Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,63

give me two hours with the camera, and then I’ll leave you alone about it until Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday?”

“That’s when we leave.”

Her voice is delicate, but those words feel dense and unintentionally harsh. We’ll be leaving Willow here alone in just a matter of days. I don’t really want to go until Willow is ready to find answers, because for some reason, I need answers. I don’t feel like I’ll be able to function out in the real world unless I can somehow make sense of everything that’s happened in this house.

I take a seat across from Layla. “What do you think about staying a little longer?”

Her shoulders drop a little. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m getting a lot of songwriting done. I can probably finish the album here if I have a little more time.”

“I haven’t heard the piano once.”

“I haven’t needed it. I’ve been writing lyrics,” I lie.

She sighs and drops her phone to the table. “Not to be mean, but it’s boring here, Leeds. I’m going stir crazy. And the boredom is making me tired. I feel exhausted every day. It’s like all I do is sleep.”

I know that exhaustion is my fault, but I still don’t let up. “What if we compromise?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Depends on the compromise.”

“I’ll give you three hours today to pose me however you want for however many pictures you want to take. And you give me three more days to work on my album.”

She seems attracted to that compromise. “I can even pose you in the rain?”

I nod.

A smile manages to break through her hangover. “Deal.” She leans across the table and kisses me. “You won’t regret this.”

She’s wrong. I already regret it. I’ve regretted almost every decision I’ve made at her expense since we got here.

Yet . . . I’ve done nothing to stop myself.

Layla maybe got four hours of sleep last night. Combine that with a three-hour photo shoot, a hangover, and very little food today, and I have no idea how she held out until eight o’clock before going upstairs to crash.

It’s almost ten now, and there’s been no sign of Willow. I’ve tried asking her if she’s here, but she hasn’t responded. Not even with the laptop.

I’ve spent the last hour working out new lyrics. If I’m going to lie to Layla and tell her music is what’s keeping me in this house, I at least need to create said music.

I started writing a song about two weeks ago called “No Vacancy,” so I’ve spent most of my time tonight reworking the lyrics.

It’s been storming for four hours now. The forecast extended the rain to a third day, which concerns me. Layla seems content when she gets her pool days, but I don’t know what mood three days of being stuck inside this house will put her in.

“What are you doing?”

I jump so violently my chair scoots back two feet. I grab at my chest and blow out a breath when I see Willow standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear her walking down the stairs because of the thunder, so my reaction to her unexpected appearance makes her laugh.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” she says with a wink. She walks straight to the refrigerator. “Seriously, Leeds. Your girlfriend has an eating disorder. I’m worried about her.” She grabs a plate of leftovers from the dinner I cooked earlier. Stuffed baked potatoes and Caesar salad. Layla only ate the salad, so I saved the baked potato for Willow.

I close out my document and then shut my laptop. Willow puts the plate in the microwave and then turns around to face me. “What was today all about? With the pictures, and the uncharacteristically vain photos?”

The entire time Layla was forcing me to pose today, I wondered where Willow was. If she was watching or not. I was hoping she wasn’t.

“Nothing.” I don’t want to talk about the compromise I made with Layla, and I especially don’t want to talk about the embarrassing fact that every time Layla posts a shirtless selfie of me, I get twice as many downloads on my music.

“Are you like a model or something?” Willow’s voice is playful, but I still don’t feel like talking about it. I’d almost rather her dive into Layla’s thoughts just so I don’t have to explain it to her.

“There’s this thing . . . social media.”

“I know what social media is,” she says.

“Of course you do. Anyway. Layla is working to monetize my platform.”

“So you’re an influencer?”

I lean