3. Leo

3

LEO

Positions I’ve dreamed of being in over the years? This would have ranked top of the list.

Wait. Not true. Only because I’ve pictured so damn many positions with her, how the hell can I possibly rank them all?

All fours is definitely up there.

Bent over the bed.

Reverse cowgirl.

But yeah. Fine. Lulu on top of me has to be near the peak.

And before other matters peak, I need distance. A lot of fucking distance.

Somehow, I disentangle from her at the speed of sound, lifting her up and off me as Ginny races over. “Are you okay? Or do I need to get you to the infirmary inside the Willy Wonka chocolate factory?”

Ginny’s always ready with a Band-Aid or a joke.

Lulu cranes her neck to stare at the back of her lovely orange dress that’s not so lovely anymore. Even with my dive-and-grab roll, she still bore the brunt of the chocolate mess.

“I’ll live,” Lulu says to Ginny, deadpan.

“Do you want my shirt?” Ginny offers, plucking at her red pullover top.

“Only if you’re interested in walking around in just your bra. And since I don’t want to ask you to do that the first day we meet, I suspect I’ll have to make do.”

Ginny laughs. “But the second day would be okay?”

“Oh, definitely. We’ll trade shirts tomorrow.” Typical Lulu—roll with the punches.

I peer behind me. The back of my white dress shirt sports a tire track of chocolate. Meanwhile, a stocky dude who must be running the Finger-Licking Good joint marches over to us. “What in the ever-loving heck happened here? Did you jump into my fountain? Try to take a bath in it? Splash around and roll in the goodness like a pig in mud?”

I scoff, because he couldn’t have it more wrong. “Are you kidding me? Your fountain bubbled over, and some kid had his face under the stream. That’s what ruined your fountain. He must have bumped into it and that sent it spilling all over the floor.”

His jaw drops. “Someone drank from the fountain?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

The man scratches his jaw. “Come to think of it, that’s not so shocking. It’s kind of like a dream, isn’t it? Chocolate flowing from a fountain. Drinking it straight from the source. What could be better?”

“Gee. I don’t know. Maybe literally everything.”

“Well, I’d say you should try it, but you clearly don’t have a fun bone in your body. Now, where did this fountain-knocker-overer go, because I don’t have time to mess around.”

Lulu flails, pointing dramatically down an aisle. “He went that-a-way. Black skater shirt. Checkered Vans. You can probably still find him if you run fast enough.”

“I gotta catch him. My boss will kill me if anything happens to the fountain, and if I’m home late, my wife will kill me.” The Finger-Licking Good Guy mimes slicing his throat then makes a spooky, don’t-mess-with-the-wife sound. With a brash nod, the square-shaped man takes off, running down the industrial-grade carpet, chasing a chocolate-drink stealer he likely won’t catch.

I take a closer look at the woman I toppled to the floor with. “You look like you’ve taken a mud bath.” I can’t help it. I laugh. I laugh so fucking hard because she’s absolutely coated in chocolate.

She laughs too. “We’re quite a sight.”

“We are indeed.”

Her laughter ceases. Her brow furrows. “Shoot. I have my demo. How the hell am I going to do it looking like this?”

That sends me into action. My job isn’t to stand around and let other people solve problems. “Stay here.”

I dart into our booth, duck behind the stand, root around in a box, and find a chef’s jacket and a hand towel. Ginny follows, and she’s by my side, whispering, “The pepper chocolates?”

“Yeah?”

“They were hers.”

I arch a brow as I grab a plastic bag. “No kidding?”

“Swear on my fourth grader.”

I shoot her a most skeptical look.

She huffs. “Hey, I like my kid. But fine, I swear on my love of chocolate. Now do you believe me?”

“Indeed, I do. They were amazing. Did Lulu give them to you?”

“I snagged some from a booth. She wasn’t even there. Do you know what this means?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means this was meant to be.”

“If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say you planned this.”

“But you’re not a conspiracy theorist. You just believe in fate.”

“Ha. I do not whatsoever believe in any such mumbo jumbo. If I believed in the poetic notion of some grand kismet scheme, I’d be in a whole different position than the one I’m in now.”

The position I’m in now has nothing to do with fate, I remind myself privately.

Like I need the reminder.

But I repeat the mantra in my head anyway.

There is only choice or no choice.

