It wasn’t like I’d seen him every night before Polly popped onto the scene. But more often than not, sometime around six I’d get a call asking if I’d eaten (code for “can I come over and will you feed me your delicious food”), or a text around ten asking what I was up to (code for “can I come over and will you feed me your delicious puss”—strike that, I’m keeping that code under wraps). And eventually, after the rocking and the rolling, he’d fall asleep and I’d fall asleep, tucked into his side or enveloped entirely, as he liked to do.
He didn’t spoon. He ladled.
And I liked it. No, what’s more than like? I adored it. And what’s more than adored? That four-letter word that I was loath to use, but it was the only way to truly capture the way I felt about Leo. About sleeping with Leo, I mean. After years and years of insomnia, I was finally sleeping through the night, wrapped up in a cocoon of Almanzonian Awesome.
But now adjustments had to be made.
Because now, the calls and texts were to check in and chat about the day, and always ended with, “As soon as her nanny is back in town, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be over to fuck you and tuck you in.”
But no actual fucking or tucking was happening. Consequently, no sleeping was happening—I was back to averaging three hours a night. Which I’d done for years and years, but I’d loved having more. And I was missing the ladle.
I saw Leo a few times that week, around town, for his regular delivery, and for what was becoming a daily lunch trip for grilled cheese. But alone time with him? Not so much.
I was adjusting to the idea that Leo had a kid. I mean, kids happen, right? What I was having more trouble with was adjusting to how I was adjusting to the idea. As the night of the Polly reveal . . . revealed, we had moved into some kind of in-between territory with no map.
I’d rallied when he’d brought Polly to the diner the next day, and rallied pretty well, based on her reaction to the sandwich, now proudly her favorite. But still, there was something about it that I couldn’t put my finger on. An uneasiness, almost like the feeling you get five seconds before a lump forms in your throat.
You’re pre-lump? Jesus Christ, is that the best you can do?
And speaking of the best I can do . . .
It was Saturday night, and I twirled in the mirror upstairs in my bedroom. I’d brought only one nice dress back with me this summer, and I finally had a chance to wear it. A deep bloodred linen shift, it was softened by a sprinkling of pale pink flowers here and there. V-neck and sleeveless, it was cool but quite elegant. Eschewing my usual twin braids or top bun, tonight I left my hair down and curly. I’d tamed it with a bit of coconut oil, and it shone a burnished copper. And though I’d applied sunscreen liberally every day, my skin was a rosy bronze, my nose and cheeks freckled.
But more than that? I looked relaxed and happy. The worry lines that had begun to appear between my eyes and across my forehead had smoothed out this summer, making me look young and fresh. Leo was like Botox.
I slipped into my lacy gold high-heeled sandals, then hurried downstairs to put the finishing touches on my housewarming gift. Tiny crème brûlée cupcakes, soaked in orange-scented brandy and covered with a crackly sugared crust, they were bites of heaven. I’d made some for the guests and a separate container for Chad and Logan to enjoy after everyone had departed. Cupcakes at midnight—not a bad way to ring in a new house.
I was just placing the last few in the container when I heard a car pull up outside. It didn’t sound like Leo’s Jeep, so I looked out the open door and saw a big black Mercedes in the dusty driveway.
It took me a moment to realize that it was Leo. With his vintage tees and his rusty Jeep, he flew under the radar so well that it was easy to forget that he was rich. And the guy, the man, getting out of the car was more than I was expecting too.
Clad in a white button-down, black blazer, runway worthy jeans, and some kind of adult shiny shoes, he was stunning. And . . . oh!
He’d shaved.
Hiding under that hipster beard? Cheekbones cut by Da Vinci. A jaw chiseled by Michelangelo. His green eyes were set in the most handsome face I’d ever seen. His sandy blond hair was swept back, tousled, but under new management. Pomade? Wax? It was perfection.
His gaze swept across me hungrily, taking in the dress, the heels, the legs. I knew how much he liked my legs. As he approached the porch, I could feel my skin pebble everywhere his gaze touched.
“You’re beautiful,” he said as he stopped below me, one foot resting on the bottom step.
“You’re . . . what’s better than beautiful?” I asked, going down one step, bringing me closer to him.
“Luminous? Radiant? Sexy beyond rational thought?” He stepped up once more, bringing me within pouncing distance.
I nodded. “You’re all those things.”
Before I could take that last step and pounce, he pulled me down to him, suspended in midair, crushing me into his chest and kissing me breathless. After five days of sexy texts and a lonely bed, this man had me in his arms, with one hand creeping up my thigh, and my heart nearly beat out of my chest.
When he finally let me catch my breath and I opened my dizzy, dreamy eyes, he nudged my nose with his. Dropping one more sweet kiss on my mouth, he set me back on my feet and winked.
“Let’s go warm that house.”
With his hand resting on my knee, his pinkie traced circles over my skin as we drove through town. Tiny, imperceptible circles that were firing me up so much that I nearly vaulted over the center console and sat on his. . . lap.