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“Linebacker.”

I guess that explains why he’s so huge. He’s several inches over six feet tall and at least a couple hundred pounds of solid muscle. The couch dips noticeably on his side.

“Ah. It makes sense now.” I pop another pretzel in my mouth, chewing slowly.

“What does?” he asks, lifting one dark brow.

“That comment about getting a blow job whenever you want.”

His smirk fades, and something shifts in his expression. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. It was very out of line for me.”

I shrug. “What? I’m sure it’s true. Women generally line up and drop to their knees for athletes, right? Like they’re some special, secret aphrodisiac.”

I say this casually, like I’m not sitting across from a man whose jaw looks like it was carved specifically to ruin women’s lives. Like I haven’t been sneaking glances at the way his T-shirt stretches across his chest every time he reaches for a pretzel.

“But not you?” he asks, seeming amused by me.

I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry, no. Sports don’t really do it for me. I’m more impressed you knew what a Boppy pillow is for.”

Alexei chuckles, and I like the sound of it immediately. Deep and rich and uninhibited, like he wasn’t expecting to laugh and couldn’t help himself.

I help myself to more cheese and a handful of grapes, and we settle into a silence that somehow isn’t awkward. The apartment is quiet except for Ella’s soft breathing and the distant hum of the city through the windows.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, dragging a pretzel through the hummus.

“Sure.”

“Are you always this . . . I don’t know. Domestic? Or is this like an act you put on when you bring stray women home?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t make a habit of bringing stray women home, for the record. But, uh, yeah. I grew up in a house full of women. My mom, three sisters. My dad worked nights a lot, so I helped out. You learn to cook, clean, take care of babies. It was either that or get steamrolled.”

“Your dad worked nights?”

“He was a security guard. Came to this country with nothing and worked his way up. Two jobs sometimes, three during the holidays. But he, uh, he died my senior year of high school.”

The way he says it—matter-of-fact, but with a softness underneath—tells me it still hurts. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. It was a long time ago.” He pauses. “What about your parents? If you don’t mind me asking.”

I pull in a slow breath. “Car accident. Two years ago. A drunk driver ran a red light. They were, um . . . they were coming to watch me in a college play. I was in the theater program.” I look down at my hands. “I dropped out after. Lost my scholarship. Lost my focus. Lost pretty much everything.”

The silence between us changes. Not awkward, but heavier. Weighted with the things we’ve both lost.

“I’m sorry, Ryleigh.”

“Thanks.” I borrow his words from a moment ago. “It was a long time ago.” Two years isn’t actually a long time, but it feels like it should be.

When I look at Ella again, resting between us on the couch, her little eyelids have fallen closed. She’s sound asleep, pacifier still in her mouth, but still now.

“Can I ask whose baby this is?” Alexei asks, his voice quiet so as not to wake her.

“My ex-roommate, Andi. She left her with me a couple of days ago. I’ve been trying to call her nonstop since, but her cell phone is turned off. I have no idea when she’s coming back.”

He nods, his brow furrowed. I can see him processing it—the strangeness of it, the questions he probably wants to ask but won’t. Not tonight.

“Come on,” he says finally. “Let’s get you guys to bed.”

I nod and rise to my feet, lifting Ella carefully so as not to wake her. She makes a small sound of protest but settles against my chest, warm and heavy with sleep. Alexei carries the platter into the kitchen, wraps it in plastic, and sets it inside his refrigerator.