Chapter 4

BRIGGS

I reached blindly for my phone, groaning when I saw the time. How the fuck had I slept until nine? I never did that. But I didn’t usually have a sexy houseguest sleeping right down the hall.

Besides, it wasn’t every day that I held my newborn triplets for the first time. I had been awake until after two, my brain working overtime trying to process the events of the day.

My nose twitched, the faint aroma of sizzling bacon awakening my olfactory senses. How was that possible? I didn’t have a chef. The kitchen was my domain.

I cooked for myself, or I ordered in. My housekeeper was the only person who cooked for me, and that was only when we were at my house. She stayed at her own place when we were in the city because I was never home.

I took a piss and brushed my teeth before pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. I went downstairs, stopping on the landing as my kitchen came into view.

Layla was at the stove, a pair of purple yoga pants hugging her sexy little ass.

I shook my head, mentally slapping myself. The girl was young enough to be my daughter. Also, she was the sister of the despicable woman who got herself pregnant by drugging me.

Why was Layla in my kitchen? She was a guest. And what the fuck was she making? Whatever it was, though, it smelled delicious.

“Good morning,” I called out, descending the stairs warily.

She jumped at my voice, the spatula flying out of her hand as she twisted around to face me. Why was she so nervous in my presence? Was she like that around all men?

“What are you making?” I asked.

“Breakfast,” she replied quietly, her eyes falling before my gaze. “I hope that’s okay. I wanted to thank you for last night.”

“It smells great.” I walked over and tipped her chin up with my thumb. She had the most fascinating eyes I’d ever seen. Wondrous chestnut pools stared at me, widening in fear. Her chin trembled. “And it’s more than okay.”

Huh? I never let anyone cook in my kitchen. My kitchen was my happy place. I had all of my fancy gadgets organized just the way I liked them.

My fridge was set up with designated spots for everything. If any of my teammates stayed over, they knew my kitchen was off-limits. I also always made this clear to their wives or girlfriends.

In any case, WAGs were the only women allowed in my home, other than family or staff. No puck bunnies. Ever.

I stepped out of her personal space, clearing my throat while I tried to ignore the heat simmering between us. She had to go. The last thing I needed was another girl from the wrong side of the tracks in my bed.

“Is that a ~quiche~?” I gasped, watching her slide a pan from my oven.

“Yes,” she replied, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “Do you like quiche?”

“I love quiche,” I growled.

“Have a seat,” she ordered, gestering to the stools that lined the breakfast bar.

I complied, not the least bit conscious that I was taking orders from a woman I barely knew. Not even a woman. A girl.

I’d be wise to remember she was only two years older than my daughter. Vlad did a background check on her last night. I could never be too careful about who I brought into my home. Necessary when you are rich and famous.

Layla Lucas was twenty. She had graduated with honors from Winston Churchill Collegiate Institute. The girl had a squeaky clean record, not even a parking ticket.

Which made sense since she didn’t have a driver’s license or own a car. She worked at a diner called LuLu’s. In fact, I’d forgotten about her existence until yesterday.

The private investigator’s report on Shelly did mention something about her being the legal guardian for a younger sibling. But then I wasn’t interested in anything about that horrible woman’s life.

Until now.

“I hope you like it,” she said, smiling shyly as she set a plate in front of me.

“If it tastes as good as it smells, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

She wrinkled her cute little button nose. “How can you drink it like that?”

“It’s the only way to drink it.”

She shook her head as she set a steaming mug in front of me. I watched as she dumped sugar and cream into her own mug.

“Would you like some coffee with your cream?” I teased.

She glanced up from her mug, her cheeks turning pink before a tiny smile appeared on her lush lips. I picked up my fork and dug into the quiche.

“It’s spinach, bacon, and leek,” she revealed, eyeing me nervously as I took my first bite.

I may not be a trained chef, but I own a large chain of restaurants. As the owner and founder of Westinghouse, I’ve acquired a refined palate, qualifying me to judge dishes prepared by world-renowned chefs.

I’ve been a guest celebrity judge, and I even appeared on an episode of ~Beat Bobby Flay~.

I finished chewing my first bite of her quiche, swallowing it, and wiping my mouth before glancing up at the eager countenance of the person who had just prepared one of the most delectable dishes that ever tickled my palate.

“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked.

Confusion marred her delicate features. “You don’t like it?” she blurted out.

“Quite the opposite. Love it—it’s amazing.”

“Really?” she gasped. “You aren’t just saying that to be nice?”

“No. I may be a lot of things, but a bullshitter I am not. You can always count on me to tell you the truth. I don’t blow sunshine up people’s asses.”

