Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Archie
There’s glitter on Leo’s jaw.
He doesn’t know it’s there. It’s a fleck of silver catching the light every time he turns his head.
I should tell him.
Instead, I watch him move around the kitchen, opening the wrong cupboard for glasses, correcting himself, filling one with water, and bringing it to me without being asked.
Dammit.
“Thought you might want this,” he says, setting the glass on the coffee table within easy reach of where I’m sprawled on the sofa, leg elevated on the cushion he arranged earlier.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“You’re welcome.”
It’s such a small thing. A glass of water. But my brain can’t actually remember the last time someone noticed I was thirsty before I did.
I sip the water and try to summon the righteous indignation I’ve been nursing since I worked out that this whole mess began because he was trying to get revenge on my brother.
It’s getting harder.
I mean, I’m still angry. Obviously. The man broke my ankle. He ruined my birthday. He upended my entire life for the foreseeable future.
And he doesn’t even know that I know he did it deliberately. He thinks I believe the syrup was an accident, which means every time he helps me, every costume he puts on, he’s doing it because his conscience is eating him alive.
I guess I could at least tell him that I know it wasn’t an accident.
But why should I? My ankle is still broken. My ability to take on new customers and grow my business is hindered. And whatever Vaughn did to provoke a man like Leo into a restaurant-based condiment assault, Leo still chose to do it.
Although it’s difficult to maintain fury toward someone who spent two hours dressed as a sparkly unicorn named Sparkle McHornface and didn’t once threaten to murder me for it.
And believe me, I gave him plenty of reasons to.
I’d made him prance. Actually prance, hooves and all, in a circle around the birthday girl while the children sang a made-up song about rainbow friendship. He’d done it with the grim determination of a man marching to his own execution, but he’d done it.
When I’d announced that Sparkle needed to demonstrate his “magical unicorn sneeze” and promptly thrown a handful of glitter directly into his face, he’d just stood there, blinking through the sparkles, and said, “Gesundheit to me, I guess.”
The children had howled with laughter. Leo had looked at me like he was contemplating the various ways glitter could be weaponized. But he hadn’t actually acted on any of them.
And then there was the moment near the end when one of the kids—a tiny girl named Addie with pigtails and a sticky lollipop—had tugged on his tail and asked if he could take her flying.
He’d crouched to her level, wobbling slightly on those ridiculous hooves, and explained very seriously that his wings were “in the shop for repairs” but that if she believed hard enough, she could fly in her dreams tonight.
Addie had considered this, nodded, and then wiped her lollipop on his sleeve.
He hadn’t even flinched.
Afterward, while the kids were lining up to head to the aquarium, he caught my eye from across the room. I’d been bracing myself for the inevitable cutting remark, but he’d just shaken his head and said, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Immensely,” I’d confirmed.
And he’d almost smiled. Almost.
That’s the thing that’s making it so hard to stay angry. I pushed and pushed, waiting for his patience to run out and the real Leo to emerge—an impatient man, dismissive, above it all.
But somewhere between the prancing, the glitter assault, and the farmyard impressions, I started to wonder if I’ve been reading him backward.
What if the three-piece suit and the boardroom posture are the performance, and the man who crouches to talk to a sticky-fingered five-year-old about dream-flying is what’s underneath?
This was all much easier when I thought he was just a suit with good bone structure and a god complex.
“I don’t think I’ve got the energy to rummage up anything edible from the kitchen, so how about some takeout?” Leo asks as he settles into the armchair.
“Takeout sounds good.”
He pulls out his phone. “What’s good around here?”
“There’s a Thai place two streets over. Surin’s. They’re excellent.”
“What do you want?”
“Pad thai, extra peanuts, obviously.”
“Obviously.” He taps at his phone. “Anything else?”
“Get yourself whatever you want,” I say generously. “After all, you’re paying.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’m just saying. Get the fancy curry. Live a little.”
He gives me a look that suggests living a little is not high on his priority list, then returns to the phone. “Spring rolls for you as well, or just for me?”
“Who orders Thai without spring rolls?”
“Just checking. Some people are ambivalent about spring rolls.”
“Those people are wrong, Leo. Fundamentally wrong.”
His mouth does something complicated. Like it wants to smile but hasn’t filed the proper paperwork.
