She looks it. She looks perfect.
“I love you,” I tell her again, because I can, and because it’s the truest thing I know.
“I love you, too,” she whispers back, her hand sliding from my neck to cup my cheek.
I kiss her once more, then push myself up. Before she can sit up, I lean over and scoop her off the couch, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. The lavender dress is still tangled around her hips, and she lets out a surprised, breathless laugh.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Professor?”
“Keeping my end of the deal,” I say, starting down the short hallway toward my bedroom.
“What deal?”
“You’re all mine tonight,” I remind her, nudging my bedroom door open with my foot. “I said I was going to take my time.”
Her laughter fades into a soft, knowing smile as I lay her down in the center of my bed. The streetlight from the window paints her in stripes of gold and shadow.
And I do keep my word. For the rest of the night, I take my time.
Chapter 23
ANNIE
“Okay, but look at me,” I say, walking into the kitchen and fumbling a tiny gold hoop into my ear. “Serious face. Do I look like I’m trying too hard? Be honest.”
Leo leans against the counter, holding two travel mugs of coffee. A slow smirk spreads across his face. “I’ve already told you that you look perfect approximately one thousand times. What else are you fishing for, Collier? Do you want me to say you look so good it’s scientifically improbable? Because I can. I have the degree to back it up.”
“I want you to say I look appropriately respectful and lovely, but not like I’ve been personally styled by your yiayia for a church blessing,” I say, finally getting the earring to catch. I hold out my wrist, the delicate gold watch dangling. “Can you?”
He takes my wrist, his touch is familiar and grounding. “You look like you,” he says simply, fastening the clasp with a quiet click. “Which is all I could ever want.” He brings my wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside, right over my pulse point.
Then he pulls me flush against him, his hand sliding to the back of my neck to tilt my head up. He kisses me—hard and deep, tasting like dark roast coffee and I want to melt. I want to stay in this kitchen and skip the family interrogation altogether. But I find the strength to pull back, laughing as I smack his arm.“Stop. If you ruin my makeup, I’m telling your mother you’re the reason we’re late.”
Leo sighs, a dramatic, suffering sound. “You’re right. Duty calls. The Spanakopita waits for no man.”
On the counter sits a foil-covered dish of Koulourakia—braided butter cookies. I’d spent three hours hunched over a Greek cookbook I checked out from the library calledYiayia’s Kitchenwhile attempting to make them. I’d even done a trial run for Ernie, the homeless man who camps out at the bodega across the street. He’d taken a bite, crunched thoughtfully, and told me they were “better than the trash-can bagels, missy,” which I’m choosing to take as a Michelin-star review.
“They look great,” Leo says, following my gaze. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “They’re going to love you.”
He’s nervous too. I can tell, even if he won’t admit it. This is his family turf—Thanksgiving at his parents’. And while I’ve met them a couple times, the extended crew is a whole new ballgame. Aunts with probing questions, cousins sizing me up, that Greek chorus of relatives who’ll probably grill me on everything from my job to why I’m with their golden boy.
Hence the outfit. I’ve gone for a look that I hope screams responsible-yet-approachable. It’s a plaid pinafore dress over a black turtleneck—very autumn-in-the-city, very ‘I definitely know how to do my taxes.’ I’ve traded the lavender silk and designer label for a pair of sheer black tights and sturdy leather boots, the kind that clomp satisfyingly on sidewalks. Slung over my shoulder is a suede warm brown hobo bag, big enough to hide nerves in, and a couple silver charms dangling from a keychain clipped to the strap, tinkling faintly as I move.
“Ta-da!”
We pull apart as Emma slides into the doorway, arms flung wide. She has orchestrated her masterpiece. A sparkly purplesweater tucked into a denim skirt dotted with embroidered flowers, striped tights in clashing reds and blues peeking out, and her favorite rain boots, the yellow ones with duck faces, even though the forecast’s clear. Her curly hair is in lopsided pigtails, and somehow, she’s balancing a plastic firefighter helmet over them both.
“Wow,” Leo breathes, his voice full of awe. “It’s…a vision, Em. Truly a festive masterpiece.”
“I’m a fancy firefighter princess,” she explains, adjusting her helmet.
“The fanciest. “You ready to go,koukla?” Leo asks.
“Yep! Oh wait—” She runs back down the hall. “I forgot Bunny!”
Leo looks at me. “Last chance to back out.”
“And miss meeting the Greek army? Never.”
