Page 152 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
Back in France, spotting a toy he liked, he'd stare through the window forever, then tug my hand and say, "Mom, let's go."
He rarely asked for stuff. So when he did, I couldn't say no.
"Okay," I said.
His eyes lit up, whole body springing off the floor, spinning in the living room, nearly clipping the coffee table. "Juliet! I'm going to play with Juliet!" He ran back, hugging my leg. "Mom, can I bring Giraffe? Juliet said she'd show me her rabbit!"
"Sure."
"Can I wear my blue shirt?"
"Sure."
He whooped and bolted to his room. I heard him rummaging in the closet, humming that French nursery rhyme, tune all over the place but happy as hell.
I slumped on the sofa, watching his back vanish down the hall.
"Saturday, four p.m.," his voice loosened up on the line, "I'll pick you up."
"Okay."
I hung up and stared at the screen a bit. Leo yelled from his room. "Mom, does Giraffe need a bow tie?" I got up and went to help him find one.
Saturday afternoon, I stood in front of the mirror longer than planned.
That dress in the closet—bought five years ago. Worn maybe twice, shoved in a suitcase bottom in France, hauled thousands of miles, hung in a corner since New York.
I slipped it on.
Zipped it up and stood there, looking.
Champagne color, high waist, hem two fingers below the knee, no frills. When I bought it, the clerk said it suited me. I just thought the price was right, didn't care.
But now, in the mirror, I got what she meant.
Five years had marked my face. Not wrinkles—something deeper.Shadows from too many late-night cries, the edge from scraping by alone with a kid in a foreign land.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, grabbed my bag, and headed to the door.
Leo waited there, in his blue shirt, hair slicked down with water but a cowlick sticking up in back, no matter what. He clutched Giraffe, looking up at me.
"Mom, you look so pretty."
"Thanks, baby." I knelt and smoothed down the cowlick. "You're handsome too."
"Will Juliet like my Giraffe?"
"She will."
He nodded, satisfied, yanked open the door, and ran out.
Downstairs, a black car idled. Not the SUV from before—longer, body gleaming in the sun. Driver stood by the door in a black suit, white gloves, spotted us, bowed slightly, and opened the back.
Leo's steps slowed, he looked up at me, eyes a bit nervous.
"It's okay," I took his hand, "hop in."
He sucked in a breath, climbed up, settled in the back, hugging Giraffe to his chest, buckling up good. I slid in after, door shut, car quiet for a beat, leather scent mixed with faint woodsy cologne—familiar, his car's smell.
