Irene is halfway out the door when she spins back, her finger pointed at me like a loaded weapon of hospitality. “And! You bring the roommates. All of them! I cook for the whole village. No one eats the lonely turkey in a toaster onmywatch.”
She pats my arm with a solemnity usually reserved for religious blessings, and then they’re gone, their voices echoing down the hallway until the heavy door clicks shut.
Maria lingers for a heartbeat, leaning against the frame with a smirk. “Good luck, Annie. Your first Roussos Thanksgiving. It’s like a marathon, but with more shouting and better cheese.”
“Should I be worried?” I ask, my voice sounding a little thinner than I’d like.
“Terrified,” she says, though she’s grinning like a shark. “But also, it’s the best time you’ll ever have. Fair warning: they’re going to grill you. Your life, your family, your dating history, why you aren’t married to a nice Greek boy with a degree—”
“Maria,” Leo says, his voice a low, warning rumble.
“Okay, okay! I’m going.” She laughs and vanishes after her parents.
Suddenly, the apartment is startlingly quiet. The only sound is the hum of the refrigerator and the faint, distant siren of a fire truck somewhere on Broadway.
I turn back to the kitchen. Leo is standing in the wreckage of the birthday party, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at a smear of teal frosting on the counter like it’s a complex mathematical equation he can’t quite solve. He looks…human. Tired. A little vulnerable in the way only a single dad at 10:00 PM on a Friday night can be.
“Thank you, Annie,” he says softly, finally meeting my eyes. “For the costume. For coming tonight. For…everything.”
My eyes accidentally-on-purpose skim over the veins in his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up. He has these hands that look like they could build a house or hold a very small bird without breaking it. I clear my throat, my heart doing a little tap-dance against my ribs. “It was no big deal.”
“Itwasa big deal. To me.” His gaze is heavy, dark, and entirely too serious for a room filled with purple balloons. “And to Emma. Of course.”
He adds that last part as if it’s a safety net, but I heard the first part just fine.
“I know,” I say, my voice a whisper.
“Will you call me when you get home? Just a quick ring so I know you didn’t get abducted?”
“I’m staying,” I say, moving toward the sink. “I’m staying to help for a bit.”
His eyebrows shoot up, disappearing into those messy curls. “Annie, you don’t have to do that. It’s past midnight and you’ve already gone above and beyond the call of nanny-duty.”
I don’t listen. I step into his space, gently bumping his hip with mine to nudge him out of the way. “I’m staying,” I say, already reaching for the dish soap. “Mostly because the sight of this sink is stressing me out, but also because if I leave now, I’ll just go home and stare at my own dishes while thinking about yours. It’s a very specific sort of neurosis.”
He huffs a laugh, a small, tired sound. “Well, if you’re staying, the least I can do is put on some music.”
He drifts toward the record player in the corner. He handles his vinyl the way most people handle fragile heirlooms or very small, expensive dogs. He pulls out a weathered sleeve, the cardboard soft at the edges. “Tommy Dorsey?”
“Is that a person or a brand of orthopedic shoes?”
Leo pauses, his hand mid-air. “He’s a legend, Annie. A master of the trombone. My life is suddenly a mission to culturally enlighten you.”
The needle drops, and the kitchen is filled with a brassy, swinging sound that feels like it belongs in a black-and-white movie that takes place in 1944 where everyone is incredibly witty and slightly drunk and twirling under a chandelier.
“I’m a jazz convert now,” I lie, scrubbing a platter that held Flounder’s decapitated cake-head. “Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing a beret and snapping my fingers in a basement.”
“Don’t push it,” he says with a laugh, moving to clear the table.
I don’t have the heart to tell him I actually hate jazz. It always feels too improvisational, like everyone’s playing a different song at the same time and hoping it works out for the best. But this is different. I find myself actually liking it. Or maybe I just like the way Leo is swaying slightly as he starts picking up wrapping paper. Maybe I just like Leo.
I freeze. My hands stay submerged in the warm, soapy water.
I like Leo.
The thought hits me like a bucket of ice water.No. No, no, no.This is the one rule! The Big One. He’s my boss. I am the nanny. I need this job to prove to everyone back in California that I didn’t fail. If I screw this up, I lose my apartment, my life in the city, and my last shred of dignity.
I can’t afford to like him. I definitely can’t afford to notice the way his Henley stretches across his back as he bends over to grab a discarded Sky Dancer.
