Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Romance(46)

Sighing, I turn back to my laptop, staring blankly at the email from Paul. Our manager is thrilled that we’ve hit the charts again. I can’t go an hour without him messaging me about another merch idea or celebrity guest suggestion. It’s driving me insane.

On the table next to me, my phone starts to buzz. Zack’s name flashes across the screen. I unplug it from my charger, swiping it to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Hey. Do you know what’s up with Layla?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“She called me a minute ago, and she sounded… weird.”

“Weird, how?” I say slowly, standing.

“I dunno. Shaky? The way Josh sounds when he’s pulled three all-nighters in a row, and we have to forcibly pry his coffee out of his hands because he’s about to have a mental breakdown.” There’s a muffled protest from Josh in the background. “What? You do that, man. Yeah, like, all the time. It’s okay, we still love you.”

I nod. “I’ll go check in on her.”

“Awesome. Okay, later.” He hangs up.

I grab my keys and head out of my flat into the hallway, crossing the corridor and knocking on her door. There’s no response. “Layla?”

“Now’s not a good time,” she calls. I frown. Zack’s right. She does sound… wrong. Her voice is all muffled. I waver in the hallway, not sure what to do. As I hang back, uncertain, I hear a sharp breath, and then a smothered sob.

Alarm runs through me. “Sweetheart, I’m coming inside, okay?”

There’s no answer, so I push open the door to her flat and freeze, staring at the mess.

Her lounge looks like a bomb has hit it. Normally Layla is ridiculously organised; she loves labels and files and containers. But now, there’s stuff everywhere. Packaging and invoices and fabric samples are strewn over the couch and floor and coffee table. There are empty mugs and bowls of half-eaten food on pretty much every flat surface, and the sink in her little kitchenette is overflowing with dirty crockery.

Something is wrong. This isn’t like her at all.

I hear another muffled sob, and follow the noise to the bedroom, pushing the door open gently.

Layla is sprawled on the floor in coffee-stained pyjamas, surrounded by stacks of papers. As I watch, she flicks through them frantically. Her hair is tied up in a sloppy bun falling to one side of her head, and her eyes are ringed with smudged makeup.

“Layla,” I say softly.

“I’m fine,” she mutters, not looking up at me.

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m just busy,” she snaps, slapping one pile of papers down and picking up another. “I j-just can’t find this stupid receipt. God, I’m so stupid, why the Hell don’t I file things better?!” She tosses the papers back down and tugs at her hair, breathing hard. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she mutters, her green eyes wide. “I don’t know how I can fix this, I don’t…” she trails off, her chest heaving. She’s clearly on the edge of panicking.

I step into the room, shutting the door behind me. “Layla, it’s okay. Get up, sweetheart.”

She ignores me, stirring through the papers again. “Maybe I didn’t print it out? Or I deleted it? Why would I do that, though? It can’t just have disappeared—”

“Layla.” I cut her off, my voice firm. “Get. Up. Now.”





TWENTY-EIGHT





LUKE





She squints up at me. Her fingers are shaking. “Are you using your teacher voice on me?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes. This isn’t healthy. Come on.”

She looks down at the pages strewn around her and covers her face. “God,” she mutters. “I’m an absolute mess, aren’t I?”

Without even thinking, I drop to my knees and reach for her, pulling her into my arms. She’s stiff for a moment, tense and quivering in my grip. Then she tips closer to me, burying her face in my chest. I rub my hand over her back, trying to make soothing sounds as she shudders against me.

I wish she’d just cry, for God’s sake. This is almost worse. She’s just… tense and shaking in my arms.

“This isn’t just about clothes for you, is it?” I say quietly. “You’re trying to prove something.”

“No one ever thought I’d be good at anything,” she says into my shoulder. “But I am. I don’t need help.”

“We all need help.” She takes a little gasping breath, and I cup her cheeks. “C’mon, sweetheart. Breathe. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.” I look around at the papers scattered across the floor. They look like receipts. “Are you having money issues? We can help you.”

She cringes so hard I’m vaguely worried she’ll sprain something. “I don’t want your money,” she spits. “I… it’s not a financial issue.”

“Then what is it?”

She opens her mouth, trying for a few seconds to find the words, then runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “I’m just so flippin’ stupid,” she spits out. “I’m stupid. I just need to be better at all of this. All of it. And it’s too much, and I can’t do it all—”