I DECIDE to spend the night at Liam’s.
In his spare room.
Staring at the ceiling.
Wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
“Why didn’t you go into his bedroom?” I mutter.
When I’d mentioned that I was tired, he’d told me to go to bed while he did his final workout of the day, and muscle memory had me heading in here.
Not his.
In my defense, I was thinking about Amelia’s wedding.
What did I agree to?
All I remember is getting drunk on tequila—ever since just the smell makes me gag.
Still, it’s Amelia’s fault that I came into this room and it’s her damn fault that I heard him go for a shower ten minutes ago and I wasn’t there to see it.
He’s under the spray.
Naked.
Liam fucking Donnghal is naked and, unlike on Christmas Day, I’m allowed to touch him.
I could go in there now.
I could see those abs up close and personal.
And his thighs.
Hockey players have the biggest thighs. The type of thighs that need tailoring and that standard pants don’t fit.
Can you imagine how beautiful those muscular thighs are?
And I could be looking at them.
But I’m not.
Because…
“Jesus Christ, you’re a moron,” I grouse, rolling onto my side as I gather the comforter into a ball so I can hug it seeing as I was stupid and can’t hug him.
Which I want to.
Just being in this room is a reminder of how slow on the uptake I am when it comes to Liam.
Either that or it took being mugged and sitting in a stinky alley for a half hour until my knee stopped throbbing long enough to let me stagger back to his building to draw the wool away from my eyes…
I could have died tonight.
Been raped.
It might have been my end.
Instead, I’m at the beginning of something beautiful.
This bedroom is decorated in colors that I chose because he designated it as my space when I helped him move in.
That means I have a change of clothes here, a desk where I work, and a computer he bought me too.
I have a bunch of flowers on the nightstand that he has a florist replenish every couple days.
There’s always ice cream in the freezer even though he can’t eat it.
And every time he leaves the state, he brings me back a Starbucks mug.
Manga comics sit on the coffee table in the living room; new copies appear every month.
Never mind the thirty-five hundred on unnecessary Japanese stationery.
I have a feeling that he’s been courting me for a while and I was too afraid to see it.
Talk about being a slowpoke.
Brothers don’t do that kind of stuff for their sisters. I’ve got three of them and none of them even know that I’m addicted to stationery, never mind which textbook is driving me crazy. They sure as hell don’t offer to make up a pop quiz for me.
Liam did, though.
Pressing my face into the comforter, I hide from my idiocy.
Idiocy that would have made things a lot simpler for us both had I clued in a while ago.
How long have I wanted him?
Too long, that’s how fucking long. Longer than long. Since Amelia’s wedding long. (Irony.) Maybe even longer than that.
How many times, when I’ve stayed here, did I wish I had the right to enter his bedroom when he has a nightmare?
Too many times, that’s how fucking many.
How often have I watched him on the ice and admired his moves? Wishing I could leap on him when he got out of the stadium and fuck all that power in the back of his SUV?
Too often, that’s how fucking often.
Then a thought occurs to me.
Thirty-five.
Thirty-five manga comics.
And thirty-five flowers when he buys me a bunch of them.
Thirty-five hundred (and twenty-six cents) on the stationery.
His number.
My pendant.
“What the fuck is with 35—”
A knock sounds at my bedroom door.
I jackknife in the bed. “Liam?”
“Who else would it be?”
Grinning, tension abating, I answer, “I’m not sure. With the luck I’m having today, a home invader.”
He snorts. “Well, opportunity knocks because it’s me.”
“Bigheaded much,” I call back, but I scamper off the mattress with an eagerness I’m not ashamed of, ignoring my knee which is a touch sore.
The sap in me lurrrrrved when he pressed a kiss to the bandage earlier, never mind my other boo-boos—that deserves a special shout-out.
Pulling the door open, I stare at him. Really stare. Because he’s half-naked with a towel wrapped around his hips and I’m allowed to look this time.
Jesus on a cracker.
No, Mary on a cracker because she’d dig what I’m looking at more than Jesus would.
Unable to stop myself, I whistle.
He snickers. “Like what you see?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“If you’re allowed to objectify me—”
“You can objectify me too,” I concur immediately, waving a hand over my form. “Knock yourself out.”
