Just Desserts. Jeannie Watt

What’s more, he missed his car.

       Forty-five minutes after passing the spot where his car had been wrecked, Justin pulled into Layla’s drive. He roused her and helped her out, then put an arm around her as they made their way through the slushy spring snow to the front door. Not a bad place. In fact, it was very much what he’d expected from Layla. An efficient box of a house, with neat little shutters, a sturdy fence in front, a no-nonsense white-and-navy-blue color scheme. The bushes were all trimmed into submission, even though it was barely spring.

       There were only three keys on the ring, so he had her inside within a matter of seconds. Once the door was closed, she attempted to focus on him. The way her forehead wrinkled, it must have hurt.

       She started to say something, but got only as far as opening her mouth before she shrugged out of her coat, letting it fall behind her in a heap. Then she headed down the hall.

       Justin hesitated, then followed. By the time he reached her bedroom, she was sprawled on her stomach over the purple duvet on her bed. It looked like something that would need an expensive dry-cleaning if she were ill again, so Justin carefully peeled it back and rolled her onto her side on the sheets.

       He stood for a moment then, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, staring down at her. He hadn’t seen her in several years—not since her father had sold the house down the street from his family’s, shortly after Justin graduated high school. She’d put on some weight. In a good way. And her straight dark hair was longer. But she was still Layla. Only not so perfect now. He hoped she could deal with it.

       With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he set her keys on the dresser and headed out the bedroom door.

      LAYLA©DIDN’T©WANT©TO wake up.

       Her head was pounding. Her mouth was dry. So dry! And why was she drowning in a sense of impending doom?

       The memories started to drift in, each more cringe-worthy than the one before. Had she thrown up outside the hotel?

       Worse than that, had Justin been there?

       And then the biggie hit her. Robert. Robert and Melinda. Layla’s insides roiled as a wave of depression mixed with pain, betrayal and disgust washed over her.

       “You need anything?”

       Layla shrieked at the unexpected masculine voice, and scrambled to her knees, ready to defend herself with the pillow she’d grabbed. “Justin!”

       “Yeah. Me.”

       She lowered the pillow and sat back on her heels as a surge of nausea welled up. But her stomach was too empty to do anything about it.

       “Let me get you some aspirin. Where do you keep it?”

       She simply stared at him. “Why are you here?”

       “You can’t leave a drunk person unattended. Remember what happened to all those rock stars that drowned in their own—”

       Layla held up a hand. “Stop. No more.” She dropped her head on the pillow she held in her lap. It made sense, really. Justin had been part of so many of the humiliating moments of her life that perhaps he was on call. He sensed “Layla devastation” and showed up to add to the misery.

       “It was too late for Sam to come and stay with you.”

       Layla nodded, her head bobbing into the pillow. He had a point. He’d done the safe and logical thing.

       “Thank you for bringing me home.” She vaguely recalled trying to stay in the hotel until she sobered up. And students. She remembered seeing her students. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought. Hopefully, she hadn’t appeared too out of it. Private schools were not very keen on their staff being seen drunk in public.

       “Aspirin?”

       Layla lifted her head. “I’ll get it.” She steeled herself for the trauma of going vertical. “What happened to your eye?” Another dim recollection was taking form in her brain.

       “You punched Robert when he tried to give you the room key.”

       “Did I…punch you, too?” Had all her pent-up frustrations burst forth? Culminating in a brawl?

       “No. You accidentally hit me when you fell.”

       Layla swallowed hard and looked down at her hands. Well, now she knew why her knuckles were bruised and her knees felt skinned.

       “You can go home now, Justin.” She was certain he probably couldn’t wait to get out of there, even though seeing her like this was probably entertaining as could be. “Thanks for everything.”

       “All right.” He stayed where he was, though, and for once he wasn’t smirking. He looked tired.

       “Where’d you sleep?” she finally asked, after a few beats of silence. For some reason, he wasn’t leaving.

       “In one of those baskets you call a chair.” He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “How many drinks did you have?”

       “Three.” Layla closed her eyes for a second, hugging the pillow to her chest, fighting the urge to topple over. “And a half,” she added, for the sake of honesty.

       “How many after Robert dropped the bomb?”

       “I told you about that?” Had she no pride when intoxicated? Heat rose in her face, scalding her cheeks.

       “I’m not a mind reader.”

       Layla felt like melting into a puddle on the bed. “He told me in the room when we were getting ready to go down to dinner.” Actually, that wasn’t quite true. She’d guessed and then he’d confessed. “I hid out in the lounge and called Sam.”

       “Just wondering if I need to hook up with this Robert guy for leaving you drunk and alone in a hotel lounge.”

       The last thing she wanted was for Justin, of all people, to defend her honor. That would be so wrong.

       “Justin…I’d really like to be alone now.”

       “If you’re sure you’re okay.”

       “I’m okay.” He cocked his head, and she added, “Physically.” Obviously, she had some other nonphysical issues to deal with.

       That seemed to satisfy him, and a few seconds later the front door closed. She heard the purr of a powerful engine coming to life.

       What had they driven home in?

       She couldn’t for the life of her remember. Perhaps because her memory was so jumbled with other more humiliating images. The bush outside the hotel came to mind. And…oh, yeah. She’d tossed her cookies once again along a road somewhere.

       What did they put in those drinks?

       Lots and lots of alcohol. And she was a lightweight.

       She gingerly crawled off the bed, realizing only then that she still had on her slightly damp T-strap high heels. Justin hadn’t taken off her shoes, although he had removed the duvet cover. Well, they were buckle shoes, perhaps too complicated for him.

       She’d started for the bathroom when the doorbell rang. What on earth had Justin forgotten? She glanced at the domed mantel clock on her way to the door. Ten-thirty? Criminy. She’d lost twelve hours of her life.

       The doorbell rang again, the sound reverberating through her skull. Must disconnect that thing. She pulled the door open, about to ask, “What did you forget?” and then almost slammed it shut again as she found herself facing the sweet, round face of Kristy Mendoza, the girl who lived next door.

      CHAPTER TWO

      KRISTY’S©MOUTH©DROPPED©OPEN, as did her mother’s. But Mrs. Mendoza, who stood a few feet behind the girl, managed a polite, if wary, smile.

       “I have the cookies you ordered,” Kristy said abruptly, shoving the