My eyes widen. Anna Bardet is a huge lingerie designer. Every year, she holds an exclusive scholarship programme for up-and-coming indie designers, where they have to enter design ideas for her upcoming collections. The winning applicant gets to do a collaboration with her.
It’s a massive deal. The kind of thing that could move my career onto a whole other level. I just don’t remember being emailed about it.
I glance at my inbox, my heartbeat speeding up. “I… one sec.” I scroll down, trying to find the message.
“Anna hand-selects twenty applicants for the scholarship every year,” Janie says. “All of the other contestants have responded already. We’re just waiting on your entry.”
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth as I scroll frantically. I can’t find the email. “Um, can I get back to you?”
She sounds pissed. “No, not really. We need your response today. We’ve waited long enough.”
“I just…” My hand tightens on the receiver. “Now’s not a good time. I’ll call you back in, like, a minute.”
“Miss Thompson, if you’re not serious about this collaboration, I’m sure there are plenty of similar brands dying for the opportunity to—”
“I’ll do it, I promise. I… just need a sec,” I say, setting the receiver down and putting my face in my hands. Tears pop into my eyes.
I can’t do this. It’s too much. My laptop dings with another notification. And then another. And then another. My office phone starts to ring again. My mobile chimes with a meeting reminder, but I can’t bring myself to check it. I feel completely overloaded. Sinking onto the floor, I put my head in my hands, trying to shove down my panic.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
TWENTY-SEVEN
LUKE
As I sit on the sofa in our apartment, scrolling through my email inbox, my heavy eyelids keep falling shut.
I’m exhausted. Layla has spent every single night for the past week in our flat, and apparently, Josh and Zack are taking their roles as her ‘boyfriends’ incredibly seriously. No matter what I do, I can’t block out the soft moans and gasps that filter through my bedroom wall.
I’m not happy that they’ve both started sleeping with her. I understand why they’re tempted; Layla is a beautiful woman. But there have to be massive ethical issues with exchanging her appearances on our podcast with sex. Not to mention the fact that, when things inevitably do go pear-shaped, it’s going to make our living situation a Hell of a lot more awkward.
I don’t understand why they can’t keep it in their pants. It’s not like they’re the only ones attracted to her. If I’m honest, I’ve liked Layla ever since she moved in. And now that she’s getting closer to Zack and Josh, it’s getting worse by the day. It’s torture watching her wander through our flat in her skimpy little outfits and not being able to touch her. Plenty of times over the last week, I’ve laid in bed and imagined what would happen if I just gave in and agreed to take her on a date.
But I don’t, because I can’t. It would be completely inappropriate. Even if I weren’t Layla’s ex-teacher, I’m over ten years older than her. I’m sure she’d rather die than go out with me.
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?”