Quiet Angel (8 page)

“Sure, go ahead,” Layla said, her heart squeezing a little. “I don’t want to keep you from work.” She turned her head towards the window and closed her eyes.

Gage stared at his phone. There were close to 50 emails he needed to answer, many from political consultants, some from his godfather, about the Georgia gubernatorial campaign. But he couldn’t deal with any of that now.

He could only think back to his last night with Layla, not ready for the day to come, still wanting to savor the night—what they’d done, how they’d done it. To top it all off, she’d finally dared to fall asleep in his arms. He’d heard Layla drift off to sleep in his bed, and what a sweet sound that was.

He looked over at her beside him once again, this time sleeping next to him on his airplane, heading to the place where she lived and he so often visited. He wondered if the universe was trying to tell him something. She couldn’t escape this time—not out of his plane. He urged himself to concentrate on work.

For the next two hours, Layla kept her eyes closed, pretending to rest or sleep, or at least keep her breathing steady. All of that was nearly impossible with visions of her father in a coffin, her mother’s words echoing in her head, and her first love sitting beside her—the one guy she ever truly loved.

She thought about his hands, remembering the first time they held hers, and his arms, remembering the first time they held her. And his lips—she wondered if they still felt the same, or maybe even better. She wanted to turn and tell him everything, what she was dealing with back then, why she even came to St. Simons Island, why she left that night. But it didn’t matter anymore.

She sensed he was done talking, done catching up. Saying he had work to do was just an excuse to cut off contact. The fact that he helped her with her ticket was just his Southern manners still intact or some customer relations ploy. And the fact that he briefly talked to her was probably just to get her in the air before she threw up and freaked out all the other passengers.

She couldn’t blame him if he hated her. She wouldn’t want anything to do with someone who’d done what she had. She didn’t turn back to him until the plane came to a stop at the gate.

“I’m glad you were able to rest,” Gage said.

“Me, too,” she said, quickly unbuckling and standing up. “Thank you for the ticket. I’d like to pay you back. I’ll send a check to your office in Atlanta.”

Gage handed Layla her bag. “Please don’t do that. My mother would skin me alive.”

Layla smiled, hearing the slightest Southern accent dripping through, and instinctively reached for him. “Today was horrible, but you made it better.” Gage looked down at her fingers grazing his arm.
Why am I touching him? Geez, Layla, take your hands off the man.
She blushed and moved her hand away. “I’m glad you’re doing well, so successful. I’m really proud of you.” She took her bag and walked past him off the plane, telling herself not to look back, to just leave like she’d done before, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes.

Gage stood speechless. For a moment, he tried to catch up, wanting to call after her, to chase her down, to pick her up and kiss her. But his head wouldn’t let him, screaming that she left him before, left him with so much pain. His heart still hers, always hers, his head won out this time, watching her leave again, disappearing into a crowd of travelers.

*

He called his
mother from the airport. He said he couldn’t stay the weekend. In fact, he had to catch the next flight back to Atlanta. Something had come up. It was business. It couldn’t wait. He was sorry. He’d see her soon.

He didn’t like lying to his mother, but he didn’t see a way around it. He couldn’t be in the same city as Layla, knowing where to find her—to yell at her, to kiss her. It was better not to think about her. That had worked pretty well for 12 years. It’s why he kept himself so busy.

But there were times he just couldn’t help himself. He looked up Story Wings on his phone and wrote the address on a small card, tucking it into his wallet. Then he looked at a flight monitor. The flight back to Atlanta couldn’t come soon enough.

*

It was almost
midnight, and Layla wasn’t getting any sleep. She pulled herself out of bed and headed to her bookstore. Story Wings wouldn’t open for hours, but the place always made her feel better, or at least helped her escape for a little while. After all, the bookstore seemed from a different era, an old antebellum post office she and Poppy renovated in the Historic District, an area of Savannah known for its distinctive grid plan, green spaces, and 18th and 19th century architecture.

They made it a point to maintain the vintage feel, with its creaking pine floors and distressed church pews, and historic front windows they kept filled with the latest books. Old world ceiling beams created a cozy little reading nook in the back, always a popular landing place for children’s story time and teen and adult book clubs. And in the little cafe they built in the middle of the store—outfitted in all the modern conveniences along with an old brass cash register with a crank handle—they baked goodies each day.

Layla rubbed her eyes and put her key in the door, the wonderful smell of fresh scones hitting her right away.

Poppy stuck her head out from behind the counter. “What are you doing back now?”

Layla smiled as she walked to the cafe. She should’ve known Poppy would be there. She was always there. She eyed the purple locks of her friend’s waist-length hair. “What color is this?”

“It’s called Auburn Love,” Poppy said and shrugged her shoulders. “It was supposed to turn out red.”

