Updated Nov 2, 2025 • ~10 min read
The Oceanview Grande’s annual charity gala was the social event of the season.
Layla had heard about it from other staff members—how the resort hosted wealthy donors and local celebrities, how everything had to be absolutely perfect, how even the employees who weren’t working the event were encouraged to attend as part of the resort’s “family atmosphere.”
She’d agonized over what to wear for three days.
Now, standing in front of her bathroom mirror, she second-guessed her choice for the hundredth time.
The dress was navy blue—professional, elegant, hitting just above her knee. It had a fitted bodice and a subtle V-neck, nothing scandalous, but it definitely showed she had a figure. She’d paired it with nude heels and simple jewelry, and her hair was swept up in a loose twist.
Professional, she told herself. Completely appropriate for a work event.
So why did she feel like she was playing with fire?
The resort’s grand ballroom had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, reflecting off gold accents and white floral arrangements. A string quartet played in the corner while guests in designer gowns and expensive suits mingled with champagne flutes.
Layla hovered near the entrance, suddenly feeling underdressed despite the three-day wardrobe crisis.
“Layla! You made it!” Avery appeared at her elbow, stunning in a black cocktail dress. “You look amazing! That dress is perfect on you.”
“Thanks,” Layla smiled, relaxing slightly. “You look incredible too.”
“Girl, we clean up good.” Avery linked their arms. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people. The director of the children’s hospital is super nice, and—”
“Ms. Rivera.”
That voice.
Layla turned, and her breath caught.
Garrett stood a few feet away in a black tuxedo that should be illegal. The formal wear emphasized his broad shoulders and tall frame, and his hair was styled back in a way that made him look dangerous and sophisticated all at once.
But it was his expression that made her pulse stutter—dark and intense and locked entirely on her.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” she managed, proud that her voice came out steady. “Good evening.”
His jaw was tight, eyes traveling down her dress and back up in a way that made her skin flush with heat.
“May I speak with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, already turning toward the hallway. “Privately.”
Avery’s eyebrows shot up, but Layla just squeezed her arm. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
She followed Garrett out of the ballroom, her heels clicking on the marble floor. He led her down a quiet corridor, away from the party noise, before finally stopping and turning to face her.
“That dress—” He started, then stopped, jaw working.
“What about it?” Layla crossed her arms, defensive. “It’s professional. It meets the dress code.”
“It’s inappropriate for staff.”
Heat flooded her cheeks—anger this time, not embarrassment. “Excuse me? How is it inappropriate? It’s not too short, not too low-cut, not too anything.”
“It’s—” He gestured vaguely, looking anywhere but at her. “It’s distracting.”
“Distracting,” she repeated flatly. “For who?”
His eyes snapped to hers, and the look in them was almost feral. “For everyone. You’re here as an employee, not a guest. There’s a difference.”
“Really? Because Avery is wearing a cocktail dress. Blair is wearing a suit with no tie. Reed is in jeans.” She took a step closer. “So why am I the only one getting pulled aside?”
Garrett’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You’re not—that’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?” She refused to back down, even though being this close to him in that tuxedo was doing dangerous things to her heartbeat. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you have a specific problem with me.”
“I don’t—” He dragged a hand through his perfectly styled hair, destroying it. “Damn it, Layla, you can’t—”
“Can’t what? Wear a dress? Exist in the same space as you?”
“You look beautiful,” he bit out, the words sharp and angry, like they’d been torn from him. “You look so damn beautiful it’s all I can think about, and you shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—”
The confession hung between them, raw and honest and completely unexpected.
Layla’s anger drained away, replaced by something warm and aching. “Garrett—”
“Forget I said that.” He stepped back, walls slamming into place. “Just—keep it professional tonight. That’s all I’m asking.”
He walked away before she could respond, disappearing back into the ballroom and leaving her standing alone in the corridor with her heart racing.
You look beautiful.
It’s all I can think about.
Oh, she was in so much trouble.
Layla tried to enjoy the rest of the evening, really tried, but she was hyperaware of Garrett’s presence across the ballroom.
And of the fact that he was watching her.
She felt his eyes on her while she talked to donors. When she laughed at something Marcus said. When she moved through the crowd to get a drink from the bar.
Every time she glanced in his direction, he was either looking directly at her or deliberately looking away—jaw tight, shoulders tense, gripping his champagne flute like he wanted to break it.
“You’re very good at this,” a smooth voice said beside her.
Layla turned to find a man in his thirties, handsome in an easy, approachable way, smiling at her. One of the donors, she thought, based on his expensive watch.
“At what?” she asked politely.
“Working a room. You have a gift for making people feel welcome.” He extended his hand. “Damian Cross. I’m with the coastal preservation foundation.”
“Layla Rivera. I work here—management training program.”
