Chapter 17 #3
He’s in a pair of faded navy sweatpants that hang low on his hips and an old, thin grey T-shirt.
The fabric is worn thin enough to trace the hard, athletic lines of his shoulders and the way his chest tapers down into a stomach that I know—from very recent, very vivid memory—is a map of lean muscle.
My throat goes dry as I remember my fingertips tracing the dip of his hip bone just a few hours ago.
Focus, Annie. Fold the laundry. Do not think about the hip bones.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks.
He keeps his voice casual, but there’s a tiny, wicked smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing to my nervous system. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, trying to channel a cool nonchalance.
“As a matter of fact,” I say, smoothing out the sleeve of his shirt with intense focus, “I think I might’ve been over-served on the hospitality. Five stars. Very…rigorous service.”
Leo huffs a laugh into the rim of his mug, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes me want to abandon the laundry and my dignity entirely.
“Only five stars? I was aiming for a life-changing experience. If you aren’t currently feeling the need to write a glowing review about the—shall we say—personal attention to detail, I’ve clearly failed as a host.”
“Oh, the attention to detail was definitely noted,” I shoot back, snapping a dish towel. “I’d say the performance exceeded all my expectations. It was a very…hands-on experience.”
Emma looks up from her dish towel, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. She looks between us, sensing the shift in the air like a tiny, blonde detective.
“What performance?” she asks. “Did you do a play? Like The Lion King?”
Leo walks over, still sipping his coffee, and nudges her shoulder with his knee. His eyes never leave mine. “Something like that, kiddo. It was very energetic. We just had to make sure the choreography was perfect.”
Emma’s eyes go wide. “Did Annie wear a costume?”
I feel the heat climb up my neck, a vivid pink blush that I try to hide by ducking my head. Leo, the absolute traitor, just widens his smirk.
“Briefly,” he says, his voice dropping into that low register that feels like a physical touch. “But I think the show was much better once the costumes were out of the way.”
“We’re just kidding. It’s a grown-up joke, Em,” I say, flicking her nose gently, widening my eyes at Leo, begging him silently to shut the hell up. He grins even wider.
“Grown-up jokes don’t make any sense.” She giggles and returns to her towel-folding masterpiece.
Leo’s still watching me and I have to remind myself that we are in a living room, in the middle of the day, with a child as a chaperone.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says. “The kitchen. The laundry.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t have to stay. I mean, I wanted you to, but I would’ve understood if you didn’t.”
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the laundry. “I was bored.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Annie.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
He pushes off the door frame and comes over, setting his mug down and sinking into the other end of the couch. The cushion dips under his weight, pulling me slightly toward him.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For letting me sleep. For…everything.”
I look at him then, and the air in the room feels thick and charged, like the moments right before a summer thunderstorm. It feels like a Sunday morning in a movie. It feels like a life.
And because I’m me, and because this is terrifying, I just reach for another sock.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say. “I still haven’t found the mate to this dinosaur sock, and I’m pretty sure the dryer ate it as a sacrifice.”
Leo laughs and for a second, the city outside that window feels a million miles away.
Emma crosses her arms, her lower lip venturing into a pout. “I’m bored. Can we go to the zoo? I need to see the red pandas.”
I glance out the window, where the November sun is pulling off a minor miracle—bathing the city in a golden glow and a fleeting warmth that whispers “seize the day” before winter slams the door shut.
It’s an afternoon that’s begging for an outing, the one you regret skipping when the clouds roll in tomorrow.
“You know, that doesn’t sound half bad,” I say, already picturing the chaos of strollers and snack stands, the earthy scent of animal enclosures mingled with popcorn.
Leo shifts his gaze from his coffee to me. “You game? Or have you reached your limit of Roussos company for the day?”
“I’m game,” I say, leaning back against the sofa, “as long as the child actually wants me there. I don’t want to be the third wheel to a red panda reunion.”
“Yes!” Emma practically shouts, abandoning her laundry-folding project with a suddenness that sends a pair of socks flying. “You have to come, Annie! You’re the only one who does the voices for the penguins!”
