.”

“Love you too. Give kisses to my boys. Tell them I miss them.”

“Oh my God, Jax…. That feels….”

“Gross.” I hang up.

I
sit my ass in one of those low-rider beach-chair thingies. You know what I’m talking about? The kind where your ass floats an inch from the ground, and you wonder why you even bothered. My ass is floating an inch above pea-sized razor-rocks. One wrong cheek shift and my crack could be sectioned like a grapefruit.

The sand is smoother farther down the beach but this is the perfect place for my now daily ritual. What daily ritual, you ask? Watching sex-on-a-kabob run past my cottage, of course. He runs by twice a day. Once at 7:00 a.m. then again at precisely 3:15 p.m. Oh, how this girl loves a prompt man.

For the last few days, Mr. Sexkabob and I have been playing a smexy little game of Flirtopoly, aka, “I’ll show you my tit if you show me your tat.”

In our little game of Tit for Tat, we’ve mastered signature moves. When Mr. Sexkabob jogs on by he gives me a cheeky come-fuck-me grin and wave of the wrist—beauty-queen style. Sometimes he ups the play-money ante and wears a ball cap. As he jogs on by, he lifts said cap and gifts me a running cap-tipping nod. No one has ever gifted me a cap-tipping nod. It’s like a character move in a freakin’ Jane Austen novel. It turns my insides all girly-wurly, as if I’m a boy-band-ever-lovin’ tweenager

On occasion, he up-ups the play-money ante by adding the almost-pause. It’s as if he wants to stop and do a boy-meets-girl then chickens out. This causes my heart to beat out a fast
ba-dump,
ba-dump
, as my girly parts do a hoo-ah Houdini. But then those pesky doubts and fears raise their hands and my heart and girly parts plummet back to the reality of my low-rider chair. It’s a crazy yin-yang of the heart, going from,
hell yeah, hot-stick-of-butter man, please stop,
to,
if you stop and butter my buns, I’ll ralph all over my bikini.
So when he doesn’t almost-pause it’s a hellish relief.

On sunny days, my signature move is an utterly-out-of-practice lowering of my humongous sunglasses. Occasionally, I’ll add a lift of my perfectly waxed and tinted brows. On overcast days, it’s a toothy grin and an aye-aye-I’ll-be-your-captain salute. The latter is rewarded with a sexy roll of the eyes and a backwards-running man, thank-you-ma’am-may-I-have-another returned salute.

I look at my watch. 2:50 p.m. I’ve got plenty of time to prepare myself for our game of Flirtopoly. I take a sip then place my spiked ice tea in the built-in cup-holder of my low-rider chair. It’s my version of a Long Island iced tea. I call it the Sam-if-you-can’t-lick-him-at-least-you-can-get-slammed-on-the-bay iced tea.

Tea safely placed, I retrieve my iPhone from my beach bag, making sure a smexy tune is set to play, and my ear-buds are correctly placed. Lastly, I get out my book, set it aside, sit back, and wait for the game to begin.

While I wait, I mull over the last few days. I shake my head thinking about the craziness of buying a friggin’ cottage and Lex being pregnant with triplets
.
After a few mind-mulling minutes, my iPhone pings. I smile as I read a text from my PA, Kris, reminding me I have work that needs to be done by the end of the day. Kris is one of many friends and associates in what I think of as “my new life.”

After Lane was killed, I became a bit of a nomad, a gypsy I guess you could say. I went on an eight-month trek of the lower forty-eight. The things I saw and discovered, the people I met and talked to—life changing. Everyone had a story to tell, a journey they’ve taken or would like to go on. I felt small and insignificant at times, larger than life at others. I’ve traveled around the world, seen many wonders, but nothing compares; every trip pales to my trek of the lower forty-eight. I’ll be forever in debt to Lane for suggesting it, even knowing it wasn’t the same without him. I took the time I needed to mourn, the time I needed to reinvent myself and figure out my future without the man I had loved and was going to marry.

When I returned to New York, I wasn’t completely healed or whole, but I was on my way, and I had a plan. I planned to remain living in the loft Lane and I had shared, but within days it was evident I couldn’t live there anymore. It was a place forever haunted by his presence. He was the saucer to my cup, the peanut butter to my jelly, the Cheech to my Chong. Everything was
one
when it should have been
two.
Everything came in a
single
when it should have been a
pair.
There was one lonely toothbrush by the sink, one bath sponge in the shower, one cup of coffee to pour, one slice of bread in the two-slice toaster.

With a heavy heart and the need and desire to start a new life, I sold the loft. I purchased an old textile warehouse in Soho and refurbished it into my new firm and living space. I love it. It suits me just fine. Don’t get me wrong, I still mourn and miss Lane, but now I have a place I can think and live in without having to pretend all is well, all is in its proper place.

On the lower level of the warehouse, I opened up my own architectural engineering firm. I still do the more than occasional work for Grant, but I’m having the time of my life doing things I’ve never done before. In just two years, I have five employees and a friggin’ waiting list of potential clients.

I look at my watch. 3:10 p.m. I sit up straight and look down the beach. Holy hotness, there he is, right on titillating time.

Promptly at 3:15, he’s smack-lickable-damn in front of me. And thank you sweet Jesus, lying in your itty-bitty manger, he’s sporting his ball cap. And off it goes right on cue. Elizabeth Bennet, eat your ever-livin’-prideful heart out. I think I just came. Gawd dang!

I give him my toothy-grin-salute move and goddammit if he doesn’t laugh at me. Fuck that! Shit that!

He came (so did I) and was gone before I even got a chance to checkmate.
Bastard!
Who does he think he is? Who does he think he’s kidding? I’ve noticed how his tees have shrunk and his board shorts ride more than a tad lower, all but hangin’ on a hip-lovin’ thread. I’m totally on to you, Mr. Sexy-I-want-to-bob you. On to you, like the scruff on your chinny-chin-chin.

Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s a tad cool for my all-but-all-string bikini. And I did find a place in town for a quick wax job. But dang if he didn’t just up the ante, change our unwritten but nevertheless strictly to-be-obeyed game rules.

Damn, I’m mad and I don’t even know why. I don’t know this guy from Adam’s cousin Steven. So why am I all hot and bothered?
Goddamn you, Mr. Sexkabob!

I pick up my book and locate my dog-eared page. A few minutes into my reading, my iPhone rings. I look at the screen and answer.

“Hey, Kris, what’s up?”

“Just sitting behind my desk, working my ass off. Some of us actually work for a living, ya know.”

“And who says I’m not?”

“I know what time it is.”

“Dang, girl. Forgot I told you about him.”

“So what was it today?”

“The hat tipping, nodding thing. And damned if he didn’t laugh at me.”

She laughs. “Positively evil.”

“Okay, I’m being a stupid ass. But for some crazy-nut reason, it’s put my panties in a twist.”

“Your e-mail said he was hot. Not that he was making you all smexy-hot.”

“Well he has, and damned if I know why.”

Kris goes all-serious on me. “Maybe it’s because you’re a beautiful young woman who’s attracted to a beautiful man.” Heavy sigh. “Boss, may I be blunt and personal?”

“When are you not?”

“I’m a grandmother, been around the block a few times. I don’t have time nor do I want to pussy-foot around my words.”

“Okay. Lay it on me.”

“In the two years I’ve worked for you, you have never, and I mean ever, let a man twist your panties. And I’ve seen a few of your potential suitors and most of them put this granny’s panties in a twist.”

“Your point, all-twisted-panties granny?”

“I think my point is as clear as the day is long. You need to seize the day; seize the hot running man.”