Chapter 9 – Maddie
Only One Bed… Shoot
Maddie
I’VE SPENT A surprising amount of time imagining what Leo’s home looks like. I thought he might live in a condo since he’s single and travels so much during the season. If not a condo, I assumed he maybe had some contemporary, modern-looking bachelor pad with sleek lines and sharp edges.
And while Leo’s place is beautiful and big—saw both those coming—there’s a lot about it that surprises me.
The gigantic two-story staring back at me through the windshield of my car has a tiled roof and a fancy bricked driveway.
The house is surrounded by lush landscaping, including a group of healthy palm trees accenting the front elevation.
It’s got a two-car garage, an alcove-style front porch, and is located in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in Sweet Side.
It’s also most definitely a family home. The sort of house a person who plans on settling down purchases.
Leo and I have talked about a lot of things, but not once have we discussed how he feels about having children. Heck, I don’t even know if he wants to get married. I definitely wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t. My experience with it was zero out of ten stars. Would not recommend.
But, based on his house, it doesn’t seem like Leo isn’t planning to get married. It also doesn’t look like he isn’t planning on having kids.
Who knows though? Maybe I’m reading into things. Maybe he just got a great deal on the place.
After parking in the driveway next to his Charger, I climb out of my little sedan, wiping both hands down the front of the pleated skirt I wore to the office today, hoping to clear a little of the clamminess from my skin.
Then I press them to my belly, hoping to ease the weirdness happening there.
My insides are so messed up, I can’t make sense of the conflicting storm of emotions swirling around my gut. There’s fear. Relief. Anxiety.
There’s also a shocking amount of excitement. Of hope.
I knew when I took the job at Sweet Side apartments that if Drake found out where I worked, he’d also figure out where I lived.
It’s not difficult to deduce that a property manager would likely live on site.
But the pay and benefits package that came with their offer was too good to turn down.
Especially when my other opportunities were limited.
So when I saw Drake at the door to my office, I knew there was nowhere for me to hide anymore.
I was wrong. Thanks to Leo. Except...
I meet Leo’s gaze as soon as he gets out of his car.
His brows pinch together as he takes in the expression on my face. “What’s wrong?”
My palms are sweating even more now because fear is creeping all over my other feelings, trying to smother them out. “The police report will have your name on it. Drake is going to guess I’m at your house, and once he finds your address—”
Leo is shaking his head, the motion cutting me off.
“Drake isn’t going to find my address.” He gives me a lopsided smile that eases a little of my fear.
“I bought my house using an LLC, so no one can tie it to me. Otherwise there would be people showing up on my doorstep all the time asking for my autograph.”
I exhale, relieved. “That’s a brilliant idea.”
Leo lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “My accountant suggested it.”
Again, I’m reminded of the dramatic difference in Leo’s life and mine. He’s got a house I could never hope to afford. An expensive car with a custom paint job. A freaking accountant.
Oh, and he’s a famous rugby player.
It’s so similar to the sort of power imbalance that made my marriage what it was. But Leo has never made me feel like he’s the one calling the shots because he’s the one with the money.
If anything, he’s done the opposite. A point he proves as he leads me inside, giving me a tour of his home.
I pass through a kitchen sporting high-end appliances and stone counters. A dining room that can easily seat twelve people. A family room with a gigantic sectional and an entertainment center featuring the biggest television I think I’ve ever seen.
Beyond that, the furnishings are a little sparse, which makes me feel somewhat better about my own lack of furniture.
The large bedroom on the main floor is occupied by a king-size bed on a basic frame, a couple of nightstands, and a dresser. They all look high quality—way better than anything I have—but they are the extent of his bedroom furnishings.
He has five bedrooms and only owns one bed.
I stare at it, swallowing hard at how little I hate the idea of sharing that big bed with Leo. What would it be like to snuggle close to someone I trust? Someone who makes me feel safe and beautiful and appreciated.
I’m not going to find out, because Leo immediately says, “You can sleep here. I’ll take the couch.”
Well… That’s disappointing.
“You don’t have to give me your bed.” I turn to face him, still working my hands against my skirt because the damn things won’t get their shit together and stop freaking sweating.
“I can sleep on the couch. It’s fine.” I realize ‘it’s fine’ sounds like I don’t genuinely appreciate everything he’s done for me, so I amend to, “Better than fine.”
Leo angles a brow. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, Maddie.”
I angle a brow back at him, lifting my chin just a little before arguing back, “You shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch either, Leo.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before I’m startled by them. I don’t argue with people. Not my parents. Not strangers. Even the residents at the apartment complex. I calmly negotiate. Attempt to get my point across in a way that won’t upset anyone.
It doesn’t usually work, but it’s the way I’ve always been. Even before my marriage to Drake.
I was raised by parents who believed their word was law. That children should be seen and not heard. That they were in charge.
And if I ever tried to go against them, there was hell to pay.
As a result, I learned to be passive. To back down. To let everyone else win so I could avoid conflict. Avoid an argument.
So my immediate clapback is evidence of how safe I feel with Leo. Not just physically, but also emotionally.
That’s probably why I find myself offering up a suggestion I can’t imagine I’d be brave enough to voice with anyone else. “We can share the bed.”
My parents would die if they heard what just came out of my mouth, but I’m finding I care less and less about what my parents think.
Trying to do what they wanted is a big part of what landed me with Drake.
They’re the ones who built me to be passive.
To be meek. To let other people make decisions for me.
To let other people run my life.
I can’t live like that anymore. I don’t want to be around people who try to tell me what to do. What to think. How to act. I want to be around people who let me be me. People who care what I think. What I want. How I feel.
People like Leo.
Leo studies me for a few silent seconds. “We should decide what we want for dinner.”
