Updated Nov 2, 2025 • ~10 min read
The Whitmore wedding was Layla’s biggest event yet.
Two hundred guests, a celebrity photographer, and a bride with very specific ideas about centerpieces. Layla had been managing details for three weeks, and now—on the day of—everything had to be perfect.
She was in the ballroom overseeing final setup when one of the groomsmen approached.
“Excuse me,” he said with an easy smile. He was tall, probably late twenties, wearing an expensive suit that fit like it was tailored. “Are you the events manager?”
“I am. Layla Rivera.” She extended her hand professionally. “Is there something you need?”
“Ethan Whitmore. I’m the bride’s brother.” His handshake was warm, lingering slightly. “I just wanted to say—this setup is incredible. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thank you. Your sister had a clear vision, which made it easier.”
“She also has impossible standards, which I imagine made it harder.” He grinned. “But seriously, this is amazing. You’re clearly very good at what you do.”
Layla smiled politely, used to flattery from wedding parties. “I appreciate that. If there’s nothing else you need, I should get back to—”
“Actually,” Ethan said, “I was wondering if you’d be attending the reception? Or do you disappear once everything’s set up?”
“I’ll be on-site to handle any issues that arise, but I usually stay in the background.”
“That’s a shame. Someone should get to enjoy all this beautiful work you’ve done.” His smile turned slightly flirtatious. “Maybe I could convince you to save me a dance? Purely professional celebration of a job well done.”
Layla’s polite smile froze. “I’m afraid I need to stay available in case anything comes up—”
“One dance. Ten minutes. I promise to return you to duty immediately after.”
She was searching for another polite deflection when a familiar voice cut in.
“Ms. Rivera.”
Garrett appeared beside her, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. His expression was perfectly professional, but his jaw was tight and his eyes were hard.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Layla said, surprised. “I didn’t know you were planning to check in on the setup.”
“Just doing a final walkthrough for our premium events.” His attention shifted to Ethan, smile not reaching his eyes. “Is there a problem here?”
“No problem at all,” Ethan said cheerfully, oblivious to the tension. “Just complimenting your events manager on the amazing work. She’s very talented.”
“She is,” Garrett agreed, something sharp in his tone. “Which is why she’ll be quite busy ensuring your sister’s wedding runs smoothly. I’m sure you understand.”
It wasn’t a question.
Ethan’s smile faltered slightly. “Of course. Well, Layla, thank you again for everything. Beautiful work.”
He retreated back toward the groomsmen, and Layla turned to Garrett with raised eyebrows.
“Was that really necessary?” she asked quietly.
“Was what necessary?” His tone was bland, but his hands were clenched at his sides.
“That whole territorial display. He was just being friendly.”
“He was flirting with you. During work hours. At an event you’re managing.”
“And I was handling it fine before you swooped in like—” She stopped herself, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “Can we not do this here?”
Garrett’s jaw worked. “You’re right. We’ll discuss this later.”
“There’s nothing to discuss—”
“My office. After the event.” It was an order, not a request.
He walked away before she could respond, leaving her standing in the ballroom with a mixture of irritation and something else—something warm and dangerous that felt like satisfaction.
Because Garrett had been jealous.
Obviously, visibly jealous.
The wedding went perfectly. The bride cried during the ceremony, the food was excellent, the music was exactly right. By the time the last guests left at eleven PM, Layla was exhausted but pleased.
She was heading to her office to grab her things when she remembered Garrett’s order.
My office. After the event.
She should go home. Should pretend she’d forgotten. Should maintain the professional distance they’d worked so hard to create.
Instead, she found herself walking toward the executive wing.
Garrett’s office light was on, door half-open. She knocked softly, and his voice called out, “Come in.”
He was behind his desk, tie loosened, looking as tired as she felt. When he saw her, something flickered in his expression.
“You came,” he said quietly.
“You ordered me to.”
“That’s not why you’re here.”
He was right, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “What did you want to discuss?”
Garrett stood, moving around his desk to lean against the front of it. “That groomsman. Ethan.”
“What about him?”
“Did he bother you again during the reception?”
“He danced with his girlfriend. I don’t think he even remembered our conversation.”
“Good.” But Garrett didn’t look particularly relieved.
Layla crossed her arms. “Why do you care?”
“Because you’re my employee—”
“I’m not your employee. I don’t report to you anymore, remember? You made sure of that.”
“You work at this resort. That makes you my responsibility.”
“Is that what I am? A responsibility?” She took a step closer, frustration bubbling up. “Because earlier, when you interrupted my conversation with Ethan, it didn’t feel like professional concern. It felt personal.”
Garrett’s hands gripped the edge of his desk. “I was ensuring appropriate workplace boundaries—”
“Bullshit.” The word came out sharp. “You were jealous.”
“I was not—”
“You absolutely were. You got jealous because another man showed interest in me.” She moved closer still, watching his expression crack. “Admit it.”
