Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Archie
Six to eight weeks.
That’s the verdict from the fracture clinic this morning. It’s a clean break that requires six to eight weeks in a cast, non-weight-bearing. The doctor had been brisk and efficient in the way NHS professionals manage when they’ve got forty patients and twelve minutes.
“Do you have support at home?” she’d asked.
“I have a very guilty new roommate,” I’d said.
She didn’t ask for clarification. She’s probably heard stranger living arrangements.
Six to eight weeks. That’s a lot of weeks to share an apartment with someone whose jawline I’m trying not to notice.
I push the thought away and focus on what I can control.
It’s party time!
Also known as time to test just how guilty Leo feels about my accident and the depth of his commitment to making it up to me.
Nothing tests this quite like a unicorn onesie.
When we arrive home from the fracture clinic, Leo stares at the unicorn onesie I’ve laid out on the couch like it’s a venomous snake that’s been bedazzled within an inch of its life.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says.
I struggle to keep a straight face. “I thought long and hard about my Captain Giggles persona and tried to work out what sidekick would be an authentic extension of that identity.”
Actually, I thought long and hard about what kind of costume would cause Leo optimal mortification and settled on this.
It’s powder pink with a rainbow mane running down the spine, a spiraling gold horn that lights up if you press a button on the hood, and—my personal favorite touch—a fluffy tail attached to the backside with a pompom on the end that swishes when you walk.
There’s also a rainbow shooting across the chest with BELIEVE IN MAGIC spelled out in sequins, which I may have added myself. Thankfully, Costumes-R-Us offers same-day delivery.
Leo handled the dog walking yesterday with more good humor than I expected. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there to witness Mr. Tech Guru, Mr. Six Figure Consultant, yawning at a bunch of misbehaving dogs. And he refused to do a re-enactment when I asked.
And okay, okay, I’m a bad person because imagining the scenario brought me way too much joy.
Last night, Leo had to go to some client meetings, which left me with some time to plot how to incorporate a broken ankle’s worth of embarrassment into my children’s entertainment routine.
Luckily, I managed to come up with a few ideas.
“So, this party is being held at Horniman Museum,” I say as Leo and I get into the Uber. “Have you been there before?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve never heard of it.”
“Oh, you’re in for a treat. It’s one of my favorite places in London.”
His eyebrows shoot up, maybe because he can’t quite understand how someone can be so enthusiastic about a museum. But I really do love it.
“Frederick Horniman made all his money selling tea during Victorian times, and then spent his fortune collecting things from around the world,” I explain.
“The classic billionaire arc,” Leo says dryly. “Before they all pivoted to space rockets.”
I smother a smile. Leo ambushes me with these nuggets of humor when I least suspect it. They’re delivered so deadpan that I’m never entirely sure if he knows he’s being funny.
“Except, compared to most rich guys, Frederick Horniman was genuinely interested in education. He opened his private collection to the public in 1890 because he thought everyone deserved access to knowledge, not just the wealthy.” I shift in my seat to face him properly, which is never easy with a broken ankle and limited legroom.
“The museum’s got one of the biggest musical instrument collections in the UK with over nine thousand objects, from thirty-five-hundred-year-old Egyptian bone clappers to electric guitars. ”
Leo raises an eyebrow. “What are clappers?”
“Instruments carved to look like human hands. They’re beautifully creepy.”
“Beautifully creepy? That’s an interesting description.”
“You’ll understand what I mean when you see them. But yeah, beautifully creepy is probably a description you should avoid using on your Grindr profile.”
Leo chuckles. Satisfaction swells inside me.
And I notice he doesn’t correct me on my assumption that he has a Grindr profile.
Not that it matters. I’m not here to find out whether the man with the distractingly broad shoulders plays for my team.
I push that out of my mind and continue educating Leo about the wonders of the Horniman.
“The star attraction is an overstuffed walrus.”
Leo’s brow furrows. “Overstuffed?”
“Victorian taxidermists had never seen a live walrus, so when they got the skin, they just…kept stuffing until all the wrinkles disappeared. It looks like a walrus that’s been inflated with a bicycle pump.”
“So you’re telling me the museum’s main attraction is a mistake.”