The abrupt change in the direction of the conversation makes me blink in confusion. I know Leo likes me. That was very obvious last night right before our evening was derailed by a car fire and a dead guy.
So why the heck wouldn’t he want to share a bed with me?
Leo holds a hand out. “Stop thinking so hard, Miss Miller.” He gives me the lopsided smile that always makes my heart skip a beat. “It’s not that serious.”
I’m afraid it is though. After being with Drake, I thought it would take me forever to be ready to move on. To be able to believe anything that came out of a man’s mouth again.
Maybe Drake didn’t really ruin me for relationships. He simply helped me see the difference between genuine earnestness and fabricated behavior. Helped me know a good thing when I see it. Gave me the ability to recognize the things that don’t serve me.
Right now, my parents aren’t serving me. I’m not sure what I’m going to do about that—if anything—but I do know how I’m going to handle the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I’m going to grab it with both hands and hold tight. Literally, and figuratively.
Taking a deep breath, I step forward and link my fingers between Leo’s.
The warmth of his wide, callused palm is a tether to the sort of stability and acceptance I’ve never had.
Not when I was a kid spending the majority of my time hiding in my bedroom from parents who could be fine one minute and yelling the next.
And not during my marriage to a man whose every word was a carefully crafted manipulation designed to control me.
Leading me to the kitchen, Leo drops my hand, but only so he can grip my waist and lift me up onto the counter.
My heart immediately starts to race and arousal flares to life, centering to a pulsing thrum between my thighs.
The last time I was on a counter in front of Leo was one of the most intense and sexiest experiences of my life.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like Leo’s about to give me a repeat performance. After giving me a featherlight, chaste kiss, he turns away to dig through his gigantic refrigerator.
After perusing the contents for a few seconds, he turns to peek at me over one broad shoulder. “How do you feel about chicken and vegetables?”
I grin, because that sounds like exactly the kind of food I would expect a professional athlete to eat. Way more than what he’s been feeding me the past few days.
Not that I mind. I love splurging as much as anyone. But I love simple, nourishing meals just as much. They remind me of being a kid, helping my abuela cook in the kitchen. She could make the simplest foods taste freaking amazing.
“I love chicken and vegetables.” I brace my hands on the edge of the counter, crossing my ankles as I watch Leo line his ingredients down the counter.
He pulls out a giant pan, setting it on the largest burner of his stove to heat, then begins chopping through broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, and peppers.
When his vegetables are prepped, he moves on to the chicken, cubing it into bite-size squares.
Then he opens a cabinet, I’m assuming to pull out all the seasonings he’s going to use. Salt and pepper hit the counter.
And that’s it.
Surely he’s going to use more than just salt and pepper, right? No one eats chicken and vegetables with nothing but salt and pepper on them, right?
Apparently, Leo does.
I watch in horror as he tosses the chicken into the bit of olive oil he swirled over the hot pan, and sprinkles on a shower of salt, followed by a hint of pepper.
Like before, I don’t think before my mouth opens. “Do you hate yourself?”
Leo turns my way, brows lifting. “In what context?”
I press my lips together, thinking I should maybe try to backpedal. But if I’m going to be staying with Leo, we’re either going to have to cook separately, or he’s going to have to take me back to my apartment so I can pack up my spice cabinet.
“I’m just surprised you’re only using salt and pepper.”
Leo angles a brow. “Are you really?”
I look him over. He’s six and a half feet of solid muscle. A wall of masculinity. Probably the kind of person who considers food nothing more than fuel. And that makes me sad.
Because my abuela showed me food is love.
As a child, she was the only person who made me feel safe and accepted. The only one I could confide in. The only one I could trust. Most of the time I spent with her growing up was in the kitchen, so all my good memories of growing up, center around food.
Food with seasoning.
And that has me wondering. “Didn’t you help Babs cook?”
I’ve eaten at his parents’ house. I know his mom’s a good cook. I even think I remember his grandmother being a good cook. She made amazing meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Definitely head and shoulders above salt-and-peppered chicken.
Leo snorts. “No. Babs and Dan would never think a boy needed to learn to cook.” He flashes me a mirthless smile. “That’s woman’s work.”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes because my parents are the same way. Thankfully, they didn’t have any sons, so they weren’t churning brand-new chauvinists into the world. They did manage to screw me up though, so I guess damage was still done.
Damage I will never do.
“If I ever have a son, you can bet your ass he’s going to know how to cook.” I say it offhandedly. Just as a general statement.
When Leo’s eyes come to me, carrying an amount of focus I don’t expect, I realize maybe it wasn’t as offhanded as I thought.
“Do you want kids, Miss Miller?”
I rub my lips together, an odd feeling fluttering in my belly. Once upon a time, I did want kids. But that was before. Now?
Now I still want kids, but I’m much better equipped to find them the kind of father they deserve.
I give him a little nod. “Someday.”
At one point in my life, I was in a rush. I wanted everything and I wanted it right then. My parents always made it seem like getting married and having children and taking care of a husband should have been my ultimate goal.
Now I know that’s not true. Now my ultimate goal is finding out what makes me happy. Deciding who I am and who I want to be.
Then I can consider becoming a wife and mother.
But even though I’m not in a hurry for any of those things, I still find myself asking Leo, “What about you? Do you want kids?”
Leo’s answer is quick. “I do.” He gives me an easy smile. “Someday.”
It’s easy to imagine Leo as a dad. Running around with his kids in the yard. Throwing them over one broad shoulder while they squeal and belly laugh.
The vision has a smile curving my lips as Leo plates up our simple meal. He sets a fork on each serving, then helps me down off the counter.
“Now,” he says, aiming us for the dining room, “let’s go eat our under-seasoned dinner so you can tell me what spices you want me to get and pick out your side of the bed.”