Leo presses a hand to his chest, looking wounded. “What am I, chopped liver? I have range. I can do a very sophisticated penguin.”
“You’re Daddy liver,” Emma says with a deadpan seriousness that only children and seasoned stand-up comedians can pull off.
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing, a real, undignified snort that has me covering my mouth. Leo shoots me a glare that’s all feigned sternness, his lips twitching. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters, but his eyes are dancing, the warm brown lit up with humor.
“I’m gonna get my rain boots!” Emma announces, already scrambling off the couch.
“Rain boots?” Leo calls out, his brow furrowing. “Sun’s out, kiddo. There’s no clouds today.”
“But what if it rains later? Or what if there are secret puddles? Or what if the animals splashes me?”
Leo sighs, the sound of a man who has learned which hills are worth dying on and which ones are just for wearing yellow rubber boots. “Go get your rain boots.”
But of course, Emma’s voice bounces back immediately: “Can we bring bread for the ducks? Pleeease?”
Leo pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long-suffering breath. “Emma, you know the signs say we’re not supposed to—bread’s bad for them, remember? It makes their tummies hurt.”
“Yeah, but you always bring the bread anyway!”
He sags, defeated by the impeccable memory of a preschooler. I nudge his elbow with mine teasingly. “Wow. Leo Roussos. Professor. Intellectual. Secret anarchist and menace to municipal waterfowl policy.”
“It’s for the kid,” he defends, but his tone is lofty, playful, like he’s trying to salvage some dignity. “What can I say? I’m a martyr for her happiness.”
“Right. A total saint.”
I stand up, moving to set the basket of folded laundry on the coffee table.
The hallway is echoing with the sound of boots being wrestled onto small feet.
But before I can take a step toward the kitchen, Leo is there.
He closes the distance between us in one fluid step, his hand sliding behind my neck, and then he’s kissing me.
It’s not a “good morning” kiss. It’s an “I’ve been thinking about you since 3:00 a.m. and I’m losing my mind” kiss.
I gasp, my hands flying up to bunch the fabric of his shirt. He tastes like dark coffee and minty toothpaste. He kisses me again, deeper this time, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“What was that for?” I whisper against his lips, my head spinning.
“For breakfast,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. “For the laundry. For taking care of Emma. For the way you look in my shirt.”
He kisses me again, and this time his hand slides under the hem of my T-shirt—his shirt—his palm splaying across the bare skin of my lower back.
The contact is electric. He pulls me flush against him, and I can feel the hard, steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palms, how his breath hitches when I press closer.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, a sharp tug of wanting that makes me let out a low, shaky sound.
We have about twelve seconds of privacy left, and we’re using every millisecond. My fingers tangle in the messy silk of his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to crawl inside the feeling of him.
Then, the unmistakable clomp-clomp of rubber boots hits the hardwood.
We spring apart, both of us breathing raggedly, my lips tingling, his hair even more disheveled now—courtesy of my fingers. His eyes are dark and his mouth is kiss-swollen, redder than before.
“You look like you’ve been thoroughly kissed,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath, smoothing my hair with shaky hands.
“Good,” he replies, his grin wicked and unrepentant.
“Emma’s going to notice. She has the senses of a bloodhound, I swear.”
“She’s five, Annie. As long as I don’t try to make her eat broccoli, her world view remains unchallenged.”
I tug at the hem of his shirt on me, willing my flush to fade. “Just so you know, if we end up scandalizing the zookeepers, it’s on you.”
“Worth every second,” he says, and the promise in his tone makes my knees wobble.
Emma rounds the corner, looking like a tiny, yellow-booted explorer, her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm like a seasoned traveler and her disposable camera at the ready in her jacket pocket. “I’m ready! Let’s go see the red pandas!”
Leo catches my eye—one last promising look that says this isn’t over—and then turns to his daughter, scooping her up into his arms. “Alright, koukla mou. Zoo time. Let’s go see those animals.”