Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Archie
I’m covered in foam, sitting in a wheelchair that looks like it survived a car wash explosion, my ankle’s throbbing in time with the still-shrieking fire alarm, and I’m fairly sure there’s birthday cake frosting in my ear to go along with the maple syrup.
The orange zone looks like someone hosted a foam party in hell’s waiting room, and the triage nurse is glaring at us.
But I’m laughing. Because what else can you do at this point?
I’ve learned that sometimes life is so ridiculous that you either find the humor or you drown in the unfairness of it all. And drowning isn’t really my style. I look for the punchline even when the joke is on me.
Besides, if you’re laughing, people don’t ask if you’re okay. They just assume you are. Which is extremely convenient sometimes.
Leo blinks down at me with an expression of complete bewilderment, like he can’t compute why someone covered in fire retardant with a broken ankle is laughing. His tie is askew and there’s foam in his hair, which somehow makes him look more human and, unfortunately, more attractive.
I can’t help replaying how he looked when he brandished the fire extinguisher.
The way he took complete control, jaw set with intense focus.
His dress shirt pulled tight across his shoulders as he swept the extinguisher side to side, biceps visible even through the expensive fabric.
He looked like a Brooks Brothers ad moonlighting as an action hero.
So, I have a competency kink. Sue me.
It appears I’m developing a bit of a crush on the guy in the three-piece suit who assaulted me with syrup and then rescued everyone from the Great Birthday Inferno. That’s an interesting twist.
“Are you okay?” Leo directs his attention to me now, his face creasing in concern.
I’m not sure if he’s worried about my ankle having been bumped in the chaos or whether I’ve lost my mind because I’m laughing.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think lighting the candles through,” Billy says morosely. Poor Billy. His heart is always in the right place, but it’s not the first time his execution hasn’t quite gone to plan.
“It’s okay. I’ll definitely never forget this birthday,” I say.
There’s a flurry of activity as NHS staff converge on us en masse.
What follows is a spectacular display of British bureaucracy in action. We’re shepherded away from the orange zone to the green zone.
Then the fire brigade arrives, and the parade of burly firefighters provides some nice eye candy for a few minutes before one appears with a clipboard thicker than my wrist. He starts taking statements with the enthusiasm of someone who just realized their shift got extended by three hours.
The incident report notes that the accelerant was hand sanitizer and the incendiary device was novelty birthday candles from Tesco.
Meanwhile, Leo is praised by the fire captain for his “quick thinking and appropriate response,” which he accepts without a smile.
I catch his eye and mouth “hero” at him.
His jaw tightens, and his expression seems to hover between amusement and irritation, like he can’t decide which reaction I deserve.
Interesting. It seems Mr. Leo is not used to being teased.
When all the officials finally retreat after taking statements, I try to inject some levity into the situation.
“Let’s look on the bright side. There’s a chance they might bump me up the queue just to get rid of us.”
Sadly, it doesn’t appear that even trying to set the A&E waiting room on fire speeds up the NHS triage system.
As the first painkillers wear off, my ankle throbs even more intensely, like it’s personally offended by today’s events.
Then Jaymee decides to make things worse by introducing some practicalities into the mix.
“Archie, I just thought, how are you going to get up to your flat with a broken ankle?”
My stomach hollows. I live in a tiny bedsit on the fourth floor of an old Victorian building. The four flights of narrow stairs up to my room are a tripping hazard even when all my limbs are fully functional.
“We don’t know for sure that my ankle is broken,” I say optimistically. “It could just be sprained.”
We all look down skeptically at my ankle, which has now swelled to twice its normal size.
Jaymee’s teeth worry her lower lip. “You could crash at my place, but there are still stairs, and getting to the bathroom would be a pain.”
Jaymee lives above the pet shop she inherited from her aunt.
It smells of guinea pig pellets mixed with bird seed.
And the only bathroom is off the shop on the ground floor.
To get to it, you have to go through a maze of kitty litter bags, aquarium filters, and a rabbit hutch that blocks half the hallway.
“Thanks for the offer, but I think navigating a maze of kitty litter bags on crutches might finish me off,” I say.
“You can stay at my place if you want. I can crash on the couch. But there are still two flights of stairs,” Billy says.
Billy lives in a crowded apartment with six other gym bros. The smell is worse than Jaymee’s place.
I love Billy, but I can barely survive a ten-minute visit to his apartment without my eyes watering.
“I’ll help you sort out somewhere you can live,” Leo says abruptly.
We all turn to stare at him.