“A beloved mistake. It’s been the mascot for over a century.” I grin at him. “I think you two will get along. You have the same energy.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m overstuffed?”
“Not overstuffed, no. More like…” I make a show of studying him, which is a mistake because now I’m noticing how he fills out his shirt ever so well. “Tightly wound. Like someone shoved a very expensive suit full of suppressed emotions and competence.”
Leo’s mouth twitches. “I’m not sure that’s better.”
“It’s not meant to be better. It’s meant to be accurate.”
Our eyes meet, and something sparks in the space between us. I look away first because I have a sense of self-preservation. Somewhere. Buried deep.
And it reminds me that I’m not supposed to be flirting with the guy who broke my ankle.
I break our gaze. “Anyway, let’s go through the rundown of today,” I say. “When we get there, we’ll change into our costumes so we’re ready when the kids arrive. Then we’ve got about two hours of structured chaos.”
“Structured chaos.”
“It’s a technical term. First, there’s a warm-up to get the kids’ energy out. Songs, dancing, call and response. Because I won’t be able to dance, you’ll have to be the one up there demonstrating.”
Leo stares at me with a horrified expression. “I don’t dance.”
“Everyone dances when kids are staring at them expectantly. It’s a survival instinct.
” I tick off my fingers. “Next up, there’s the magic show.
You’re my assistant, so you need to hand me things and look impressed.
Then we’ll do balloon animals. And before you ask, they’re made from biodegradable latex because Captain Giggles has an environmental policy.
After that, we release the children into the aquarium like tiny well-dressed sharks.
Regroup for cake. Final game. Party bags. Freedom.”
Leo lets out a sigh. “How many children will there be?”
“Twelve. Maybe fifteen. The RSVP situation was unclear.”
“And they’re what age?”
“Six. Turning seven. Old enough to have opinions. Young enough to express them loudly.”
Leo exhales slowly through his nose.
“The trick is to accept that nothing ever goes according to plan. Children are chaos agents. You just have to roll with it.”
“I’m not good at rolling with things.”
“Then it’s a good chance to learn.”
The Uber drops us at the museum entrance, and I navigate my way up the path on my crutches while Leo carries both our costume bags and my prop case.
I’m gradually getting the hang of my crutches.
Luckily, the NHS gave me the British variety, with cuffs just below the elbows.
It’s a design choice I approve of, having grown up with the American version that treats armpits as an acceptable casualty.
The party pavilion has a tiny changing room that was clearly designed for one person, or possibly one very antisocial broom. Leo and I stand in the doorway, assessing the situation.
“I’ll change in here first,” I say. “Then you can get changed after me.”
“You’ll need help with that coat.” Leo nods at my Captain Giggles tailcoat that I’m pulling out of my costume bag. And to be fair, it’s a tight fit normally, let alone when I’m balancing on one leg.
It’s practical that he helps me. But it’s also going to require him to be very close to me while I’m half-dressed.
I lower myself onto the single folding chair and start unbuttoning my shirt, trying to project an air of casual indifference, like I regularly undress in front of ridiculously attractive men who I’m about to torment with unicorn costumes.
Leo politely turns his back, which is somehow worse, because now I’m staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders as he rummages through the prop bag.
“Bow tie?” he asks, holding it up without turning around.
“Uh…yeah.”
I manage the shirt, pants, and purple wig on my own, but as predicted, the tailcoat defeats me. I clear my throat. “Okay. Coat time.”
Leo turns. His gaze flickers over me once, fast enough that I almost miss it, before his expression settles into careful neutrality.
Okay, that’s a good data point in support of him batting for my team.
Which has the effect of making my mouth go dry.
He holds the coat open. I push myself up on one foot, wobbling slightly, and he steps closer to steady me. His hand lands on my hip, firm and warm, and for a second, neither of us moves.
“Got it?” His voice comes out slightly deeper than normal.
“Got it,” I echo.
He helps guide my arms into the sleeves, his chest brushing my back as he settles the coat on my shoulders. I turn around to find his dark eyes watching me before they dip to my throat.
“Your bow tie’s crooked,” he says.
“It’s meant to be crooked. Adds to the whimsy.”
