Page 111 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
"What's wrong?" Ella's voice dropped so only I could hear.
"Nothing."
She looked at me but didn't push. Not with Leo around. That was her rule.
Leo kept at it for maybe twenty more minutes. The tower fell twice, and he rebuilt it twice. When it fell the third time, he yawned and rubbed his eyes.
"Bath time," I said. "You can build more tomorrow."
"Mommy, help me finish first—"
"Tomorrow." I picked him up. "Tomorrow, I will help you build an even bigger one."
He wasn't thrilled, but the sleepiness was winning. He didn't fight much. I gave him a bath, got him into pajamas, and put him in bed. He hugged his stuffed giraffe, eyes already drooping.
"Mommy," he mumbled, "what are we doing tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, I have work. You'll be with Aunt Ella."
He was quiet for a moment. I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then he spoke again. "Mommy, will we go back to France?"
My hand stilled.
"Why? Do you want to go back?"
"I don't know," he said. "I liked France. I like it here too."
He was born and grew up in France. He knew every street in that little town, knew the neighbor's cat would show up at the same time every day, waiting for his milk-soaked cat food. But New York had Ella, had Sophie, had something he couldn't name but could feel.
"Sleep," I said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Wherever we are, Mommy's here."
He hummed and rolled over, tucking the giraffe against him. His breathing slowed.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, watching him.
When he slept, his mouth hung slightly open, lashes casting a small shadow on his cheek, fingers still gripping the giraffe's ear. He looked like him—not vaguely, but directly, specifically, the kind of resemblance that made me freeze every time I saw it. The curve of his brow bone, the line of his jaw, even the slight furrow between his brows when he slept—identical.
I stood up, walked out, and closed the door softly behind me.
Ella had already put away the blocks, turned off the TV, and leftjust one floor lamp on. She was curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, holding a fresh cup of tea.
"Come sit," she said. "You look like someone punched you."
I sat down, leaned against the back of the couch, and closed my eyes.
"How's the new job?" Ella asked.
"Good. The family's nice. Pay's generous, even better than you said."
"Then why the face?"
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The lampshade was off-white with a ring of fine dust around the edge. Hadn't been cleaned in days.
"The little girl," I said. "Her name is Juliet."
Ella's teacup paused mid-air.
"Six years old. Blonde hair. Green eyes." My voice was quiet, like I was talking to myself. "She looks exactly like I did when I was little."
