My mouth opens, but no sound escapes, and I look down at Leo, whose fists are clenched with excitement as he waits for my response. How am I supposed to shut down a kid when he’s looking at me with eyes that could melt my soul?
My stomach growls right on cue. I guess I could have one. Judging by my looming headache, my blood sugar is a little low.
Standing up, I clap my hands together. “Fuck it. I’m hungry. Let’s do it.”
“Yeah, fuck it!” Leo copies, leaping up and pumping his fist through the air.
My eyes pop, lip wobbling with a mixture of humour and disapproval. “Um, how about we just forget that word, okay?” A smile threatens to creep up onto my face. I’ve been with this kid for an hour, and I’ve got him cursing.
Shit.
We enter the kitchen, and finding myself curious, I observe the house. Evan West is a top player for the Missarali Storks and undoubtedly makes a ton of money, but this house doesn’t reflect that, in a good way.
I guess I had a particular image in mind when thinking of a famous football player’s home—the kind that oozes wealth. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors so they can stare at themselves from every angle, polished, heated flooring that’s so warm you’d never need to own a pair of slippers again,artwork hanging from the ceiling that costs more than my yearly salary, those kinds of things.
Instead, this house actually looks lived in. The floor is made of aged wood, with chips and imperfections. Family photos line the wall instead of million-dollar statement pieces, and I linger by them, studying the framed snapshots of Evan and Leo sitting on haybales, up trees and posing with a tall, dark-haired woman I don’t recognise. Her sunglasses make it difficult to make out her face.
I haven’t seen her in the tabloids before, and it’s my job to keep up to date with the latest trends and gossip, even though I hate it. But I never forget a face.
Evan wouldn’t risk putting up photos of Leo’s mother or a secret girlfriend inside the house when he has nannies caring for his son, would he? He’s very private about Leo’s mother's identity, and the way he talks in interviews makes it clear she isn’t in their lives.
The usually grumpy-looking single dad appears happy, though, which is a stark difference from the face he wears when dealing with the press. But I can’t blame him. Those people are animals with no respect for privacy, and I honestly don’t know how he hasn’t broken one of their noses yet.
“Flo, help!”
I turn with a gasp. My spine goes rigid as I spot Leo sitting by the yellow wooden cupboards with an open bag of flour in front of him. The floor is coated in the stuff,and so is Leo. In fact, if I weren’t wearing my contact lenses right now, I’d probably mistake him forOlaffromFrozen.
“I didn’t mean to.” His tone is worrisome. “It all fell out.”
“Okay, it’s okay.” Taking his hand, I stand him up, leading him away from the pile of flour, trying my best to dust it off his face. However, I can’t stop the escaping laugh. “You look like a powdered doughnut.”
Leo suddenly cups my cheeks, smearing the flour over my own face. He squeals with laughter. “Now you do, too!”
We giggle in unison. “Okay, how about we get you—”
The sound of a door opening cuts me off, and a deep voice calls Leo’s name, heavy footsteps sounding from behind us. My jaw works as my eyes dart between the mountain of flour on the floor and Leo, whose lips part in an excitable gasp as he stares over my shoulder.
“Daddy!”
Oh no.
With pursed lips, I straighten myself into a standing position, watching as Evan West appears in the kitchen doorway, his dark hair tousled on top of his head, wet fromwhat I assume would have been a locker room shower after practice.
I’ve seen him from a distance, in photos and in interviews before, but fuck, he’s even better looking in person. He’s taller than I expected him to be, his head nearly touching the top of the doorway. His icy grey eyes—the intensity of his gaze. Ishouldfeel uncomfortable, but I’m not easily intimidated by celebrities.
His shoulders are broad—thick, corded muscles covered in a plain blue Lycra workout top that leaves little to the imagination—and he has a narrow waist that I’m pretty sure is protected by rock-hard abs.
Evan’s gaze shifts from me to his flour-covered son, to me again in a matter of seconds, and it’s clear he’s not pleased.
“Who are you?”
“Flo McKenna,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Leo apologises as he wraps his arms around his father’s legs.
Evan ruffles up his son’s dark hair as a greeting, but he’s still looking at me, jaw popping, arm protectively snaked around his son. “Is my sister here?”
“No.”
