If You Only Knew
Page 81

“Want me to start dinner?” he asks.
“Um...yeah. Sure.”
“What do the little princesses eat?” He opens the fridge and surveys my stock.
“Everything not nailed to the floor.”
“Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“They love that. I even have sauce. Homemade, no less. One of the few things I can make.” I open the pantry and take out a quart of spaghetti sauce and a package of pasta. Leo gets some ground turkey, milk and eggs from the fridge and starts rummaging around in my cupboards.
It’s dangerous, I think, to be playing house with a man who doesn’t want a relationship. Who professes to be for recreation only. Who says he doesn’t like babies but is fantastic with toddlers and children, who sends out mixed messages of jealousy and friendship and unreachability, if such a word exists.
But it’s so, so nice, too.
“Did I hear you right? You own this building, huh?” I ask.
He glances at me. “Yeah.”
“That explains your wretched skills as a super.”
“It does, I guess.”
“Why do my rent checks go to the real estate company and not you?”
“Because it’s easier to have them handle it. And I asked them not to tell my tenant I was the owner. Didn’t want you to think I was a real estate magnate with piles of money.”
“The next Donald Trump.”
He smiles, then breaks an egg into the ground turkey. “I’ll work on my comb-over.”
“Don’t you dare. You have the most beautiful hair on the face of the earth.”
“True.”
“My nieces adore you,” I say, taking out some lettuce that’s hopefully not too old.
“Of course they do. They’re female, aren’t they?”
I roll my eyes. “You and that ego.”
“I’m sorry I was such a rotten date the other night,” he says, not looking at me. My knees soften dangerously. “I’m jealous of your ex-husband, in case you haven’t figured that out.”
“Aren’t we all. He has the perfect life.”
“Not because of that, dummy.”
I peek at the girls, who are blessedly engrossed in the movie. Loki has joined them, curled up next to Grace, his head in her lap. “Why would you be jealous of Owen?”
“Because you’re still hung up on him.”
Swooniness and irritation roll around in my heart, a sensation I’m thinking of calling The Leo. “Why would you care? You’re not interested in me. You’re gay where I’m concerned, remember?”
“I’m allowed to be contradictory. That’s not just reserved for you women.”
“So what’s the contradiction? You want my complete and undivided attention so you can ignore me?”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
“You know, if you ever decided to be straightforward, we could maybe have something here.”
“Recreation only, sweetheart.”
“Right. You were born to be married. You should father a dozen kids.”
He puts the meatballs in the sauce, then washes his hands. “I was married once.”
The shock must show on my face, because he... Well, hell, he never told me. “What happened?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me, opting to keep lathering up his gifted hands. “She left me.”
Ah. No wonder he knows so much about my feelings on Owen. “You want to talk about it?”
“I don’t.” He raises his eyes to me, and they’re clear and neutral. “But I do want to watch that movie with the girls.”
With that, he walks out of the kitchen. I hear him say something to the girls.
So his heart was broken, too. And I guess he’s not over his wife; hence the “recreation only” bit.
It’s oddly cheering, knowing that Leo’s divorced. So I was right. He was born to be married; he just picked the wrong woman.
And maybe I could be the right woman.
I ignore the faint warning that chimes somewhere in my head. The old Easy, there, let’s not pick out the fabric for the gown just yet chime. I’m heartily sick of that sound, let me tell you. And, please. Leo is watching a movie with three little girls. He loves his stinky old dog to the point of the ridiculous. He can make meatballs. He is the essence of family man.
Dinner is a sloppy, happy affair. The girls have fallen deeply in love with Leo and demonstrate this love by chewing up their meatballs and showing him the contents of their mouths, draping spaghetti over their noses and heads, and blowing bubbles into their drinks. Loki lurks under the table, cleaning up the food that rains down.
Leo sings them songs and pretends to play the piano on the table. Even seeing him pretend to play is a weird sort of thrill. His hands are huge, his fingers long and fluid, almost. He sings along to that, too—Bah bum, bababa bababa bababa BAH bum. He doesn’t eat much, but he does have a glass of red wine. Just one.
The top floor of my house is locked. It contains the owner’s stored stuff, the Realtor said.
I wonder if I could pick that lock.
Hi, I’m Jenny, and I’m a stalker.
“Thank you for dinner, Aunt Jenny,” Leo says, standing up and clearing a plate.
“Thank you for dinner, Aunt Jenny,” the girls echo.
I take the girls upstairs and give them a much-needed bath, then read them a story. “We want Leo to read to us,” Grace informs me.