“What happened this time?” Layla asked, plopping down on a big fluffy bean bag and crossing her legs. Her friend was notorious for abusing her hair whenever a relationship went south. In the past six months, Layla had seen every shade of the rainbow, cut or extended to every possible length.

Poppy sat down beside her. “His wife showed up at my apartment last night.”

“
His wife
? The hottie firefighter was married?”

“Apparently so. I didn’t know! We were having a late dinner, and she comes knocking on my door.”

“Oh, Pop, I’m so sorry.”

“He’s got three kids, three little babies!” Poppy said, her eyes welling up, but only for a moment. “That bastard!”

“He didn’t wear a ring?”

Poppy shook her head. “I thought his hours were strange because of his job, not because he was screwing me around the little league schedule.”

Layla pulled her into a hug. Poppy never had a shortage of men, with her fun-loving personality, big breasts, and green eyes, but with always the worst luck. In the last year alone, she’d gone from the guy who couldn’t make her orgasm, to another who needed some serious manscaping, to another who had a Call of Duty obsession. And now there was the adulterous firefighter juggling little league. “What happened with the wife?”

“She found a text he sent me,” Poppy said. “She followed him to my place.”

“Did you tell her you didn’t know?”

“Of course! I felt horrible! I think she believed me.”

“That’s good, I guess,” Layla said and released her friend. “Are you OK?”

“Except for suffering from fucker’s remorse. What about you? Why are you back so soon?”

“The usual with my family. It’s not worth getting into,” Layla said flatly, then the corners of her mouth turned up. “But one part of the trip was interesting. I ran into Gage Montgomery in Houston.”

“What?” Poppy cried. “How’d he know about the funeral?”

“Not at the funeral. I ran into him at the airport. He just came out of nowhere.”

“Did you guys talk at the airport?”

“Not really.”

“Any sex there?”

“No, you are so bad! He helped me with my ticket, and then it was time to get on the plane.”

“What do you mean he helped you?”

“He
runs
Southern Wings.”

“Holy shit! Jackpot!” Poppy shrieked. “Did you kiss him ‘goodbye’ before you got on?”

“He got on with me.”

“
With you
? He came to Savannah?”

“He’s apparently here a lot.”

“Weird. How was the flight? Any sex there?”

“Will you stop?” Layla cried, giggling. “It was actually pretty awkward sitting next to him. One minute he seemed happy to see me, and the next he seemed angry. We actually didn’t talk too much. But it was still good to see him and know he’s doing well.”

“Did you give him your number? Did he give you his? Did you guys make plans to see each other?”

“No, I left pretty quickly,” Layla said and lowered her head.

“
Again
? I can dye your hair if you want.”

*

When Gage landed
in Atlanta, his first order of business was making sure his calendar was stocked with meetings. He found himself even hoping for a company crisis—maybe a flight attendant strike, or even a break room out of coffee. He wasn’t about to let Layla occupy space in his mind.

His mother called during the week and could tell something was wrong. She could tell her son was exhausted, working himself to death, refusing to delegate even the slightest task. Gage half-listened each time she called, nodding along and telling her he understood and would try to do better.

But that wasn’t good enough. She insisted he come to Savannah next weekend. She said he needed to relax, to get away. She didn’t want his life cut short like his father’s. She’d have a home-cooked meal waiting for him at her house. He let out a sigh. He’d do as his mother asked—and it had nothing to do with Layla.

He wouldn’t go see her. He wouldn’t think about her. He’d simply eat his mother’s food, hang out at her house and see his niece and nephews, then head back to Atlanta when the weekend was over. That was it. There’d be nothing more—no wallowing over Layla, no thinking about her. And he’d quickly fall back into work. There was always so much to do.

But he couldn’t fool himself.

His teenage niece
and young nephews by his side, Gage made his way through the Historic District. They’d only been walking a few minutes – along cobblestone and oyster-shell walkways – but he could sense the oppressive heat was taking a toll on the kids. He couldn’t have them red-faced or drenched, or worst of all, cranky. That was not going to work. He steered them to walk under rows of oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, each offering a brief respite from the morning sun. But the shade only helped for a moment.

“Do we really have to go to a bookstore?” the middle child Jacob asked, surfing around on his phone. “I hate reading.”

“I like reading but not paper books,” the oldest Ava said. “I just like my e-reader. Bookstores are for old people—like libraries.”

Gage frowned and looked at the youngest. “Well, I know Connor likes books. Don’t you, buddy?”

Connor nodded and smiled wide, his blond curls bouncing, pleased as punch to have his uncle’s attention.

“Because he’s a little nerd,” Jacob said.

“I am not!” Connor barked.

“Guys, guys, please don’t fight,” Gage begged. “I think we’re getting close.”