Leo brings two cups from the kitchen, one black for him, one with cream and two sugars for me because he’s memorized how I take my coffee. We sit at the wrought-iron table under the pergola while the sun comes up. It’s become our routine, this quiet morning ritual where we pretend that our situation is normal and we’re just two people having coffee together.
The pretending is getting easier. That should worry me more than it does.
“You’re staring,” Leo says without looking up from his phone, where he’s scrolling through what looks like emails.
“Get out of here, I’m not staring,” I lie, quickly redirecting my gaze to my coffee cup even though he’s right. Iwasstaring. I’ve been staring a lot lately.
“You weredefinitelystaring.” Leo finally looks up at me with this small smile playing at his lips that makes my stomach do an unwelcome flip. “I could feel it.”
The early morning light does unfair things to Leo Santoro. It catches in his dark brown hair, highlighting subtle hints of warmth, and makes it look softer than it has any right to be. I’ve noticed he has a slight wave to it when it’s not styled with product, like right now when it’s still damp from his shower and falling across his forehead. I want to reach out and push it back so badly.
His eyes look different in the sunlight too. In dim lighting they appear almost black, intimidating and intense, but in the morning sun I can see they’re actually this deep chocolate brown with these amber and gold flecks scattered through them that I’ve spent way too much time thinking about. They’re framed by dark lashes that are criminally unfair on a man, and when he looks at me the way he’s looking at me right now, amused and knowing, I forget how to form coherent thoughts.
He’s thirty-five to my twenty-four. Eleven years older, which should feel like a lot but somehow doesn’t. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t act like he’s that much older. There’s none of that condescending patience that some older guys have with youngerwomen. He argues with me like an equal, challenges me, and listens when I talk. But there are moments where the age difference shows in small ways: in the confidence he carries himself with, how he commands a room, in the decades of experience I can see in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking, and in the references he makes that I don’t understand.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering if that’s part of what attracts me to him—this combination of maturity and intensity that boys my age don’t have. Then I remember I shouldn’t be attracted to him at all and I spiral into self-loathing for a while.
“Earth to Emma,” Leo says, and I realize I’ve been staring at him again, lost in thoughts about him again.
“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling my face heat. “I’m just…tired. Didn’t sleep well.”
“Nightmares?” Leo’s expression changes to concern, and the fact that he cares enough to ask makes my heart speed up.
“Something like that,” I say, which is sort of true. Ididhave dreams last night, though they were less nightmares and more extremely inappropriate fantasies involving the man sitting across from me.
Leo sets his phone down, giving me his full attention. The weight of his gaze makes my skin feel too warm. “Want to talk about it?”
“Definitely not,” I say quickly, because there’s no universe where I’m telling Leo Santoro that I dreamed about Leo’s face in between my thighs. “It’s fine. Just…my brain being weird.”
“Your brain is never weird.” The gentle sincerity in his voice does things to my heart rate. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
My breath catches. “Oneof your favorite things?” It’s amazing I was even able to get that out.
Leo seems to realize what he’s said, his expression shifting to something more guarded. “I meant?—”
“No, tell me,” I press, leaning forward before I can stop myself. “What are your favorite things about me?”
I watch his throat work as he swallows, his eyes never leaving mine. “We shouldn’t?—”
“Shouldn’t what?” I challenge, even though I know he’s right. We shouldn’t be doing this, whatever this is. “Have a conversation?”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Leo says, his voice dropping lower. The sound of it makes heat pool in my stomach.
Leo’s voice is something I’ve become obsessed with without meaning to. It’s deep and smooth with just this hint of roughness around the edges, like expensive whiskey and dark chocolate. When he’s giving orders to his men it's hard and cold and commanding, but when he talks to me it’s…different. Softer. Warmer. There’s this intimate quality to it that makes me feel like I’m the only person he talks to this way.
And when he says my name—god, when he says my name in that voice—it does things to me that should probably be illegal.
“Then what do you mean?” I ask, my own voice coming out breathier than I’d like.
Leo leans back in his chair, studying me with those dark eyes and warring with himself. Finally, he says, “I like how you argue with me. How you don’t back down even when you probably should. I like that you’re smart enough to keep up with every conversation we have and stubborn enough to make me work for everypoint I score. I like that you bite your bottom lip when you’re concentrating”—my face is reddening—“and that you hum when you’re sketching and that you always read the last page of a book first even though it drives me crazy that you spoil the ending for yourself.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“I pay attention to everything about you.” There’s something almosthelplessin his expression. “I can’t seem to stop.”
The air between us feels electric. Under the table, I press my knees together to keep from doing something stupid like moving closer to him.
“Leo,” I say, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for.