13. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Leo
I am a shaking, pacing, stormy mess when Brynn finally knocks on the door at six p.m.
"It's about damn time," I grumble, stepping out of the way so she can waltz her fancy ass into the apartment.
She shoots me a teasing smile over her shoulder as she takes off her shoes by the door. "Aww, Leo, have you been looking forward to seeing me all day?"
"Dreading it, actually." I roll my eyes as I close the door behind her, hating the way I find my gaze running down the length of her while she's turned away from me. Dressed in gym shorts and a tank top, every sumptuous curve of her body is highlighted to perfection.
I have to physically stop myself from staring at her ass.
Why must the most infuriating woman on this planet also be the hottest?
At this point, my physical attraction to her is starting to feel more and more like a punishment from the universe, which would be a blatant miscarriage of justice, considering what I've been through the last twelve months already.
But where my daughter was a Godsend, the woman currently bending over in front of me with her ass in the fucking air has been sent to me straight from the fiery pits of hell.
Damn it.
Maybe the boys are right.
Maybe I do need to get laid, after all.
"Could've fooled me." She winks as she stands then gestures at the mountain of luggage she's brought with her. "Where should I put these?"
"The guest room," I say simply.
Where Alex has a two-bedroom apartment, I've bagged myself a three. Of course, I never anticipated that I'd be lending out my spare room to my best friend's chaotic little sister, but I know all too well the curveballs life can throw at a man.
"Yup." She nods thoughtfully. "And where might I find that?"
I point down the hallway at the door leading to the room adjacent to mine. Directly opposite is Salem's nursery. Already, I'm regretting my decision to put her there. Now I know I'll be sharing a wall with my nemesis. That was a gross oversight on my part.
Not that I’ve had much time to adjust to the idea of her sharing my space or really consider the logistics. And now that she’s here, the reality of my situation sinks into me like an anchor in the North Sea.
Because my home has felt different since the instant she stepped through the door. Not bad different, not good different, just different.
The air grows thicker with her presence, misty with the scent of her perfume—a sort of milky rose, which smells a lot better than it sounds. So much better, in fact, that I find myself leaning into it, only to realize what I’m doing and snapping the fuck out of it.
Of course Brynn would wear a magic perfume that bewitches men. It’s probably one of those incredibly overpriced perfumes that are injected with pheromones and smell like pussy for the purpose of speaking to my inner caveman and make me want to procreate.
Who the fuck knows?
"Great, thanks."
Cracking the door open, she struggles with her luggage for a while before shooting me a pointed look. With a sigh, I reluctantly grab some of her shit and follow her into the bedroom.
I watch her as she takes in the room. The way her eyes widen in surprise at the soft, green décor, the plush white bedspread, and cream carpet. Her lips part with a gasp, and though the noise is so gentle, so quiet, it stirs up something inside of me that I'd rather ignore.
It's dangerous, that sound.
It makes me imagine all the ways I could get her to make it again.
And that is something that can never happen.
Not only because she annoys me like no other but because her brother would hang me by the balls for even breathing in her direction. And I like my balls. I want to keep them.
"Damn," Brynn whispers.
I shove my hands into my pockets and rock back and forth on my heels. "Not what you expected?"
"It's..."—she looks to me with a small smile—"nice. Really nice."
I hate how her praise makes my chest puff with pride.
"Did you do this?" she asks, her delicately manicured hands gesturing at the space.
My shoulders deflate an inch at the truth. "I had an interior designer fix the place after Salem came along."
"Why then and not when you first moved in? She's one. It's not like she cares."
"I wanted her to have a proper home." The words tumble from my mouth, vulnerable and unrestrained. I don't know why I told her that. The last thing I want to do is bare my soul to anyone, least of all her.
And though the words are simple, I’m scared that she’ll hear what I’m not saying.
That I want to give my daughter the safety and comfort that I lost when my mom died. Dad was too lost in grief to take care of his ten-year-old son. Sure, he kept me fed and warm, but the security of a loving and attentive family home died with my mother.
Our relationship has never been the same, despite how good he is with Salem on the rare opportunities we see each other. Since he still lives in London, it’s maybe twice a year at best.
When her face softens at my vulnerability, I fake a cough and break eye contact.
Whether she can sense my discomfort or simply doesn't care about what I said, she changes the subject. "Where is my little ladybug anyway?"
"She's in bed."
"At six p.m.? Isn't that a bit early?"
"Well, I couldn't take her out today like I normally would, because we were waiting for you, so there was a lot of frustration on her part." And mine , I want to add, but I'm being passive-aggressive enough as it is. "And you know how babies express frustration? By crying. And crying. And crying. And crying."
Brynn, at least, has the good grace to look ashamed.
