“I promised no jazz hands,” he says. “Math is a free variable.”
“You’re lucky I’m too blissed out to push you off this mountain.”
He glances down the slope, then back up at me. “Based on current slope and friction coefficients, I’d survive. But I’d be so, so hurt.”
I reachout and snag the front of his shirt, pulling him back in between my legs—and he shuts up exactly the way I want him to. We kiss again—one more slow drift that feels steady, uncomplicated, and warm.
When we pull apart, he doesn’t apologize and neither do I. We just breathe the same air for a second, smiling like stupid teenagers.
“Ready?” he asks, grabbing the backpack off the ground and tossing it back over one shoulder.
“For the walk or for the part where I pretend none of that just happened and you pretend you’re not smug about it?”
“False dichotomy,” he says, smug.
I nudge his shoulder. “Help me down, nerd.”
“New rule,” he murmurs, palms firm and careful at my hips as he eases me off the rock, setting me steady on my feet. “No touching… unless asked.”
“Smart man,” I say, even as my fingers hold his a second longer than strictly necessary.
We repack the crinkled wrappers and empty bottles—“Leave no trace,” he says—then start the descent. The trail feels different now. Same trees, same sky, but like we stepped through a door. We don’t talk about it. We don’t have to. He points out a squirrel with delusions of grandeur; I tell him his socks don’t match. We trip into the kind of ease you don’t get often, and when we reach the truck, I’m flushed for a whole new set of reasons.
He opens the passenger door and waits, hand on the frame like chivalry accidentally grew some scruff and a totally nerdy, yet adorable, sense of humor.
“Thanks for the walk,” I say, climbing in.
“Anytime,” he says, and means it.
As he rounds the hood, I catch my reflection in the side mirror—hair wild, cheeks pink, a smile that didn’t have to ask permission to be here.
Complicated? Totally. Over? Not even close.
But when it comes to my sexual chemistry with Leo Euler, there’s no denying that the math checks out:
something about me + something about him + fresh air + a purple sweater + a sun-warmed boulder + his sexy as hell smile = a variable I’m not afraid to solve for.
… and I just punnuendo’d myself. Awesome.
TWENTY-THREE
LEO
I barely getmy coat hung before Sunny comes barreling past me in socks, hair flying like she’s got a wind machine blowing right at her. Otis thunders after her, tail wagging hard enough to rattle the picture frames, tongue flopping out of his mouth in pure joy. That Aussie always wins, but Sunny never accepts defeat without a rematch. She shrieks with laughter and darts around the corner, Otis hot on her trail.
God, I love it here. Dexter’s house smells like roasted turkey and cinnamon, and the noise—I don’t believe I could hear myself think if I tried. From what I gather, there are too many hands in the one kitchen, the men are most likely in the den watching football, and my favorite almost-eleven-year-old will sprint back around that corner in three… two…
“Gotcha!” I grab Sunny and launch her over my shoulder right as she makes the turn. Feet kicking and arms flailing, she screams, “Uncle Leo! He’ll win! You’re letting him win!” as we both watch Otis sail past us, down the hall, and leap into the giant bean bag strategically posted inside the open bonus room door.
I refuse to let down my captive, carrying her through the livingroom and into the kitchen where I know I’ll find a gaggle of women talking over each other and cooking all my favorite foods.
“Absolutely not!” Skye.
“You’re insane,” Tori fires back.
Alis’s laugh cuts through both of them. “You’re both wrong.”
“Daddy’s home,” I announce, just to see if anyone’s paying attention.
