Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Archie
Normally, I’m woken by the guy in the neighboring bedsit practicing his tuba and the couple two doors down who communicate exclusively through slammed doors and passive-aggressive vacuuming at six a.m.
But this morning, in the apartment Leo arranged for me, there’s nothing but blissful silence.
Though my brain having space to think isn’t necessarily a good thing.
Because my brain has a tendency to reach for the folder I keep shoved to the very back of the filing cabinet—the one labeled Do Not Open in large red letters. The one with Vaughn’s name on it.
I don’t open it. I never open it. But in the quiet, I can feel its edges, and that’s enough to make me wish for the friendly tuba player.
I stretch out, and the throbbing pain in my ankle reminds me of the events of last night and the reality I’m now facing.
What components am I currently dealing with in this scenario?
I have a broken ankle.
I have dog owners expecting me to walk their precious pooches.
I have five children’s parties in the next two weeks.
I also have a very good-looking man who is plagued with guilt and trying to make things up to me.
And now that Leo has entered my brain, it’s hard to dislodge him.
The sharp line of his jaw. Those broad shoulders. Those dark eyes that seem to be cataloging everything, including me.
There’s something magnetic about a man who radiates that much quiet authority, who takes charge of every situation.
And I’ve always been a sucker for the grumpy ones. The ones who look like they’ve never smiled in their life until you make them.
It’s a character flaw, really.
But as I think about Leo, something scratches at the back of my memory, and my mind won’t let it go.
I both love and hate my brain at times like this.
Part of me wants to simply believe that the universe serendipitously made a gorgeous, grumpy man collide with me in the most syrupy meet-cute possible, and his natural goodness means he’s now going out of his way to help me in my time of need because he feels responsible for what was merely an unfortunate accident.
But I can’t help thinking there might be more to the story.
What is the probability of him accidentally spilling syrup at that precise angle, with the specific trajectory to hit the back of my head and not the table, floor, or other surfaces in the immediate vicinity? The physics don’t quite add up. Gravity pulls downward, not backward.
That syrup had intent.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and Google Leo Brennan.
At first, I’m bombarded by what Jaymee discovered last night.
As the vice president of NovaCore, he was the face of the organization while the inventor Andrew Yates focused on the coding.
There are photos of Leo giving keynote speeches at major tech conferences, looking impossibly polished, all clean jawline and quiet authority.
When NovaCore sold to Synexis Enterprises, the deal made headlines in every major business publication.
A profile piece describes him as “the man who turned a college kid’s startup into a Silicon Valley unicorn.” His TED Talk on ethical leadership has been viewed over sixteen million times.
Now Leo runs his own consultancy business and his client list reads like a who’s who of Fortune 500 companies.
But I continue to dive deeper, past the glossy headlines and polished press photos into the older articles, the ones that no longer make the first page of Google.
Then I discover what I’m looking for.
Buried deep in a five-year-old TechCrunch article on Leo Brennan is the smoking gun I expected to find.
Leo began his career at QuantumTech before joining NovaCore.
QuantumTech is where my brother Vaughn used to work. And from the dates given in the article, Leo and Vaughn would have overlapped.
I bear more than a passing resemblance to Vaughn. After I hit my growth spurt as a teenager and made up for the age difference between us, people sometimes mistook us for twins. It had delighted me, but irritated Vaughn.
Leo had said that spilling syrup on me was an accident. Sure. And I accidentally ate an entire sleeve of Digestives last Tuesday. Some “accidents” are more accidental than others.
I’m willing to bet my last clean pair of socks that Leo Brennan thought I was Vaughn, which inspired him to execute a premeditated breakfast condiment attack on my unsuspecting head.
Which begs the question, why did he want to get revenge on my brother? What did Vaughn do to him?
An unsettled feeling begins inside me when I think of my brother.
I used to hero-worship Vaughn, and for so long, he was the best big brother a guy could have.
He’d let me sit in his room for hours while he did homework, never once telling me I was annoying.
He taught me to shuffle cards when I was five because I couldn’t stop fidgeting.
I still remember when he cornered Davey Stevenson after he made fun of my stutter.
I watched from the doorway, five years old, barely understanding what was happening, just knowing that my big brother was angry on my behalf, and that meant I was safe.
Then things started to change.
Now, we haven’t spoken in over a year.
But I still have a familiar surge of family loyalty. You can be upset with family. You can not have them in your life. But some part of you will always flinch when someone else takes aim at them. Vaughn was my protector when no one else would stand up for me.
Leo Brennan messed with the Mansleys.
Maybe I should mess with him just a little?
After all, guilt is a powerful motivator. I know that only too well.
Guilt activates the anterior cingulate cortex, which is the brain’s conflict-detection center, creating a persistent discomfort that demands resolution.
From an evolutionary standpoint, the concept of guilt developed to maintain social bonds. When you wrong someone in your tribe, guilt compels you to repair the relationship before you get kicked out and eaten by wolves.
Studies show that people experiencing guilt will go to remarkable lengths to restore equilibrium, often overcompensating far beyond what the original transgression requires.
Leo has already found me this apartment.
What else could that guilt motivate him to do?
It could potentially be entertaining to find out.
After all, I’m going to be virtually immobile for the next six weeks, at least. My chances for fun are going to be severely limited.
By the time Leo arrives at my place, I’ve already had a gourmet breakfast from the generously stocked kitchen.
Leo is even more good-looking this morning than he was last night, which frankly seems like an unfair allocation of genetic resources.
His suit is charcoal, three-piece, and fitted with precision. Everything about him is deliberate—the perfectly knotted tie, the grooming, the way even his watch sits at exactly the right angle on his wrist.
