Page 32 of The Player + The Pact = I Do

She looks at me for a long beat and I swallow under her gaze. It’s like she’s seeing right through to the heart of me. Like she’s been looking at me through fog until now and it’s finally cleared. “That’s nice, I think.”

“It’s nice that I grew up poor?” I ask on a laugh.

“I think it makes you more… interesting,” she says.

“Less on-brand?”

She laughs. “Yeah, maybe.”

I pick up both shot glasses and hand her one. She looks a little panicked.

“You don’t have to have another,” I reassure her.

“That’s the problem,” she replies. “I want one.”

I freeze. Does she have a drinking problem? Have I just enabled her addiction or something? Shit.

She laughs. “You look worried. Don’t worry, I won’t start playing air guitar and flashing you my boobs if I have another. It’s just, you know, even though I’m not your assistant anymore, you’re still my boss.”

“That’s another thing to drink to,” I reply. “You have another job. If you don’t want the shot, don’t take the shot, but can we agree on one thing?”

Her eyes widen slightly and I really want to know what she thinks I’m going to suggest. Her imagination is likely far more potent than the reality. “This is my apartment and my home. I don’t want to be a boss here. As soon as I step outside those doors, the only time I’m not… I’m always someone’s boss or a developer, someone people want something from. When I’m here… When I’m with my friends, I’m just Leo. And I’d like to be just Leowhen you’re around, if that’s okay?”

Her eyes soften. I can tell she’s not going to try to negotiate with me.

She takes the shot glass from the counter and raises it. “Just Leo.”

Our gazes lock, and I’m sure she’s holding herself back from saying something else. But I want to hear it. She’s funny and interesting and I want her to feel comfortable around me.

She tips back the shot and, when she recovers, says, “We need a salad.”

I smile. Maybe I’ll hear what she really wanted to saylater. “I have nothing salad-like in the apartment. Want me to order something?”

“I’m afraid I only eat salad from Le Bernardin.”

“Well, I get my salads from the deli on the corner of 73rdand Amsterdam.”

She laughs. “Any salad will be just fine.”

I place an order with Door Dash and then dig about, finding cutlery and placemats. “I don’t use the dining room much. But maybe we should. The view from that room is great.”

“The views from all the rooms are great.”

I don’t know why I care, but I’m pleased she likes it. “I can’t argue. It was a big reason why I bought the place. We came to the US when I was fifteen and I always dreamed of having an apartment with amazing views.”

“What made you move from the UK?”

I pull out plates and napkins and together we take everything into the dining room. “My dad worked his whole life in a bakery in Slough, until one day he announced he’d bought a bakery in Brooklyn. My mum cried for weeks. She didn’t want to come. Didn’t want to leave her friends and family.” I shake my head. My dad was an arsehole for not talking to her about it before he went and did it. “It turned out fine. Her best friend ended up moving to Spain shortly after and she made friends here.”

“What about you? Did you mind moving countries?”

“Honestly, I didn’t have an opinion. My parents made the decisions. I just went along with it. But when we arrived, I knew I’d found the place I was meant to be.” I set the plates onto the dining table and look out across the city. “I felt excited. Like my future was going to be… different. I’d grown up in a neighborhood where everything was the same, and looking back, it probably had been for generations. Everyone had a house with a front garden and a back garden. The grass was mown by the dads on Saturdays while the mums did the shopping. Sundays were about washing the car and a roast dinner and then the week started again. I never questioned it until we came to America. In Brooklyn, where we lived, on the way to the park you could see the Manhattan skyline, and I sort of knew that the city was waiting for me.”

I glance over at Jules to find her looking at me, the reflection from the lights bouncing off the windows and lighting up her face, picking up strands of her dark brown hair and making them kinda glow. She’s gorgeous.

“Sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale,” she says wistfully.

I chuckle. “Met a few trolls along the way, but yeah. I feel so lucky we moved here.” The door buzzer goes and we both head back toward the kitchen. I collect the salad from the courier and she takes the mac and cheese from the oven and brings it over to the table.

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