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I see his mouth moving. I hear the words coming out. But all I can do is shake my head.
“What?” I breathe again.
Arsen closes the distance between us and wraps his arms around my waist. “This is going to be your yoga studio, Laila.”
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. “I don’t even have my certification yet.”
He winks at me. “You’ll get it.”
“And if I fail?”
“Like I said, you’ll get it. If you fail, you’ll try again. I’m not worried about it.”
That makes one of us.
“Arsen, you can’t—” I wipe tears from my cheeks. “How much did this place cost?”
He waves me off. “Once your yoga empire is up and running, I’ll make my money back and then some. Consider this my second formal investment in the Laila Adamov business.”
I try to argue with him, but as I look around the room… I can see it.
A little paint, some softer lighting, a water feature in the corner—this could work.
This could be mine.
I don’t realize I’m openly weeping until Arsen pulls me against his chest and pats my back. “Come on now. You have a test to get to still. We should probably get going if you want to get there insanely early and check the parking lot for sinkholes.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. I turn in his arms, my head resting back against his chest. He wraps his arms around me, holding me in the center of the room.
“It’ll be okay,” I whisper. “I want to stay here with you for a few more minutes.”
36
ARSEN
“These are airplanes.” Laila helpfully points out the jets in front of us in case there was a chance I might have missed them. “We usually take a car home from dinner.”
She’s right, but there’s a lot about tonight that isn’t usual.
Starting with Laila earning her yoga certification.
I could’ve thrown her a family-style dinner at home. We could’ve celebrated her accomplishment with our daughter and friends and sat around, eating food and chatting all night.
But, at my core, I’m a selfish bastard.
And from the moment she accepted her certification and sprinted off the stage directly into my arms, I knew I wanted her all to myself.
“We would—if we were going home.” I grab her hand and pull her towards the hangar designated for my private jet.
She shuffles along behind me, dragging her feet, still frowning in a way that most people about to board a private jet don’t do. “But what are we doing here?”
“Just think of it as a high-altitude joyride. You said during dinner that you didn’t want this night to end.”
“That’s just something people say,” she argues. “I was having fun. And eating cake. Of course I didn’t want it to end.”
“And now, it doesn’t have to. You’re welcome.”
“Arsen, this is crazy. We have to get home. We have to—” She comes to a grinding halt when she spots her Louis Vuitton luggage being rolled onto the tarmac. “Are those mine?”