“Lucky for the Oceanview Grande.” His smile widened. “Tell me, Layla, are you always this charming, or is it just the champagne?”
She laughed, recognizing harmless flirting when she heard it. “Definitely the champagne.”
“Good to know.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, these events can be a bit stuffy. But you’ve made it much more enjoyable.”
Layla was about to respond when she felt it—that prickling awareness that meant Garrett was nearby.
She looked up and found him standing ten feet away, talking to an older woman in a silver gown, but his attention was locked on her and Damian. His expression was carefully neutral, but his knuckles were white around his glass.
“Is that Hawthorne?” Damian followed her gaze. “Intense guy. Brilliant at what he does, but he always looks like he’s planning a hostile takeover.”
“He takes his work seriously,” Layla said, unable to look away from Garrett’s storm-cloud eyes.
“Well, if he ever becomes too intense,” Damian pulled out a business card, “feel free to call me. I’d love to continue this conversation somewhere less… supervised.”
He pressed the card into her hand with a warm smile and drifted back into the crowd.
Layla looked down at the card, then back up—directly into Garrett’s stare.
He looked furious.
The evening was winding down when Garrett appeared at her elbow again, his cologne and presence surrounding her like a storm.
“My office. Now.” His voice was low, controlled, but there was something dangerous underneath.
“The event isn’t over—”
“Now, Ms. Rivera.”
This time, it wasn’t a request.
Layla excused herself from the conversation she’d been having with the hospital director and followed Garrett through the ballroom, hyperaware of curious eyes tracking their exit.
His office was dark when they entered, only the city lights from the windows providing illumination. Garrett flipped on a desk lamp, then turned to face her, and the look on his face made her breath catch.
“What the hell was that?” he asked, voice tight.
“What was what?”
“That donor. Damian Cross. He was flirting with you.”
Layla’s eyebrows shot up. “So?”
“So you’re representing this resort. You need to maintain professional boundaries—”
“I was being professional,” she interrupted. “He was being friendly. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He gave you his number.”
“He gave me his business card. There’s a difference.”
Garrett’s jaw clenched. “Are you going to call him?”
The question hung in the air, loaded with tension.
“I don’t know,” Layla said honestly. “Does it matter?”
“No.” But his hands were fists again, and his eyes were dark and stormy. “You’re a grown woman. You can do whatever you want.”
“Then why do you look like you want to break something?”
“Because—” He stopped himself, breathing hard. “Because you shouldn’t date donors. It’s a conflict of interest.”
“He’s not a guest. He’s a donor for a separate charity organization. There’s no conflict.”
“There’s always a conflict when you work here.”
“Then what do you want from me, Garrett?” The words burst out, all her frustration and confusion pouring into them. “You push me away, then you watch me all night like—like you can’t help yourself. You tell me I look beautiful, then you criticize my dress. You say this can’t happen, but you pulled me into your office at midnight because another man talked to me. What do you want?”
“I want—” He took a step closer, and another, until they were inches apart. “I want things I have no right to want.”
Her heart was racing. “Like what?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Like you.”
The confession was quiet, wrecked, and it shattered something between them.
“Then have me,” Layla whispered.
Garrett’s control visibly cracked. His hand came up, cupping her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a touch so gentle it made her ache.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said roughly. “Your father is my best friend. You’re my employee. This is—”
“Complicated. I know.” She leaned into his touch, watching his pupils blow wide. “But I don’t care anymore.”
“You should care.” But his other hand found her waist, fingers spreading over the fabric of that navy dress. “You should run from me.”
“I don’t want to run.”
They stared at each other, breathing hard, balanced on the edge of something irreversible.
Then Garrett’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and reality crashed back in.
He released her like she’d burned him, stepping back and pulling out his phone. “It’s your father.”
The words were like ice water.
Layla watched as Garrett answered the call, his voice perfectly normal, perfectly friendly. “Hey, man. Yeah, the gala went great. She’s—Layla’s doing fantastic here. Really impressed with her work…”
He lied smoothly, naturally, and every word felt like a knife.
When he hung up, the distance between them felt insurmountable.
“You should go,” Garrett said quietly, not looking at her. “It’s late.”
Layla grabbed her clutch from where she’d dropped it on his desk. “For what it’s worth, I don’t regret wearing this dress.”
His eyes snapped to hers, hot and intense. “You should.”
“Why?”
“Because now I’ll never be able to forget how you look in it.”
The words followed her all the way home, echoing in her head like a promise and a curse.
Later that night, alone in her apartment, Layla pulled Damian Cross’s business card from her clutch and stared at it.
She could call him. Could go on a normal date with a normal man who didn’t come with complicated history and forbidden feelings.
Could try to move on from whatever this thing with Garrett was.
Instead, she tore the card in half and threw it away.
Because she didn’t want normal.
She wanted Garrett.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
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