“Ah.” He reaches out anyway, adjusting it slightly. His knuckles brush my collarbone. “Just making it even more whimsical.”
Then he steps away.
“I’ll wait outside while you get changed,” I say, reaching for my crutches.
I attempt a casual exit, which is undermined somewhat by my crutch catching on the doorframe and sending me stumbling into the hallway like a baby giraffe in formal wear.
My ankle gives a few pulses of pain to remind me that it’s still broken. I fish some painkillers out of my bag and dry swallow them like a professional.
But my pain is forgotten when Leo emerges a minute or so later in his unicorn onesie, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The unicorn onesie fits him like it was designed for someone three inches shorter and significantly less muscular. The seams strain across his chest, the legs hit awkwardly above his ankles, and the separate hoof slippers look comically small on his feet.
Unfortunately, he still looks good. The absurdity of the costume only highlights everything it can’t hide, like the way his strong shoulders taper to a torso that the onesie clings to like it’s grateful for the opportunity.
He looks like a Greek god who lost a bet.
“Stop smiling,” he says.
“I’m not smiling. This is my professional happy face.”
“Your professional happy face looks like it’s about to pull a muscle.”
Right.
I give myself a mental shake. I can’t focus on how unfairly attractive he looks in synthetic fleece. This is not the time to develop a thing for men in ridiculous costumes. That way lies madness and very questionable internet search histories.
Besides, it’s payback time. This is about making the man who broke my ankle suffer through two hours of children’s party chaos dressed as a mythical horse.
He went after Vaughn. I’m returning the favor. That’s all this is.
“Now that you’re in the costume, you have to stay in character,” I tell him earnestly. “You can’t break the magic for the kids.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘stay in character?’”
“Well, first you need to trot everywhere.”
“I’m not trotting.”
“Unicorns don’t walk, Leo. It’s not majestic enough.” I gesture at his hooves. “Little bouncy steps. Occasional head tosses to make your mane flow. Maybe a canter if you’re feeling ambitious.”
“I’m definitely not feeling ambitious.”
“Well, we’ll work up to that. Second, when I introduce you, you need to whinny.”
The silence that follows is profound.
“Whinny,” he repeats finally.
“It’s an authentic unicorn greeting. Like this.” I demonstrate, and it comes out somewhere between a horse and a dying kazoo. “But, you know, better.”
“I’m not making that sound.”
“The children will expect it. You can’t disappoint the children, Leo. If you don’t want to whinny, you could maybe attempt a neigh? Whatever feels authentic to your unicorn journey.”
His jaw tightens. I can actually see him weighing his guilt against his dignity in real time.
For a second, I almost feel bad about it.
But then my ankle throbs, right on cue, and I remember I didn’t break my own leg. Leo Brennan chose to pour syrup on my head. He just picked the wrong head.
“Fine,” Leo grits out. “What else?”
“When I do a call and response with the kids, you have to participate. With enthusiasm.”
“What call and response?”
“I’ll shout ‘Who believes in magic?’ and they shout ‘We do!’ and then I point at you and you say…” I pause for effect. “‘I’m the proof!’”
Leo pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s warding off a headache. It’s a gesture I suspect he’ll be making a lot over the coming weeks.
“That’s nonnegotiable,” I add. “It’s in my standard routine.”
“Your standard routine involves someone saying ‘I’m the proof’ while dressed as a unicorn?”
“Usually, it’s a child volunteer. But you’ll bring a certain gravitas to the role.”
He blows out a breath. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“One more thing. After the call and response, I need you to do a little hop and blow a kiss to the audience.”
“No.”
“It’s a signature Sparkle move—”
“No.”
There’s something different about this refusal. His other objections had negotiation potential. This one has the energy of a door being bolted, chained, and bricked over.
Blowing kisses at the audience is apparently Leo’s hard line.
I know when to fold. Occasionally.
“Fine. No hop and blow. But you’re still doing everything else.”
“Noted,” he says dryly.
“You’re my legs today, Leo. My sparkly, prancing, unicorn legs.” I smile beatifically at him. “But the whole underlying philosophy is just to play along and roll with anything, okay?”
“Roll with it. Sure.”