I manage the shirt, pants, and purple wig on my own, but as predicted, the tailcoat defeats me. I clear my throat. “Okay. Coat time.”
Leo turns. His gaze flickers over me once, fast enough that I almost miss it, before his expression settles into careful neutrality.
Okay, that’s a good data point in support of him batting for my team.
Which has the effect of making my mouth go dry.
He holds the coat open. I push myself up on one foot, wobbling slightly, and he steps closer to steady me. His hand lands on my hip, firm and warm, and for a second, neither of us moves.
“Got it?” His voice comes out slightly deeper than normal.
“Got it,” I echo.
He helps guide my arms into the sleeves, his chest brushing my back as he settles the coat on my shoulders. I turn around to find his dark eyes watching me before they dip to my throat.
“Your bow tie’s crooked,” he says.
“It’s meant to be crooked. Adds to the whimsy.”
“Ah.” He reaches out anyway, adjusting it slightly. His knuckles brush my collarbone. “Just making it even more whimsical.”
Then he steps away.
“I’ll wait outside while you get changed,” I say, reaching for my crutches.
I attempt a casual exit, which is undermined somewhat by my crutch catching on the doorframe and sending me stumbling into the hallway like a baby giraffe in formal wear.
My ankle gives a few pulses of pain to remind me that it’s still broken. I fish some painkillers out of my bag and dry swallow them like a professional.
But my pain is forgotten when Leo emerges a minute or so later in his unicorn onesie, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The unicorn onesie fits him like it was designed for someone three inches shorter and significantly less muscular. The seams strain across his chest, the legs hit awkwardly above his ankles, and the separate hoof slippers look comically small on his feet.
Unfortunately, he still looks good. The absurdity of the costume only highlights everything it can’t hide, like the way his strong shoulders taper to a torso that the onesie clings to like it’s grateful for the opportunity.
He looks like a Greek god who lost a bet.
“Stop smiling,” he says.
“I’m not smiling. This is my professional happy face.”
“Your professional happy face looks like it’s about to pull a muscle.”
Right.
I give myself a mental shake. I can’t focus on how unfairly attractive he looks in synthetic fleece. This is not the time todevelop a thing for men in ridiculous costumes. That way lies madness and very questionable internet search histories.
Besides, it’s payback time. This is about making the man who broke my ankle suffer through two hours of children’s party chaos dressed as a mythical horse.
He went after Vaughn. I’m returning the favor. That’s all this is.
“Now that you’re in the costume, you have to stay in character,” I tell him earnestly. “You can’t break the magic for the kids.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘stay in character?’”
“Well, first you need to trot everywhere.”
“I’m not trotting.”
