Chapter 17 #2
He lets out a long, slow sigh, his breath warm against my skin. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? The man with the PhD in Brain Stuff doesn’t have any idea of what to say to a five year old?”
“I don’t know that there’s one right way to do this. Or one right thing to say.” He looks up at me, his eyes serious now. “I just know I want you here. With me.”
“Here for…for what exactly?” I ask, my breath catching as I try not to get my hopes up. “A rainy Tuesday? A few hours of wine-induced bravery? A few days? Or—”
“For as many days as you’ll give me, Annie. For all the days.”
My chest does something complicated—a strange, tight ache that feels like hope and terror had a head-on collision.
“What if we’re not thinking, Leo?” I whisper. “What if we’re just being a little too…”
“Ridiculous?” He smirks, that lopsided, brilliant grin that usually makes me want to argue with him just for the sake of it.
I swat his arm, trying to keep a straight face. “I was going to say hasty.”
“Weren’t you the one giving me the ‘Fortune Favors the Bold’ speech at four in the morning? The one telling me to take risks? To be—”
“I know, I know what I said,” I cut him off, my voice softening as I look toward the hallway, toward Emma’s room. “But there’s a small human involved here. It’s not just about us. It’s…it’s high stakes. If all of this—”
I stop. I can’t say it. If this fails. If we break. If all of this doesn’t work out.
He reaches up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch so gentle it hurts.
“I want to go slow. I want to spend time with you that doesn’t require a wine bottle or a crisis.
I want to just be. With you.” He pauses, searching my face.
“That’s enough for me right now. Can it be enough for you? ”
I nod.
“Good,” he grins, the mischief slipping its way back in. “Can I go back to the part where I was incredibly busy kissing you?”
I laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
And then his mouth is on me again and we spend the morning learning exactly how many ways two people can say I want you without using words at all.
* * *
“Annie?”
I crack one eyelid open just a fraction, and there she is. Emma is currently the world’s cutest morning jumpscare, standing by the bed in an oversized 101 Dalmatians t-shirt that reaches her knobby knees, her blonde curls a riot around her head. Her eyes are wide, blue, and dangerously curious.
Shit.
Actually, let’s go with a triple-decker shit-shit-shit and a side of panic.
Leo and I must’ve dozed off again after…well, after. I swore I’d slip out before she woke up and get my act together so I wouldn’t be caught red-handed in her dad’s bed, looking exactly like the woman who just spent the night doing things that would make my high-school self blush.
Thank the modesty gods I had the foresight to throw on his Columbia crewneck before we crashed. It’s gray, worn thin at the collar, and hangs on me like a tent, but it’s a hell of a lot better than Emma walking in on me wearing…well, absolutely nothing.
“Did you and Daddy have a sleepover?” Emma asks, her head tilting with the precision of a confused puppy.
I blink at her, my brain still foggy from too little sleep and too much…everything. “Um, yeah. Yeah, we did. A very sleepy…sleepover.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied by this logic. Kids are terrifyingly easy to fool until they’re suddenly not.
I sneak a glance at Leo. He is blissfully dead to the world.
One arm is flung over his head, his jaw is relaxed, and he’s letting out a soft, rhythmic snore that should be annoying but is somehow…
devastatingly endearing. The poor guy’s probably running on fumes.
He never gets to sleep in, never gets a real break.
Looking at him like this, all relaxed and unguarded in the morning light filtering through the blinds, something tugs in my chest. Affection?
Protectiveness? Whatever it is, it’s warm and a little scary.
I slide out of bed carefully and steer Emma toward the door with a light hand on her shoulder. “How about some pancakes to kick off the day, kid?”
Her face lights up like I just promised Disney World. “Chocolate chip ones?”
“Is there any other kind?”
Emma climbs onto a barstool at the kitchen counter, her legs swinging like pendulums as I start pulling out the staples—flour, eggs, the oversized yellow tin of baking powder.
I’ve become an accidental pancake pro over the last few weeks.
Leo still brings up “The Great Smoke Alarm Incident of ’94” at least once a day.
I’d burned the first batch I’d ever made so badly we had to prop the front door open with a dictionary and pray the neighbors didn’t call the FDNY.
“Can we put extra chocolate chips in?” Emma asks, her eyes fixed on the bag of Nestlé Toll House morsels.