His laughter hits a part of me that’s not as good as the G-spot but almost. He’s been so different since the kidnapping that these moments aren’t exactly few and far between but they’re more precious.
The realization that his happiness means as much to me, if not more, than my own is earth-shattering.
Not that he knows. He just groans. “Did you buy those shorts to torture me?”
I blink at him. “These ones?” They’re cutoffs. Ancient. “Nah. They’re from high school. They’re comfortable as hell. I only wear them to bed now.” Seeing as they’re threadbare in some places.
“I thought I recognized them. Fuck.” He grabs my shoulders and forcibly turns me around. “Mon Dieu.”
The sound is guttural.
I love it.
I love that I made him make that noise.
I love that I brought out the Québécois in him.
Still, I have to complain, “Hey, I can’t ogle you from this side.”
“You can ogle me all you want in my bedroom.” His hands tighten on my shoulders. “No funny business. You’re still reeling from what happened today. Just to sleep.”
“And to ogle,” I remind him, smiling a little. Twisting to look at him, I drawl, “How didn’t I know you were a gentleman? And how did that happen when you’re best friends with Kow?”
“He didn’t rub off on me.”
“Thank God for that.”
He groans at my smirk. “Ugh. I know too much about him to go anywhere near him without disinfectant.”
Laughing, I duck out of his hold and turn around. “That invitation still open?”
“Sure is.”
Nodding, I grab his hand and tug him out of the bedroom and lead him down the hall.
“I guess I thought you’d have gone into my room anyway,” he mutters, tone sheepish.
“I kind of meant to.”
“Kind of?”
“I somehow ended up walking into mine though I shouldn’t have entered yours without your permission anyway.”
“You have free rein over my apartment. You could have gone in there before this afternoon, but if you need the invitation, here it is. Go in my bedroom whenever you want.”
“As easy as that?”
“Nothing about you is easy, Gracie,” he teases.
Though I huff, I grin at nothing—he knows me too well.
We head into his room, which is three times the size of mine, more of a suite than anything else. I peruse the space that I helped decorate and murmur, “You sure about this?”
“Nervous, Gracie?”
I squint at him. “No.”
“Then why ask?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “This is just… Your bed is big.”
“I’m a big guy.”
I stare at his feet. “Is it true what they say about big guys with big feet?”
“What? That we have big shoes?”
I shove him in his side. “I was talking about socks actually.”
“‘Course you were.” He hooks his arm around my shoulder. “You can go back to your bedroom if you want.”
‘Your bedroom.’ Not the spare room. Not your office.
I want to believe that an evolution in our relationship won’t wreck our friendship, but as much as I know that’s wishful thinking, those words, along with his earlier vow that nothing between us will change, proves that he has been courting me.
He’s done a damn fine job of it too. I definitely consider myself thoroughly courted and nerves aside, I’m ready to yank off my big-girl panties and for phase two to commence.
Letting go of his hand and embracing carpe diem, I toss myself onto his bed and immediately regret it when the dull ache in my head and the worse one in my knee throb.
No way am I about to tell him that, though. Or about how my wrist is hurting. He’ll be chivalrous and that’s the last thing I need tonight.
As the comforter explodes around me in a puffy cloud of feathers, I change tack: “What happened at Amelia’s wedding?”
“You drank too much tequila,” he replies, but his voice is muffled.
“Can’t touch the stuff anymore,” I grumble, leaning back on my elbows and seeking him out.
Ultimately, I find him with his head in one of the closets which is when he lets the towel around his waist drop.
Fuck.
Liam’s ass.
My God.
I’ve seen it in shorts.
Boxer briefs.
But naked?
I wolf-whistle.
It’d be a crime not to.
He pops his head out so that he can grin at me, but he keeps it mostly R-rated, not X, by keeping the goods aimed at the closet. When he retreats, I get another shot of his ass as he bends down to put a pair of boxer briefs on.
“You did that on purpose,” I grumble, sitting higher on my hands as I go hunting for a glimpse of his dick that gossip says is gargantuan. It certainly felt big earlier. “You could have gotten dressed before you came to my room.”
