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“Whoa,” I said. “Big.”
The smile was still on his face when he shrugged. “We’re Greek.”
“So you want a large family?” The moment I asked that, I wished I could take it back. It wasn’t a question for an employee to ask her boss. Nor was it a question I should have asked at all. It also tapped on the earlier conversation we’d had about children and family. It was after that discussion that Leo had seemed a bit colder toward me.
Something sad, then angry shot across Leo’s face, then he was back to his relaxed facade.
“Yes, I want a large family.” He tilted his head and examined me. “What is your family situation? Any siblings?”
I should have known the questions would get turned around on me. Now I really wanted a drink. “Hazel and Amy are the closest things to siblings I have.”
“You never said much about your parents. Only that your mother would never have grandkids.”
It was one of those things I knew deep down since I was a teenager: I wasn’t the mothering type. Mostly because I was terrified I’d mess up. If I ever hurt a kid—my kid—the way my mother hurt me? Abandon her. Turn her away, not believe her, leave her to deal with things alone . . . No. I couldn’t. Wouldn’t run the risk.
Not to mention, I wasn’t marriage material, much less mother material. I tended to only attract assholes or men who saw me for one thing.
“My mom lives in Indiana. Dad left when I was a teenager.”
“I’m sorry,” Leo said with all sincerity.
I shrugged. “Things happen.”
He looked at me again. “You’re not much of an emotional shower are you?”
“Why did you leave Greece?” I asked, hoping to God the subject change would get back to him and away from me.
His face went hard. I’d never seen him show this kind of stern anger other than when he mentioned my leaving him in the bar at our interview.
“Personal reasons.”
Now I was intrigued. Mostly because, for the breezy, relaxed sort of guy Leo typically was, he was now kind of brooding. Pissy almost.
“Don’t care to share then?” I pressed.
“Would you like to tell me about your family?”
I folded my lips and he smiled. “Touché,” I said. “But . . .” I took a step closer, because for whatever reason, the look on his face, something that resembled pain, wasn’t sitting well with me. The need to know, to fix that look, surfaced.
“I’m a good listener,” I said. “If you ever want to talk.”
His expression was serious, but he reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Who listens to you, angel?”
The sentiment made something shift in my chest. He’d called me angel only once before, and it was the night at the bar, when I was wrapped around him. The memory, along with the endearment, chipped away another piece of the ice in me.
My brow furrowed and I looked at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean,” he shifted his hips so that they brushed against mine and I forced my heart rate to stay even. A battle I was losing. “You seem to listen a lot. I watched you in there tonight. You’re good with people, adapting and working a room.”
I smiled because it was the second stellar compliment he’d dished tonight.
“But”—his face fell and I couldn’t figure out why he seemed disappointed—“do you ever slow down? Be yourself?”
“What makes you think I’m not being myself right now?”
“Because I saw you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I dismissed. “That night at the bar. Are you still holding on to that?”