“We can put in a reasonable amount,” I say, trying to sound like the responsible adult I am definitely pretending to be.
“What’s reasonable?”
“It’s a very precise scientific measurement, young lady,” I say, pointing a wooden spoon at her. “It’s three more than your dad would allow, and five less than what you’d probably ask for.”
She giggles, a high, bubbly sound that’s sunshine personified. It’s the kind of laugh that reminds me why I keep showing up, even when this whole situation feels like walking a tightrope without a net.
After we finish eating, the kitchen looks like a chocolate-chip-infused battlefield. I transition into a state of manic domesticity, mostly to avoid the crushing weight of the fact that I am currently a “Woman Who Stayed Over.”
“Okay, Em, listen up. We’ve reached the final stage of the mission: Syrup Patrol.”
She perks up immediately, her legs pausing their rhythmic swing. “What’s the mission?”
“I need you to investigate every square inch of these counters. If you see a sticky spot, you neutralize it and wipe it down. If there’s any spots sticky enough to catch a fly by the end, we’ve lost the mission. Think you can handle the responsibility?”
She straightens up, puffing out her chest, and gives me a salute that’s equal parts adorable and hilariously off-kilter, her little fingers splayed against her forehead. “Aye aye, captain!”
I hand her a damp washcloth and watch her attack the laminate with a grim seriousness.
She’s narrating her progress in a hushed whisper—“Got one here—ooh, it’s sneaky, hiding under the plate.
And another! This one’s huge, like a monster blob!
”—and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from ruining her professional focus.
Once the kitchen is back to a reasonable state of order, I move to the living room where there’s a basket of laundry that’s been sitting there since yesterday.
Laundry accumulates fast around here—I’ve learned that quickly.
Between Emma’s constant spills and outfit changes, Leo’s work clothes and the general chaos of life with a five-year-old, the basket is never actually empty.
It’s basically a sentient being that grows overnight.
“Okay, Em,” I call out, snagging a rogue sock. “Time for the Matching Game. If you find two that are the same, you get to throw them into the basket like a basketball.”
“Deal!” she squeals, her eyes gleaming with competitive fire. We sit on the rug, and for twenty minutes, the only sounds are the soft thump of rolled-up cotton hitting the wicker basket and Emma’s running commentary on why her father only owns black socks.
I’m midway through folding a pair of his khakis—trying very hard not to think about how they look on him—when the bedroom door finally creaks open.
It’s Leo, stumbling out of his bedroom like he’s just been beamed down from another galaxy, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the blinds.
His dark hair is a glorious mess, sort of hot in a mad-scientist way, and there’s a crease from the pillow etched across his cheek.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of lingering grogginess.
“Well, well, well,” I say, smoothing out one of Emma’s tiny shirts. “Look who decided to join the land of the living.”
He blinks at me, then at Emma, then around the apartment like he’s trying to figure out where he is. “What time is it?”
His voice is gravelly, thick with sleep, and it sends a little shiver down my spine that I pointedly ignore. “Closing in on noon, sleeping beauty.”
“Noon?! I—” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “I can’t remember the last time I slept that long.”
He wanders into the kitchen, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. He takes in the dry dishes, the swept floor, and finally Emma, who is currently draped over the arm of the couch trying to fold a washcloth into something resembling an origami crane.
“Daddy, you slept forever,” Emma announces. “Annie said you were probably part bear.”
“Traitor! I said no such thing.”
“You said he was hibernating!”
“That’s slightly different.”
Leo laughs, a deep, raspy sound that starts in his throat and warms the whole room, and crouches down to kiss the top of her head, his hand lingering to ruffle her hair. “Sorry, koukla mou. Daddy needed the rest.”
“You’re always needing rest,” she replies with the blunt honesty only a child can muster, not a hint of judgment, just fact.
“Can’t argue with that, kiddo.” He straightens up, grabbing a mug from the overhead cabinet and pours himself a cup from the pot I brewed earlier, the coffee still steaming faintly.
When he returns, he leans against the doorframe, cradling the mug in both hands, steam curling up around his face.
His eyes find mine, and there’s that subtle curve to his lips, a smile that’s half amusement, half something softer, more intimate.
The man should not be allowed to look this good before noon.