“And miss the opportunity to tease you?” he chides, turning back to face me now that he’s decently covered. “It’s not the first time you’ve seen me like this. That was after that shit with Condon…”
My cheeks blossom with heat. “I mean, you were naked.”
“I had a towel around my waist.”
“With nothing on underneath it.”
“So did a bunch of other players.”
I scoff and, because I’m not thinking straight, speak without caution. “Why would I be interested in what they’re packing?”
Triumph flares in his eyes and that, combined with how dumb I feel for letting those words slip, has me tensing up.
Like he knows, he strides toward the bed, and I watch him watch me. Watch as he climbs onto the mattress. Watch as he crawls over to the other half then rolls onto his side so we can stare at each other.
Fuck, he’s gorgeous.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Nothing good if that shadow in your eyes is any indication.”
“You make it sound like I have cataracts,” I grouch.
“Gracie!”
“Maybe I should book an appointment with the optometrist…”
His hand slides behind my nape and he takes the weight of my skull so there’s no hiding when he urges me to look at him. “Gracie, what’s got you all nervous?”
Nothing until I blurted out something that could push him away—guys don’t like needy girls.
But because I have faith in him, and because he’s staring at me with those eyes I want to drown in, I tell him the truth: “I don’t want to lose you.”
I’m a solitary person who’s yanked herself out of the familial fold because I’m self-aware enough to know that their toxicity isn’t good for me. It’s only since he moved to New York that I’ve realized I don’t want to be alone anymore.
I want to be with him.
When he shakes his head, my heart stutters, then he answers, “You’ll never lose me. Ever. That’s not going to happen. Anyway, I’m not the one who’s the problem here.”
Even as relief from his assurance settles in my soul—his cockiness comes in good for something—that last statement has my brows lifting. “Huh?”
“I’ve wanted you for years, Gracie. Which part of that aren’t you understanding? You’re the one who could change their mind here.”
I don’t know why that has me shuffling closer but it does.
Not stopping until our fronts are melded together, I mutter, “You know at Amelia’s wedding?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ll have to remember what happened on your own—”
“I know. I’m talking about something else.”
Liam chuckles but it’s better than usual because his minty breath whispers over my face. It’s an intimacy I’ve never experienced with him before and I like it.
A lot.
“What are you talking about, then?”
“After karaoke, I wanted to kiss you,” I admit in a rush.
“You should have. It’d have made what happened a helluva lot more interesting.”
Scowling, I shove his shoulder. “Tell me!”
There’s a twinkle in his eyes that I don’t trust. “Nah. It’ll be fun watching you try to figure out what you agreed to.”
Mouth gaping, I repeat, “What I agreed to? Not you too?”
He smiles. Slowly. Smugly. Jerk. “Now, I have to get some sleep so please stop disturbing the talent.”
Before I can even huff about damn athletes being pussy teases, he twists me onto my side and tucks me into him.
Sometimes, it sucks being short, but now is not one of those times.
As Liam uses me like I’m a teddy bear, I don’t even mock him for calling himself the ‘talent.’
Instead, I let him draw the comforter from his side of the bed and wrap us up in it like we’re the stuffing in a burrito.
It’s only by chance that I see the clear stand housing the brass compass I bought him for Christmas a couple years ago.
He has it tipped forward so you can see where the compass points while also exposing the interior that I’d paid to have engraved with a quote from Winston Churchill, of all people, that I thought might resonate with him:
“Success is not final; failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”
In the aftermath of everything that went down, it had seemed particularly apt.
As I stare at the old gift that he’s placed on his nightstand, that he keeps close, Liam presses a kiss to my temple.
It feels… nice.
Warm and tender and sweet—things I couldn’t have expected but that I love nonetheless. That, in all honesty, I need more than I do an orgasm tonight.
Something the aches in my body agree with.
Hand smoothing over his forearm, I study the compass until my eyes start to close as I realize I’m a million times more comfortable than I’ve ever been in my life.
Still, sweet or not, I can’t let him have the final word.
“You’re the talent because you got me off today,” I mumble sleepily. “Not because you’re a hockey star.”
He kisses my temple again. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Gracie.”
With a hum, I nestle into him and, almost immediately, fall asleep.
When I dream, maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it’s of a compass. One that always swings a certain way, to a certain man, who might very well have his own gravitational field.
