“So you’re telling me the museum’s main attraction is a mistake.”
“A beloved mistake. It’s been the mascot for over a century.” I grin at him. “I think you two will get along. You have the same energy.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m overstuffed?”
“Not overstuffed, no. More like…” I make a show of studying him, which is a mistake because now I’m noticing how he fills out his shirt ever so well. “Tightly wound. Like someone shoved a very expensive suit full of suppressed emotions and competence.”
Leo’s mouth twitches. “I’m not sure that’s better.”
“It’s not meant to be better. It’s meant to be accurate.”
Our eyes meet, and something sparks in the space between us. I look away first because I have a sense of self-preservation. Somewhere. Buried deep.
And it reminds me that I’m not supposed to be flirting with the guy who broke my ankle.
I break our gaze. “Anyway, let’s go through the rundown of today,” I say. “When we get there, we’ll change into our costumes so we’re ready when the kids arrive. Then we’ve got about two hours of structured chaos.”
“Structured chaos.”
“It’s a technical term. First, there’s a warm-up to get the kids’ energy out. Songs, dancing, call and response. BecauseI won’t be able to dance, you’ll have to be the one up there demonstrating.”
Leo stares at me with a horrified expression. “I don’t dance.”
“Everyone dances when kids are staring at them expectantly. It’s a survival instinct.” I tick off my fingers. “Next up, there’s the magic show. You’re my assistant, so you need to hand me things and look impressed. Then we’ll do balloon animals. And before you ask, they’re made from biodegradable latex because Captain Giggles has an environmental policy. After that, we release the children into the aquarium like tiny well-dressed sharks. Regroup for cake. Final game. Party bags. Freedom.”
Leo lets out a sigh. “How many children will there be?”
“Twelve. Maybe fifteen. The RSVP situation was unclear.”
“And they’re what age?”
“Six. Turning seven. Old enough to have opinions. Young enough to express them loudly.”
Leo exhales slowly through his nose.
“The trick is to accept that nothing ever goes according to plan. Children are chaos agents. You just have to roll with it.”
“I’m not good at rolling with things.”
“Then it’s a good chance to learn.”
The Uber drops us at the museum entrance, and I navigate my way up the path on my crutches while Leo carries both our costume bags and my prop case. I’m gradually getting the hang of my crutches. Luckily, the NHS gave me the British variety, with cuffs just below the elbows. It’s a design choice I approve of, having grown up with the American version that treats armpits as an acceptable casualty.
The party pavilion has a tiny changing room that was clearly designed for one person, or possibly one very antisocial broom. Leo and I stand in the doorway, assessing the situation.
“I’ll change in here first,” I say. “Then you can get changed after me.”
“You’ll need help with that coat.” Leo nods at my Captain Giggles tailcoat that I’m pulling out of my costume bag. And to be fair, it’s a tight fit normally, let alone when I’m balancing on one leg.
It’s practical that he helps me. But it’s also going to require him to be very close to me while I’m half-dressed.
I lower myself onto the single folding chair and start unbuttoning my shirt, trying to project an air of casual indifference, like I regularly undress in front of ridiculously attractive men who I’m about to torment with unicorn costumes.
Leo politely turns his back, which is somehow worse, because now I’m staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders as he rummages through the prop bag.
“Bow tie?” he asks, holding it up without turning around.
“Uh…yeah.”
