Apparently, now that I’ve passed the mass-murderer test, she’s expecting me to help Archie in every way possible.
“I’ll, ah, come back tomorrow morning to help,” I promise.
Archie gives me such a grateful smile that I have to look away.
His gratitude. My guilt.
It’s creating a feedback loop that has the potential to spiral out of control.
Chapter Six
Archie
Normally, I’m woken by the guy in the neighboring bedsit practicing his tuba and the couple two doors down who communicate exclusively through slammed doors and passive-aggressive vacuuming at six a.m.
But this morning, in the apartment Leo arranged for me, there’s nothing but blissful silence.
Though my brain having space to think isn’t necessarily a good thing.
Because my brain has a tendency to reach for the folder I keep shoved to the very back of the filing cabinet—the one labeledDo Not Openin large red letters. The one with Vaughn’s name on it.
I don’t open it. I never open it. But in the quiet, I can feel its edges, and that’s enough to make me wish for the friendly tuba player.
I stretch out, and the throbbing pain in my ankle reminds me of the events of last night and the reality I’m now facing.
What components am I currently dealing with in this scenario?
I have a broken ankle.
I have dog owners expecting me to walk their precious pooches.
I have five children’s parties in the next two weeks.
I also have a very good-looking man who is plagued with guilt and trying to make things up to me.
And now that Leo has entered my brain, it’s hard to dislodge him.
The sharp line of his jaw. Those broad shoulders. Those dark eyes that seem to be cataloging everything, including me.
There’s something magnetic about a man who radiates that much quiet authority, who takes charge of every situation.
And I’ve always been a sucker for the grumpy ones. The ones who look like they’ve never smiled in their life until you make them.
It’s a character flaw, really.
But as I think about Leo, something scratches at the back of my memory, and my mind won’t let it go.
I both love and hate my brain at times like this.
Part of me wants to simply believe that the universe serendipitously made a gorgeous, grumpy man collide with me in the most syrupy meet-cute possible, and his natural goodness means he’s now going out of his way to help me in my time of need because he feels responsible for what was merely an unfortunate accident.
But I can’t help thinking there might be more to the story.
What is the probability of him accidentally spilling syrup at that precise angle, with the specific trajectory to hit the back of my head and not the table, floor, or other surfaces in the immediate vicinity? The physics don’t quite add up. Gravity pulls downward, not backward.
That syrup had intent.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and Google Leo Brennan.