I feel a small, traitorous flicker of satisfaction at that. Making Leo almost smile is starting to feel like an achievement worth documenting.
Leo places the order, and as he puts his phone on the table, the glitter on his face glints.
“You have a piece of glitter on your jaw,” I say.
Leo wipes a hand across his jawline. “Did I get it?”
“Now you’ve just relocated it to your chin. Here.” I reach forward to brush it away, and my fingertips graze the edge of his jaw.
His skin is warm. Slightly rough with stubble. I don’t know why I didn’t expect that, or why it causes my breath to hitch.
It turns out wiping glitter off someone’s face is a surprisingly intimate thing to do. Leo’s pupils dilate, and for a second, neither of us moves as we stare at each other.
The moment stretches. My hand is still on his face. His eyes are very dark this close.
I pull back like I’ve touched something hot.
“Glitter is an occupational hazard of being a children’s party entertainer,” I say lightly.
Leo leans back against the cushions, not taking his eyes off me. “How did you end up a children’s entertainer?”
I freeze.
The question is simple enough. The answer isn’t.
“I wanted to do a job that could make people happy,” I say finally.
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.
I don’t like the way Leo’s looking at me, like he wants to scratch beneath the surface of my answer for what else might be lying below.
There’s an archaeological midden under there, a whole buried civilization, layers and layers of sediment that I’ve spent years carefully packing down.
Some sites shouldn’t be excavated. Some things are buried for a reason.
But under the scrutiny of Leo’s dark gaze, I find myself offering more.
“It’s like…fun should be effortless for kids.
They shouldn’t have to earn it or deserve it or perform for it.
It should just be there, like oxygen. And I want to give the kids childhood memories of just simple, pure fun.
Because those memories can hopefully help them in the future, when things get hard. ”
I don’t add that there is a growing body of research that demonstrates how children who have more positive experiences in childhood appear to have more emotional resilience during adversity as adults.
That the good times provide a buffer against the bad times, so storing good memories is like casting a protective spell over your future, so you can handle any adversity ahead.
“I get it,” Leo says.
I blink at him. “You do?”
“Yes. Fun was a luxury in my childhood, but it shouldn’t be.”
Leo’s words land deeper than I expected.
Because I know exactly what it’s like when fun becomes a luxury, when it disappears from your life.
But I’m not opening that door. Not tonight.
So it’s time to turn the question around. And quickly.
“Why did you become a tech consultant?” I ask.
“I wanted something where I could make a lot of money,” he says.
I do an internal eye roll at that. Just when I was starting to like the guy.
“My family, we didn’t have much growing up,” he continues.
And that stops my judgment in its tracks, like a dog hitting the end of its leash.
“What did your parents do?” I ask.
“My mother was in the industry of keeping us alive.” There’s no bitterness in his voice, just fact.
“So she did any job that would hire her that week. Unfortunately, she wasn’t particularly good at keeping those jobs.
She had a habit of not showing up when she was supposed to.
Or showing up in a state employers tend to frown upon. ”
“And your father?”
“Ah.” Leo’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “He had a much simpler career path. He specialized in finding the bottom of bottles and occasionally remembering he had a family. He wasn’t very good at the second part, but he really excelled at the first.”
The words are light, like he’s trying to pretend this is just a wry anecdote instead of a wound.
I know that trick. I use it myself.
“Are your parents still together?” I ask.
“Yes, they’re still together. I’m not the child of a broken home.” He pauses and considers for a moment. “More like the child of a home that never worked properly in the first place, but was never condemned. Which is probably a shame in hindsight.”
The intercom buzzes, slicing through the moment.
“That’ll be the food.” Leo’s already on his feet, moving toward the door.
Shit.
I run a hand through my hair.
That was more than I expected. Probably more than he meant to share, given how fast he moved when the intercom gave him an exit.
So Leo Brennan, with his three-piece suits and his air of having everything meticulously under control, grew up in chaos.
Interesting. And slightly heartbreaking to contemplate.
He comes back from the kitchen with a plateful of Thai for each of us and a determined set to his jaw.
“You want to watch some TV?”
He obviously doesn’t want to continue the deep-and-meaningful. Which is fine by me.
“Sure,” I say. “I don’t watch much TV, but I’m happy to watch whatever.”