“After all, I caused your accident in the first place,” he continues.
But now that Jaymee has introduced practicalities into the mix, my brain is flooding with reality.
“It’s not just my apartment…” I say slowly. “I don’t know how I’m going to do any of my jobs.”
Fuck, I’ve been so caught up in my pain, the handsome stranger, and Billy’s pyrotechnics that I haven’t thought through the practical implications of what a broken ankle means for my life.
It’s classic cognitive avoidance, my brain’s attempt to shield me from actually confronting the fallout waiting on the other side of painkillers and adrenaline.
I can’t stay in my bedsit. I can’t walk the dogs. I’ll struggle to complete my bookings as a children’s entertainer on only one leg.
Plus, my bank account situation is precarious at the moment. I’ve been living gig to gig, trying to build my two businesses into a steady income. But some months, I’ve struggled to scrape together enough to pay my measly rent.
My savings currently total about three hundred and forty-seven pounds, plus whatever coins I can find in my couch cushions.
My graduate visa means I can work here, but I’m about as eligible for UK benefits as I am for a knighthood.
Travel insurance might eventually cover some lost earnings, assuming they don’t find a clause about syrup-related incidents being excluded.
I’m pretty much screwed.
“If I cancel the jobs I’ve got lined up, I’ll lose my clients, and I can’t afford to lose them,” I say quietly.
“I can help,” Leo says brusquely.
I scrape my hand over my face.
“Please let me help. It’s my fault you’re hurt.”
When I lift my gaze to Leo’s, there’s something in his expression that my brain snags on. His guilt seems disproportionate. People who accidentally spill syrup on strangers feel bad. They offer to pay for dry cleaning. They don’t volunteer to help you find somewhere new to live.
I hold his gaze, trying to read what’s underneath.
“Okay, random guy, how exactly are you planning to help?” Jaymee cuts in.
Her voice drips with suspicion. “We don’t know you from Adam.
For all we know, you could be some sort of wealthy serial killer who attacks people with breakfast condiments and then offers to ‘help’ them as a way to worm into their lives. ”
Leo breaks his gaze with me to raise an eyebrow in her direction. “That sounds like a very specific MO.”
“I’ve watched enough true crime to know the innocent-looking ones are the most dangerous,” she replies.
He squares his shoulders. “My name is Leo Brennan. Feel free to Google me.”
Jaymee takes out her phone, still looking skeptical.
Her expression quickly transforms, and her mouth forms an O shape as she scrolls through the search results. “Jesus, you’ve got your own Wikipedia page.” She pauses. “Holy shit, you’re one of the guys behind NovaCore? That’s the database I use in my pet shop.”
NovaCore. Right. I’ve heard of NovaCore.
So the man who accidentally broke my ankle helped to build revolutionary database architecture that solved concurrent transaction conflicts at scale. Interesting.
And if Leo’s in the tech industry, there’s a high chance he knows of my brother Vaughn.
My stomach tightens. But I push that thought away.
“Okay, if you’re a serial killer, you’ve hidden it well,” Jaymee says grudgingly, stashing her phone back in her pocket.
Leo doesn’t look particularly grateful that he’s received such positive affirmation. He returns his steady gaze to mine, apparently still waiting for an answer to his offer of help.
I hesitate.
Given that I’ve just wrestled back control of my life over the last year, I don’t like the idea of being dependent on anyone.
But equally, I’m realistic enough to know that in this situation, I shouldn’t look the incredibly attractive, rich gift horse in the mouth, right?
Apparently, in late-stage capitalism, fairy godfathers wear three-piece suits and create database solutions rather than magical pumpkins.
Though, to be fair, both involve mysterious transformations nobody fully understands.
“So, I’d be doing you a favor by letting you help me?” I ask.
Leo hides a smile, tucking it away quickly, but not before I see the hint of it.
Is that the first smile I’ve seen from him? Weirdly, I find myself wanting to see what else I can do to get a smile out of this guy.
“Yes, you’d be doing me a favor. I would really appreciate it if you’d let me help you,” he says.
“Well, I guess if I’m doing you a favor…” I say. “I don’t want you dying of guilt, after all. I’m generous like that.”
There’s definitely a twitch at the corners of his lips now.
“You’d be exceptionally generous to save me from the overwhelming amount of guilt I’m currently drowning in,” he states.
He’s playing along. This serious, buttoned-up man in the foam-covered suit is playing along.
“Okay, my good deed for the day will be letting you find me somewhere I can stay,” I concede.
Leo reaches for his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’m on it.”