“Wow!” she murmured, staring down at her untouched plate.

“Hey,” I placed my hand on top of hers. “You’re an amazing chef.”

“You only took one bite,” she pointed out.

“Sometimes, one bite is enough to know,” I said. I picked up my fork and devoured the pie. I wasn’t exaggerating. She could give some of my best chefs a run for their money.

“I had lots of quality ingredients to work with. That goes a long way toward creating a tasty dish.”

“True,” I agreed. “But you still need to know how to cook.”

“I work in a kitchen.”

“Where?”

“Just a diner,” she said softly.

“You learned to cook like that in the kitchen of a greasy spoon?”

“No. My best friend’s mom taught me.” She maneuvered a piece of quiche around on her plate. “I used to stay over there all the time when we were growing up.”

“Well, your friend’s mom must be a fabulous cook, because she produced quite a chef.”

“She was,” she mumbled more to herself than to me.

“What happened to her?”

“They moved away,” she said, rising and pushing back her chair.

“You don’t have to do the dishes,” I said when she opened the dishwasher. “My housekeeper will be here any minute. She’ll take care of it.”

Sonya had worked for me for years. She came every day and cleaned up after me and Vlad, washed our clothes, did the shopping, and kept my house in order.

When I went to my place in the Muskokas, she accompanied me and stayed in her own room that she kept there.

“I made a huge mess,” Layla protested. “That’s not fair—’to leave it for her to clean up.’”

The sound of the elevator doors opening announced Sonya’s arrival. “Good morning, Briggsy!”

Layla glanced at me with a curious grin. I shrugged. Sonya was like a mother to me. I couldn’t survive without her, so she had earned the right to call me cutesy nicknames.

She came around the corner, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw Layla. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi,” Layla said softly.

“I didn’t realize you had company,” Sonya said, cocking an eyebrow at me.

“It’s not like that, Sonya. Layla is a friend who needed a place to crash. She slept in the guest room.”

“Nice to meet you, Layla,” Sonya glanced toward the kitchen. “Did Briggs let you cook?”

“Um, well—,” Layla muttered. “I sort of surprised him with breakfast.”

Sonya’s eyes widened, a sly grin spreading across her lips. “Interesting.”

Layla’s phone buzzed inside her pocket, cutting through the awkward silence. “Excuse me,” she said, pulling it out as she walked toward the patio doors.

“Don’t,” I warned, as Sonya opened her mouth to say something.

“She’s cute.”

“Sonya,” I growled, pushing myself off the stool.

She chuckled to herself as she got to work restoring my kitchen to its usual, immaculate state.

I turned around to see if Layla was still on the phone. She’d wandered outside onto the large terrace that wrapped around my corner penthouse. Her shoulders were slumped forward as she stood gazing at the street below.

“Layla?” I asked, following her out onto the terrace. “Is everything okay?”

“I have to go home right away,” she said without turning around.

I could tell by her voice that she’d been crying. The logical part of my brain told me to let her go; have Vlad take her back to the trailer park and cut all ties.

Instead, I walked up behind her and rested my hands on her shoulders. She tensed briefly before relaxing against me. I was digging a deeper hole for myself by the second, but I couldn’t back away. The fact was, I didn’t want to.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Frank broke into our house last night,” she whispered in a shaky voice.

“Thank God you weren’t there.”

“He vandalized the trailer. That was our landlord on the phone. She said he did some serious damage. Kicked in the door, smashed furniture, punched holes in the wall.”

“Fuck,” I muttered.

“Fuck is right,” she said. “And it gets worse.”

I rubbed her shoulders while she cried softly. “Shelly hasn’t paid the rent in three months. Mrs. Flaherty, that’s our landlord, said we have to be out by the end of the day.”

“She can’t do that,” I said. “There are rules about evicting tenants. She has to give you proper notice.”

“We don’t have a lease or anything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You can stay here.” The words spilled from my mouth before I could stop them.

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For many reasons,” she said, sighing heavily as she moved away and went to sit on a lounger. “It’s too far from my work, for starters.”

“You can take the subway.”

“I start at five a.m.”

“Vlad can drive you.”

“He’s your bodyguard.”

“I’ll hire a car.”

“It’s half an hour away.”

“How do you normally get to work?”

“I walk.”

“What?!”

“It’s only two blocks,” she protested.

“Layla, that’s not safe.”

“I’ve been doing it for two years.”

I rubbed my jaw while a crazy idea formed in my brain. What was it about this girl? Why did I care what happened to her? And why was I trying to come up with ways to keep her in my life?

Probably best not to put too much thought into those questions.

“I need another nanny,” I said. “The job is yours if you want it.”