My savings currently total about three hundred and forty-seven pounds, plus whatever coins I can find in my couch cushions. My graduate visa means I can work here, but I’m about as eligible for UK benefits as I am for a knighthood. Travel insurance might eventually cover some lost earnings, assuming they don’t find a clause about syrup-related incidents being excluded.
I’m pretty much screwed.
“If I cancel the jobs I’ve got lined up, I’ll lose my clients, and I can’t afford to lose them,” I say quietly.
“I can help,” Leo says brusquely.
I scrape my hand over my face.
“Please let me help. It’s my fault you’re hurt.”
When I lift my gaze to Leo’s, there’s something in his expression that my brain snags on. His guilt seems disproportionate. People who accidentally spill syrup on strangers feel bad. They offer to pay for dry cleaning. They don’t volunteer to help you find somewhere new to live.
I hold his gaze, trying to read what’s underneath.
“Okay, random guy, how exactly are you planning to help?” Jaymee cuts in. Her voice drips with suspicion. “We don’t know you from Adam. For all we know, you could be some sort of wealthy serial killer who attacks people with breakfast condiments and then offers to ‘help’ them as a way to worm into their lives.”
Leo breaks his gaze with me to raise an eyebrow in her direction. “That sounds like a very specific MO.”
“I’ve watched enough true crime to know the innocent-looking ones are the most dangerous,” she replies.
He squares his shoulders. “My name is Leo Brennan. Feel free to Google me.”
Jaymee takes out her phone, still looking skeptical.
Her expression quickly transforms, and her mouth forms anOshape as she scrolls through the search results. “Jesus, you’ve got your own Wikipedia page.” She pauses. “Holy shit, you’re one of the guys behind NovaCore? That’s the database I use in my pet shop.”
NovaCore. Right. I’ve heard of NovaCore.
So the man who accidentally broke my ankle helped to build revolutionary database architecture that solved concurrent transaction conflicts at scale. Interesting.
And if Leo’s in the tech industry, there’s a high chance he knows of my brother Vaughn.
My stomach tightens. But I push that thought away.
“Okay, if you’re a serial killer, you’ve hidden it well,” Jaymee says grudgingly, stashing her phone back in her pocket.
Leo doesn’t look particularly grateful that he’s received such positive affirmation. He returns his steady gaze to mine, apparently still waiting for an answer to his offer of help.
I hesitate.
Given that I’ve just wrestled back control of my life over the last year, I don’t like the idea of being dependent on anyone.
But equally, I’m realistic enough to know that in this situation, I shouldn’t look the incredibly attractive, rich gift horse in the mouth, right?
Apparently, in late-stage capitalism, fairy godfathers wear three-piece suits and create database solutions rather than magical pumpkins.
Though, to be fair, both involve mysterious transformations nobody fully understands.
“So, I’d be doing you a favor by letting you help me?” I ask.
Leo hides a smile, tucking it away quickly, but not before I see the hint of it.
Is that the first smile I’ve seen from him? Weirdly, I find myself wanting to see what else I can do to get a smile out of this guy.
“Yes, you’d be doing me a favor. I would really appreciate it if you’d let me help you,” he says.
“Well, I guess if I’m doing you a favor…” I say. “I don’t want you dying of guilt, after all. I’m generous like that.”