My choice right now, amid the noise and clatter of this epic chocolate show fail, is singular—fix shit. Save the day for Lulu. Demos at The Big Chocolate Show are career-making. Lulu can’t miss hers.

I rush out of the booth, rejoin Lulu, and hand her the towel. Quickly, she wipes down her arms. As I guide her through the crowds, I tell her she can wear the chef jacket for her demo.

She darts into the restroom and pops back out a minute later with clean hands and arms. She takes the chef jacket from me. “You saved the day.” Her smile shines with the wattage of the sun.

“See how it fits first before you pronounce me king of awesome.”

“I’ll make it fit, and then pronounce you ruler of awesome.”

I go into the men’s room, wash up, and unbutton my shirt. The back is covered but my shirt is, fortunately, the only collateral damage. My pants are fine. I stuff the shirt inside the plastic bag and take a minute to breathe, checking out my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing a white T-shirt. Not my most professional style but it’ll do in a pinch. Good thing I haunt the gym regularly.

I take a moment to add up the facts, only the facts.

Lulu is here.

She’s living in New York.

I’m living in New York.

I’m about to add in one more fact, but I can’t in good conscience go there.

Besides, my heart is pounding too fast.

It’s from the incident, I tell myself.

It’s from the adrenaline rush.

It’s not from feelings.

I don’t feel a thing.

I leave the men’s room, take a drink from the water fountain, and wipe my hand across my mouth.

When I look up, she’s there.

With outstretched arms, she spins in a circle, waiting for an appraisal of her new outfit.

Her new, jaw-dropping, sexy-as-sin, might-as-well-throw-in-the-towel-and-raise-the-white-flag-of-surrender outfit.

What the hell was I thinking?

I clearly wasn’t using my brain at all. Because she’s even more alluring in this garb.

She’s only wearing the chef jacket and heels.

“Are you . . .?” I gesture to the outfit, the end of my words making my meaning clear. Are you naked under that?

She rolls her eyes. “Please. I have on my alpaca panties.”

“Alpaca panties?”

Her eyes twinkle. “I couldn’t resist. There was a sale on cute animal print undies with faces, you know, right here.” She gestures to her pelvis. “A six pack of giraffes, zebras, dolphins, and llamas too.” She casts her eyes down. “Wait. I have on the llama ones. I always get them confused.”

“Alpacas have shorter ears. Llama ears are banana length.”

She snaps her fingers. “Yes. Exactly. I’m wearing the big-eared animal undies, so it’s totally fine.”

Great. Now I’m thinking of her in underwear. In fucking llama underwear. Precisely the visual I’ve assembled way too many times without help, thank you very much. Minus the llamas, of course.

She tugs at the hem of the jacket, revealing the bare flesh of her thigh.

“ Lulu .” It comes out like a warning.

She laughs at me. “Relax. I’m tiny; this jacket is huge. It’s like a short dress on me.”

“A very short dress.”

“I can handle a short dress. I’ve worn shorter.”

“Shorter as in ass-cheek length, Lulu?”

Her eyebrows wiggle. Her eyes—green and not so green—sparkle. “Yes. I’ve worn ass-cheek length, Leo. But I’m still decent. And you’re still my hero.”

She leans closer, rises on tippy toes, and moves her lips close, closer, closest. She dusts those lips across my cheek, and it’s like she’s an arsonist.

In one swift move, I’m on fire.

She grabs the plastic bag from my hand, stuffs her ruined dress in it, and hands me back the bag.

When she swivels around and walks toward the demo stage, “decent” isn’t exactly the word I’d use.

More like decadent.

The jacket hits the top of her thighs. Her legs are toned from kickboxing—and I know why she boxes, I know why she started, I know why she doesn’t miss her kickboxing sessions with her girlfriends, and my heart squeezes from knowing this.

Llama panty–wearing Lulu makes it to the cooking stage at master food critic James Carson’s booth, steps up, slides on a lapel mic, and smiles.

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do a chocolate demo dressed like the sexiest chef in the world. Looking like the woman I fell in love with ten years ago.

Mad, crazy, unrequited love that required years to get over.

And seeing her now, commanding an enrapt audience, wearing a Heavenly jacket, having concocted a chili pepper chocolate truffle that made my taste buds sing the “Macarena,” it hits me.

Lulu should be our next rising star.