"Turns out, crying tires the poor girl out," I continue. "So, yes, Brynn. It is six p.m., and Salem is in bed."
"Point taken." And just when I think I've won the argument, she just can't help herself but add, "To be fair, you really didn't specify a time."
"Jesus Christ."
"And it's Saturday. My first official day is tomorrow, so it's not like I was late for that. I didn't realize moving my stuff in needed its own time slot, and if it did, you really should have told me sooner. To be honest, I thought you'd be pleased that I didn't show up early, since you can't bear to spend longer than ten minutes in my presence. But today isn't even a real work day. This is basically just orientation."
I shoot her an unimpressed raise of my brows. "Finished?"
Mutely, she nods.
"Great. Get your shit sorted then meet me in the living room in fifteen minutes."
Holding her hand to her head in salute, she stands to attention. "Sir, yes, sir."
Fuck my life.
Why did I think this was a good idea?
Sixteen minutes later, Brynn saunters down the hallway, her eyes scanning the great room like she owns the space.
With the exception of the extra bedroom, my apartment mirrors Alex's floor plan. The living area is open-plan, with the kitchen off to the right, separated from the dining room by a large marble island, and the living room is to the far left.
We both have the same floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Space Needle, Elliott Bay, and even the peaks of the Olympic National Park on a clear day. The view is the best thing about living in this building, and best believe, we pay the price for it.
But the interior design of our apartments couldn't be more different.
Where Alex's place is all stark white and glossy blacks, perfect for a bachelor who hosts monthly sex parties, mine is softer. Over two thousand square feet of contemporary lightwood mixed with classic touches, my home was designed with the purpose of raising my daughter in a space that feels comfortable and safe.
The fact that I admitted this to Brynn makes me feel physically sick.
Because, though it may not seem like a big deal to a normal person, the idea of someone seeing through the walls I've built around my soul is terrifying.
Sure, I didn't tell her about my mom, but she heard the plain earnestness in my voice, and that's enough to send me reeling.
It’s taken years of feeling rejected by my father to learn how to protect my heart. I’ve built walls a mile high and turned myself into a cold, standoffish asshole to keep people from getting too close. And I'll be damned if I let an Instagram model who refuses to wear appropriate clothing be the one to break them down.
"What's on the agenda tonight then, Daddio?" she asks, cocking her hip with a hand on her waist.
Fuck my life.
"Daddio?"
"What?" She bats her eyelids. "You don't like being called Daddy."
"And you thought ‘Daddio’ would be better than, I don't know, my actual fucking name?"
She huffs, cocking her hand on her hip. "But Leo is so boring."
It's probably not the time to tell her that, boring or not, women have never had an issue when screaming it in ecstasy. So, with a roll of my eyes, I walk to the window and look out over the city with my arm resting on the glass above my head.
"Then call me Sully," I suggest, catching her slow perusal of my body in the reflection.
When her gaze meets mine through the glass, her cheeks flush the prettiest shade of rose.
"Can't," she breathes. "Reminds me of that Tom Hanks movie where he crashed a plane into the Hudson."
I spin to face her with my jaw dropped in shock. "He landed a plane on the Hudson."
She shrugs. "Same difference."
"Nope. Very different. That film is a true story, you know. A pilot actually did that and saved everyone's lives, with not one single casualty. Put some bloody respect on the Sully name.”
As if possessed by some sort of demented hyena, she throws her head back and howls with laughter. "I can't..." she wheezes. "I can't breathe."
I simply watch her hyperventilate in front me, less than amused. "I'm struggling to understand the joke."
After at least three more minutes of maniacal laughter, she finally begins to calm down.
"You wanna tell me what that was about?" I ask, eyebrow cocked.
She's panting with her hands on her knees as she fights to catch her breath, exhausted from laughing, though clearly not enough to refrain from attempting to impersonate me. I’m just about able to hear her squeak the word “bloody” in between her heaving breaths.
Let it be known, I've never met a person worse at doing British accents and yet makes it their life mission to do it as often as possible.
"That sounds South African."
She shrugs. "Well, I think I nailed it."
"Your self-confidence is misguided."
"Your hairline and I have that in common."
If she wasn't my best friend's little sister, I'd bend her over my couch and fuck the attitude right out of her. I'm sure I'd find her less infuriating if her pussy was gripping my cock like it never wants me to leave. Making her come until she can't breathe is probably the only way to shut her up.
Annnnd now I have a boner.
Brilliant.
"Okay, Brynn, good talk. I've got shit to do, so let me show you around before all this bullshit gives me an aneurysm."
“Sure.” She nods with faux sincerity. "I’d hate to hold up your call with the hair transplant clinic."
And God help me, but as I turn away and lead her through the main room, I smile.