Nora Roberts - The Hollow

She was easing into it, he thought, into acceptance of what she held inside her. “You were confident in what you were doing, sure of your ground, which is another kind of relaxation. And you cared. You wanted to get them what they really wanted or would work for them, make them happy. And make a sale. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“Same program, different channel.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out change. Cupping his palm away from her, he counted it out. “How much am I holding?”

“I-”

“The amount’s in my head. Open the door.”

“God. Wait.” She took another sip of wine first. Too much running through her own head, Layla realized. Put it away. “Don’t help me!” she snapped when he reached for her hand. “Just… don’t.”

Put it away, she repeated to herself. Clean it out. Relax. Focus. Why did he think she could do this? Why was he so sure? Why did so many men have such wonderful eyelashes? Oops. No side trips. She closed her eyes, visualized the door. “A dollar thirty-eight.” Her eyes popped open. “Wow.”

“Good job.”

She jolted at the knock on the door.

“Delivery guy. Do him.”

“What?”

“While I’m talking to him, paying him, read him.”

“But that’s-”

“Rude and intrusive, sure. We’re going to sacrifice courtesy in the name of progress. Read him,” Fox commanded as he rose and walked to the door. “Hey, Kaz, how’s it going?”

The kid was about sixteen, Layla estimated. Jeans, sweatshirt, high-top Nikes that looked fairly new. Shaggy brown hair, small silver hoop in his right ear. His eyes were brown, and passed over her-lingered briefly-as bags and money changed hands.

She took a deep breath, nudged at the door.

Fox heard her make a sound behind him, something between a gasp and a snort. He kept on talking as he added the tip, made a comment about basketball.

After he closed the door, Fox set the bags on the table. “Well?”

“He thinks you’re chill.”

“I am.”

“He thinks I’m hot.”

“You are.”

“He wondered if you’re going to be getting any of that tonight and he wouldn’t mind getting some of that himself. He didn’t mean the egg rolls.”

Fox opened the bags. “Kaz is seventeen. A guy that age is pretty much always thinking about getting some. Any headache?”

“No. He was easy. Easier than you.”

He smiled at her. “Guys my age think about getting some, too. But we usually know when it’s just going to be egg rolls. Let’s eat.”

HE DIDN’T TRY TO KISS HER AGAIN, NOT EVEN when he drove her home. Layla couldn’t tell if he thought about it, and decided that was for the best. Her own thoughts and feelings were a tangle of frayed knots, which told her she’d need to take Fox’s advice and go for the meditation.

She found Cybil on the living room sofa with a book and a cup of tea.

“Hi. How’d it go?”

“It went well.” Layla dropped into a chair. “Surprisingly well. I’m feeling a little buzzed, actually. Like I knocked back a couple of scotches.”

“Want tea? There’s more in the pot.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll get you a cup,” Cybil said when Layla started to rise. “You look beat.”

“Thanks.” Closing her eyes, Layla tried the yoga breathing, tried to envision relaxing from the toes up. She made it to her ankles when she gave it up. “Fox says I should meditate,” she told Cybil when Cybil came back with a fancy cup and saucer. “Meditation bores me.”

“Then you’re not doing it right. Try the tea first,” she said as she poured some out. “And say what’s on your mind, it’s the best way to get it out of your mind so you can meditate.”

“He kissed me.”

“I’m shocked and amazed.” Cybil handed Layla the cup, returned to the couch to curl her legs up. She gave a careless laugh when Layla frowned at her. “Sweetie, the guy’s got those foxy Fox eyes on you all the time. He watches you leave the room, watches you come back in. Boy’s got it bad.”

“He said- Where’s Quinn?”

“With Cal. Maverick found himself a card game, so Cal’s house is empty for a change. They’re taking advantage.”

“Oh. Good for them. They’re great together, aren’t they? Just click, click.”

“He’s the one for her, no question. All the others she tried out were like O’Doul’s.”

“O’Doul’s?”

“Near-love. Cal’s the real deal. Easier to talk about them than you?”

Layla sighed. “It’s confusing to feel this way. To feel him feeling this way, and to try not to feel him feeling it. Because that’s only more confusing. Add in we’re working together on multiple levels, and that creates a kind of intimacy, and that intimacy has to be respected, even protected because the stakes are so damn high. If you mix it up with the separate physical or emotional intimacy of personal relationship and sex, how do you maintain the basic order needed to do what we’re all here to do?”

“Wow.” Lips curved, Cybil sipped her tea. “That’s a lot of thinking.”

“I know.”

“Try this. Simple and direct. Are you hot for him?”

“Oh God, yes. But-”

“No, no qualifiers. Don’t analyze. Lust is an elemental thing, potent, energizing. Enjoy it. Whether you act on it or not, it gets the blood moving. You’ll layer the rest onto it eventually. You’ll have to. You’re human and you’re female. We have to layer on emotions and concerns, consequences. But take the opportunity to appreciate the right now.” Cybil’s dark eyes sparkled with humor. “Enjoy the lust.”

Layla considered as she sampled her tea. “When you put it that way. It feels pretty good.”

“When you finish your tea, we’ll use your lust as your focus point to move into a meditation exercise.” Cybil smiled over the rim of her cup. “I don’t think you’ll be bored.”

CYBIL’S LUST-AS-SPRINGBOARD MEDITATION MIGHT’VE given Layla a fit of giggles initially, but then she thought she’d done pretty well. Better, certainly, than her usual faking-it method at yoga class. She’d breathed in the lust, as instructed-navel to spine-breathed out the tension, the stress. Focused on that “tickle in the belly” as Cybil had described it. Owned it.

Somewhere around the laughter, the breathing, and the tickle, she’d relaxed so fully she’d heard her own pulse beating. And that was a first.

She slept deep and dreamless, and woke refreshed. And, Layla had to admit, energized. Apparently, meditation didn’t have to bore her senseless.

With Fox in court and Alice at the helm, there was no reason to go into the office until the afternoon. Time, she thought as she showered, to dive into research mode with Cybil and Quinn. To put her energy into finding more answers. She still hadn’t added the incident at the Square to her chart, or catalogued the dream both she and Fox had shared.

She dressed for the morning in jeans and a sweater before earmarking the afternoon wardrobe change for Secretary Layla. And that, she had to admit, was fun. It felt good to need to dress for work, to plan and consider the outfit, the accessories. In the weeks between leaving New York and starting at Fox’s office, she’d been busy, certainly. She’d had enormous adjustments to make, monumental obstacles to face. But she’d missed working, missed knowing someone expected her to be in a certain place at a certain time to do specific tasks.

And, shallow or not, she’d missed having a reason to wear a great pair of boots.

As she headed out, intending to hit the kitchen for coffee, she heard the clacking of the keyboard from the office they’d set up in the fourth bedroom.

Quinn sat cross-legged in the chair, typing away. Her long blond hair swayed in its sleek tail as she bopped her head to some internal music.