“Layla—”
“Admit it, Garrett.”
His control snapped. “Fine! Yes, I was jealous. I was standing thirty feet away watching him flirt with you, watching you smile at him, and I wanted to—” He stopped himself, breathing hard. “I had no right to interfere. I had no right to feel that way. But I did. I do. Every time any man looks at you, talks to you, makes you laugh—I want to—”
“Want to what?”
“Mark my territory like some primitive idiot,” he bit out. “Tell them you’re taken. Tell them to back off. But I can’t do any of that because you’re not mine and I have no claim to you and I’m supposed to be maintaining professional distance.”
The confession hung between them, raw and honest.
“So why don’t you?” Layla asked quietly.
“Why don’t I what?”
“Make me yours.”
Garrett’s eyes closed like the words hurt. “You know why.”
“Your list of reasons is getting really old.”
“That doesn’t make them less valid.” He opened his eyes, and the pain in them was devastating. “I’m forty-two years old, Layla. You’re twenty-four. I’m your father’s best friend. I’m divorced. I’m—”
“The man I want,” she interrupted. “None of the rest of it matters.”
“It all matters—”
“Then why do you keep looking at me like that? Why do you get jealous when other men talk to me? Why did you text me tonight asking if the event went well even though you could have just checked in the morning?” She moved closer still, and Garrett’s breath caught. “Why can’t you just let this go if it doesn’t matter to you?”
“It matters too much,” he said roughly. “That’s the problem. You matter too much. And the more I try to stay away, the more impossible it becomes.”
They were inches apart now, close enough that Layla could feel the heat radiating off him.
“So stop trying,” she whispered.
“I can’t. Your father—”
“Isn’t here. No one’s here. It’s just us.”
Garrett’s hands came up to frame her face, that achingly gentle touch she’d come to crave. “This is a bad idea.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
“I don’t care anymore.”
“You should.”
“Make me.”
The challenge hung in the air between them. Garrett’s thumbs brushed her cheekbones, his eyes dark and conflicted.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he whispered.
“Feeling’s mutual.”
For a long moment, they just stood there—balanced on the edge, neither brave enough to jump.
Then voices echoed from the hallway outside—the cleaning crew making their rounds, getting closer.
Garrett released her reluctantly, stepping back and glancing at his watch. “The night staff. They’ll be here any second.”
Layla stepped back, trying to calm her racing heart as the footsteps grew louder.
“Right.” He loosened his tie, frustration evident in the gesture. “And I just remembered—I have an early security walk-through tomorrow. I need to review the checklist before morning.”
“Of course.” Layla gathered her things. “I should go anyway. It’s late.”
“Layla—”
“It’s fine.” She headed for the door, needing to leave before she did something stupid like kiss him. “Goodnight, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“We need to talk about this—”
“About what? The fact that you’re jealous but won’t do anything about it? The fact that we keep having these moments but never actually—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “Never mind. I’m tired. Goodnight.”
She left before he could respond.
In the parking lot, sitting in her car, Layla’s phone buzzed.
I’m sorry.
She was so tired of those two words from him.
For what this time?
For being jealous. For interfering with the groomsman. For wanting you so badly it makes me stupid.
Layla stared at the message, emotions warring inside her.
At least you finally admitted it.
Admitted what?
That you want me.
The response took longer this time.
I’ve never denied that. The wanting has never been the question. It’s everything else that’s complicated.
Then uncomplicate it.
If only it were that simple.
It could be. If you’d let it.
The typing dots appeared and disappeared several times before his final message came through.
When that groomsman asked you to dance, I wanted to hit him. Actually physically hit him. That’s how far gone I am. That’s how out of control I feel around you. And that terrifies me because I’m supposed to be better than this.
You’re human. Humans feel things.
Not like this. Not this intense. Not this consuming.
Layla’s fingers trembled as she typed.
I feel it too. The intensity. The consuming part. You’re not alone in this.
That’s what scares me most. That you feel this too and I’m going to ruin it. Ruin you.
Or maybe we could actually give this a real chance instead of constantly pushing each other away.
How?
I don’t know. But I’m tired of being miserable. Aren’t you?
Every single day.
Then maybe it’s time to stop fighting this and start figuring out how to make it work.
The typing dots appeared, stayed for a long time.
What if I can’t make it work? What if I fail you the way I failed my ex-wife?
What if you don’t?
The response was immediate.
You have more faith in me than I deserve.
Or maybe I just see you more clearly than you see yourself.
No response came for several minutes. Then, finally:
Can we talk tomorrow? Really talk. Not at the resort. Somewhere neutral.
Layla’s heart leaped.
Yes. Where?
There’s a coffee shop on Maple Street. The one with the blue awning. 9 AM?
I’ll be there.
Layla sat in her car for a long time after that, staring at their conversation, hope and fear warring in her chest.
Tomorrow they’d talk.
Tomorrow, maybe, they’d finally figure this out.
Tomorrow everything could change.
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