Updated Nov 2, 2025 • ~10 min read
The dinner was scheduled for Saturday evening.
Layla had spent the entire week in a state of anxious dread, watching Garrett from a distance—her new supervisor was Avery, who was great but wasn’t him—and trying not to think about what it would be like to sit across a table from both men, pretending everything was normal.
She arrived at her father’s house at five-thirty, letting herself in with her key. The familiar smell of home hit her—coffee and wood polish and her dad’s cologne—and guilt twisted in her stomach.
“There’s my girl!” Her dad emerged from the kitchen in his grilling apron, pulling her into a bear hug. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.”
“Missed you too, Dad.” She held on a little tighter than usual, trying to memorize the feeling of being his little girl, before everything got complicated.
If it hadn’t already.
“Garrett’s running a few minutes late—some issue at the resort.” Her dad headed back to the kitchen, and Layla followed. “But he’ll be here soon. I’ve got steaks marinating, corn on the cob, the works. Just like old times.”
Old times. When Garrett was just her dad’s friend. When she was just a kid he barely noticed.
Before everything changed.
“Can I help with anything?” she asked, needing something to do with her hands.
“You can set the table. Three places—just like when you were little and Garrett would come over for dinner, remember?”
She remembered. But she’d been thirteen then, braces and awkward limbs, and Garrett had been this distant adult who was polite but uninterested.
She definitely wasn’t thirteen anymore.
The doorbell rang at six on the dot, because of course Garrett was punctual even when he was dreading something.
“I’ll get it!” her dad called, heading for the door.
Layla stayed in the dining room, hands shaking as she set down the last fork. She heard her dad’s booming greeting, heard Garrett’s lower, quieter response, heard them laughing about something as they came inside.
Then Garrett appeared in the doorway, and their eyes met.
He looked good—gray slacks and a navy button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. But his eyes were guarded, and there were tired lines around them.
“Layla,” he said, carefully neutral. “Good to see you.”
“You too, Mr. Hawthorne.” The formality felt like a shield.
Her dad laughed, grabbing beers from the fridge. “Come on, you two. We’re not at work. It’s just Garrett here.” He handed Garrett a beer, clapping him on the shoulder. “Besides, you’ve known her since she was a kid. No need for all that ‘Mr. Hawthorne’ business.”
Garrett’s expression flickered with something—guilt, maybe, or pain—before smoothing over. “Of course. Force of habit.”
They moved to the back deck, where her dad had the grill going. Layla sat in one of the patio chairs, watching as the two men fell into easy conversation about golf, about mutual friends, about some renovation project her dad was planning.
It was surreal—watching Garrett laugh at her dad’s jokes, seeing them interact like everything was normal, like nothing had changed.
Like Garrett hadn’t kissed her a week ago.
Like he wasn’t actively avoiding looking at her for longer than a few seconds.
“So, Layla,” her dad said, flipping steaks. “How’s my girl doing at the Oceanview Grande? Garrett says you’re doing fantastic.”
“He does?” She glanced at Garrett, who was suddenly very interested in his beer.
“All the time,” her dad continued proudly. “Every time we talk, he mentions how impressed he is with you. Says you’re a natural.”
“She is,” Garrett said quietly, finally meeting her eyes. “She’s exceeded every expectation.”
The weight in those words made her breath catch.
“That’s my kid.” Her dad beamed. “I knew she’d knock it out of the park. And I knew you’d look out for her, Garrett. I can’t tell you how much it means to me, knowing she’s working under someone I trust completely.”
Garrett’s grip on his beer tightened. “I’m just doing my job.”
“No, it’s more than that. You’ve always been there for this family. When Layla’s mom left, you were there. When I was going through that rough patch a few years back, you were there. And now—” He gestured between them. “Now you’re mentoring my daughter, helping her start her career. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
The guilt on Garrett’s face was palpable, even as he forced a smile. “You’ve been there for me too. Through the divorce, through everything. That’s what friends do.”
Layla’s throat was tight. She excused herself to the bathroom, needing a minute away from the weight of her father’s trust and Garrett’s obvious self-loathing.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection.
This was why it couldn’t work. Not because of the age difference or the job or any of the other reasons Garrett kept listing.
Because of this—the way her father looked at Garrett like a brother. The way he trusted him completely. The way any revelation about what had happened between them would feel like a betrayal of that trust.
When she returned to the deck, dinner was ready. They ate and talked, and to anyone watching, it would have looked like a normal family dinner.
But under the table, Layla’s leg bounced with nervous energy.
And across from her, Garrett’s smile never quite reached his eyes.
“Remember that time Layla was, what, fourteen?” her dad was saying, laughing. “And she tried to ‘borrow’ my car to drive to that boy’s house?”
“Oh God.” Layla covered her face. “Do we have to talk about that?”
“You grounded me for a month!”
“You tried to steal my car!”