His dark hair is neatly styled, but there’s one stubborn piece that falls across his forehead. I find it unreasonably satisfying that something about him refuses to cooperate.
There’s just something so straitlaced and stern about Mr. Leo Brennan that makes me want to see what happens when I ruffle his feathers.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen. He stands opposite me at the island, hands resting on the countertop.
“Still attached. Which I believe is a good sign,” I reply as I take a sip of my orange juice.
A quick quirk of his lips is there and gone so fast you’d miss it if you blinked.
“That’s definitely a good sign,” he says.
“And on the plus side, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have people sign my body parts, and I guess I’m about to find out.”
“I’d offer to be your first signature, but my penmanship peaked in third grade, and it’s been downhill ever since,” Leo says.
“I don’t believe there’s any part of you that’s a disappointment,” I say as I rake my gaze down him.
Leo looks startled, but I’m not sure if it’s because it’s the first time a guy has ever flirted with him, or because he doesn’t expect it at nine o’clock in the morning from a broken-ankle victim.
I didn’t pick up any clue of Leo’s sexual orientation from my Googling of him, because apparently, he keeps all information about his personal life locked down. But a guy can hope, right?
It doesn’t seem fair for the universe to make a guy so gorgeous be completely straight.
“I believe the painkillers might have affected your vision,” he replies dryly.
Which tells me precisely nothing.
But that’s okay, I’ve got bigger things to tackle right now.
“So, you said last night you’d help me with my jobs. But you don’t really look dressed for dog walking.”
Leo’s eyes widen, his eyebrows shooting up. “When I said I would help, I didn’t mean I would be personally walking the dogs. I meant I would hire someone to walk the dogs for you.”
I shake my head sadly. “I don’t think that will work. I can’t send a stranger to walk my clients’ dogs. They expect me or someone I personally vouch for.”
Leo narrows his eyes. “And you can personally vouch for me?”
“Once I’ve given you some preliminary training, I’m sure you can figure out which end of the dog the leash goes on.”
“I really think it would be more prudent to hire someone with dog-walking experience,” he says.
“But then they might steal my clients. I can’t afford to lose clients.”
Leo still looks skeptical.
“You can’t solve all my problems by throwing money at them,” I say.
An emotion skitters across Leo’s face, too fast for me to accurately read, but then his jaw tightens.
For a second, I forget I’m supposed to be playing him. I want to know what that look means.
“No. Of course not. I’ll endeavor to do everything I can to help.” He says the words solemnly, like he’s taking a vow.
I hide my smile.
“And I’m thinking it might be a good idea if you move into the other room of this apartment for the next few weeks.”
Now I’ve completely flummoxed him.
“If you need assistance, I can hire someone with home healthcare experience,” he says slowly.
“I don’t want a stranger in my space.”
Leo blinks at me. “But I am a stranger to you.”
“Not anymore.” I give him a big smile. “We had the trauma-bonding experience of you assaulting me with a breakfast condiment and then you saving an entire hospital waiting room from death by birthday cake. That’s basically the equivalent of three years of friendship, emotionally speaking.
Plus, you’re going to have to spend quite a bit of time with me because I need to train you for the dog walking and also as my clown assistant.
It’ll be far more convenient if you stay here. ”
His blinking has become a whole lot more frantic. “Clown assistant?”
“Did I not mention that part? I’m also a children’s entertainer. Captain Giggles, at your service.” I gesture at my splint. “But I can’t exactly lead the ‘Hokey Pokey’ while hopping around on crutches. That’s where you come in.”
Leo opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. No sound comes out.
“You’ll look great in the costume,” I continue enthusiastically.
“Costume?” Leo’s voice has finally emerged. It sounds slightly strangled.
“Well, costumes, actually. Plural. I think it’s important to mix things up.”
“I have negotiated with hostile board members,” Leo says slowly. “I have navigated SEC investigations. I have not, at any point in my thirty years on this planet, danced the ‘Hokey Pokey.’”
I laugh. It’s not the charming laugh I deploy strategically, but an actual, involuntary laugh.
But I recover quickly. “Perfect. You’re a blank slate. That makes you very teachable.”
Leo stares at me for a long moment. I can practically see the calculations running behind his eyes—the cost-benefit analysis of walking away versus the weight of his guilt.
Thankfully, the guilt wins.
“I’m going to need to see a full schedule of these…commitments,” he says finally, in the tone of a man negotiating the terms of his own surrender.
“Absolutely. I’ll have it to you by end of day. Very professional.” I beam at him. “See? We’re already working together like a well-oiled machine.”
“That is not how I would describe this interaction,” Leo mutters. “I want it on record that I think this is a terrible idea.”
“Noted. Your objection has been logged and promptly ignored.” I continue to give him my most winning smile. “Welcome to the apartment, roomie.”
The look he gives me could curdle milk. But he doesn’t say no.
Which means Leo Brennan is moving into my apartment.
My brain, ever helpful, chooses this moment to remind me that the spare bedroom is approximately twelve feet from mine.
It isn’t a problem though. I can resist my attraction to the guy. I’m in control of this situation.
“Wonderful. Now, about this afternoon.” I grab my phone and pull up my schedule. “You’ll be picking up three dogs from two households and then walking them together in Hampstead Heath.”
“Three dogs at the same time?”
“That’s how dog walking works, yes. It’s efficiency.” I start scrolling through my calendar. “First pickup is at two. That gives you”—I check the time—“four hours to change out of that suit and mentally prepare yourself.”
Leo looks down at his immaculate three-piece charcoal suit. “I didn’t bring any casual clothes to London.”
“Then I guess you’re adding a shopping trip to the morning agenda.” I grin at him.
Leo runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath.
“I mean, it’s walking a few dogs. How hard can it be?” he says.