I breathe a sigh of relief.
“I’ll start packing up.”
He disappears into the changing room, and I busy myself gathering balloon remnants and scattered party supplies, using the tip of my crutch to hook a stray balloon toward me, trying not to think about the fact that Leo is currently taking off the unicorn onesie. That under all that pink fleece is the body I got to see properly last night. And it was definitely worth the wait.
I’m shoving tablecloths into a bag when I hear his voice behind me.
“Archie.”
I turn around to find Leo at the entrance of the changing room.
The onesie is unzipped to his waist, the top half hanging in front of him, leaving his chest bare. His hair is mussed from the hood. He looks rumpled, annoyed, and devastatingly attractive.
My throat immediately goes dry. “What’s wrong?”
“The zipper is stuck,” he says.
I should tell him to figure it out himself. I should maintain distance. I should not walk toward a half-naked Leo Brennan in a confined space.
“You realize this is a cliché,” I say, even as I’m already crossing the room on my crutches. “The stuck zipper. One person conveniently half-undressed. I’ve seen this scene in approximately forty movies, and it never ends with anyone actually fixing the zipper.”
“Then you should have no trouble being the exception.” Leo’s voice is flat, but there’s a challenge underneath it.
“Turn around,” I hear myself say as I follow him into the changing room, propping my crutches against the wall as soon as I’m inside.
He turns. The zipper is caught on fabric near the small of his back. I can see the problem clearly.
But I can also see the planes of his back. The indent of his spine. The way his muscles shift when he breathes.
Focus.
“For the record,” I say, my fingers finding the snag, “if this were a movie, this would be the part where I’d say?—”
“Archie.”
“What?”
“Stop narrating and fix the zipper.”
My knuckles brush his bare skin.
Leo makes a sound. Low. Rough.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
The zipper finally gives and the onesie falls open. I stare at the two divots at the base of his spine and have an irrational urge to work out their exact dimensions with my tongue.
Neither of us moves.
“There,” I say. “Fixed.”
But I don’t step back. My hand is still resting against his spine, feeling the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Leo turns slowly. My hand slides around to his hip.
We’re chest to chest now. His mouth is inches from mine.
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, and he tilts my face toward his.