“I was going to bring it back!”
Garrett was smiling—a real smile this time. “I remember. You called me in a panic, asking if it was normal teenage behavior.”
“And what did you say?” Layla asked, curious despite herself.
“I said she had good taste in getaway vehicles.” His eyes met hers, something warm in them. “And that she’d probably be running the world someday if you didn’t kill her first.”
“I almost did,” her dad said, but he was grinning. “She was always too smart for her own good. Got that from her mother.”
The conversation drifted to other memories—Layla’s high school graduation, her college acceptance, family barbecues and holidays. Stories where Garrett was always there in the background, the constant presence she’d taken for granted.
“I’m lucky to have you both,” her dad said, getting sentimental as the evening wore on. “You know that, right? You’re my family.”
Garrett’s jaw was tight. “We’re lucky to have you too.”
After dinner, Layla volunteered to do dishes while the men went back outside. Through the kitchen window, she watched them on the deck—her dad gesturing animatedly about something, Garrett listening with a beer in hand, the picture of male friendship.
She was drying the last plate when Garrett appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Your dad fell asleep in his chair,” he said quietly. “Too much food and beer.”
They were alone for the first time all evening.
“I should probably wake him—”
“Don’t.” Garrett moved closer, voice low. “Let him rest. I’ll head out in a minute.”
Silence stretched between them in the small kitchen. Layla set down the dish towel, turning to face him.
“This is hard,” she said finally.
“Yeah.” He leaned against the counter, looking exhausted. “It is.”
“Watching you with him. Pretending. All of it.”
“I know.” His eyes closed briefly. “But it’s necessary. You see that now, right? After tonight?”
“What I see is that you’re torturing yourself.” She took a step closer. “You didn’t betray him, Garrett. We kissed. That’s it. We didn’t—we’re not—”
“We wanted to.” He opened his eyes, and they were dark with conflict. “That’s just as bad.”
“Is it? Wanting someone?”
“When that someone is your best friend’s daughter? Yeah. It’s that bad.” He straightened, putting distance between them again. “Your dad trusts me. Completely. He thinks I’m looking out for you.”
“You are looking out for me.”
“Not in the way he thinks.” Garrett’s laugh was bitter. “He thinks I’m being a mentor, a friend of the family. He has no idea that I—” He stopped himself.
“That you what?”
“That I can barely concentrate in meetings because I’m thinking about you. That I reassigned you to a different supervisor because I didn’t trust myself around you. That every time he mentions your name, I feel like the worst friend in the world.” He met her eyes. “He trusts me, and I’m—”
“Human?” Layla finished. “You’re allowed to have feelings.”
“Not these feelings. Not for you.”
Through the window, they could see her father still sleeping peacefully in his chair, completely unaware of the tension in his kitchen.
“I should go,” Garrett said, heading for the door.
“Wait.” Layla caught his arm, and he froze at the contact. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Haven’t I?” He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back to her face. “Because it feels pretty wrong to stand in your father’s house, looking at you, wanting to—” He stopped himself again, jaw clenching. “I need to leave.”
But he didn’t move. Neither did she.
“Garrett,” she whispered.
“Don’t.” His free hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek in that achingly familiar gesture. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“I’m not trying to. I just—” She leaned into his touch. “I miss you.”
His eyes closed like the words hurt. “You see me every day at work.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.” His thumb traced her cheekbone, gentle and devastating. “I miss you too. But this—us—it can’t happen. Tonight proved that.”
“How?”
“Because your father is in the next room, trusting me to be his friend and your mentor, and instead I’m standing here wanting to kiss you so badly I can barely breathe.” He dropped his hand, stepping back. “That’s how.”
He left through the front door without another word, and Layla stood alone in the kitchen, touching her cheek where his hand had been.
A few minutes later, her dad wandered in, yawning. “Did Garrett leave already?”
“Yeah. He said to tell you thanks for dinner.”
“Good man.” Her dad smiled sleepily. “I’m really glad you’re working with him, sweetheart. He’ll take good care of you.”
The words felt like knives.
“Yeah,” Layla managed. “He will.”
That night, back in her apartment, her phone buzzed.
I’m sorry about tonight. About all of it.
She stared at the message for a long time before responding.
You have nothing to apologize for.
I do. For wanting things I can’t have. For making this complicated. For not being strong enough to completely walk away.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
What if I don’t want you to walk away?
The typing dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Your father fell asleep smiling tonight. Happy because his best friend and his daughter were there. If he knew what I was thinking in that kitchen, it would destroy him. And that’s why we have to be careful, Layla. Why we can’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.
How long?
I don’t know. As long as it takes for us to be sure this is worth the fallout. Because once we tell him, there’s no going back.
Layla set her phone down, tears burning in her eyes.
They’d survived the dinner.
But the guilt was eating them both alive.
And she had no idea how much longer they could keep pretending.
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