High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

7. Birdie

7

BIRDIE

It’s three o’clock in the morning, and there’s a giant man I hardly know sprawled out on my couch. Large limbs tangled beneath a threadbare blanket. Golden hair peeking out from the edge of the pillow he’s half crushed. Dark lashes fanned across sun-kissed cheeks. It’s oddly peaceful and wholly disarming.

We spent the last few hours cutting and primping my proposal, Liam offering suggestions and ideas that, I have to admit, seem pretty damn helpful.

He has this way of zeroing in on the essentials—like when he suggested focusing on the contrast between my raw, unpolished pieces and the more delicate, floral designs I like to weave into my work.

He says it’s that juxtaposition that makes the pieces stand out. “Anyone can do pretty or messy, but you? You do both at once. That’s what’ll catch their attention.”

And for some strange reason, I trust him.

His dad’s work is all about layers of meaning. Art that doesn’t just sit on the surface but pulls you in, makes you think twice. I know my work has that same potential, that balance between natural textures and intricate details. There’s a rawness to it, an honesty. Something you can’t fake.

Liam thinks I should lean into that more, play it up in my proposal. He says if there’s one thing donors like, it’s a clear narrative—a reason to care about the artist as much as the art.

And his ideas just make sense. Using smaller, unfinished pieces to demonstrate the shift from rough to refined. Highlighting key themes the selection committee will be looking for—a body of work that isn’t just aesthetically pleasing but that tells a story, that showcases the full breadth of my technique.

Liam’s unfiltered, blunt way of speaking means no sugarcoating, no dancing around what needs to be said. And that’s exactly the kind of help I was hoping for. The kick in the ass I needed to finish this strong.

I’m glad I asked for his help. He’s been nothing but patient and surprisingly thoughtful. Though, somewhere around hour two, the caffeine wore off, and while I was in full-on work mode, he was fading fast. He fought it at first, but eventually, even his endless energy couldn’t keep up.

Silence followed. I turned to find him completely out—head back, mouth slightly open, fast asleep. So, I grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over him. No use waking him up for something that can wait until the light of day.

Now, I’m tiptoeing down the hallway, heading for my bedroom. The apartment is quiet and still, the kind of silence that feels almost sacred at this hour. Just as I’m about to slip past Sena’s room, her door creaks open.

With her messy bed head and oversized pajamas, she sticks her head out, eyes bleary but curious. I stop in my tracks. Without a word, she grabs my wrist and yanks me inside.

“You have a man out there?” she whispers, voice full of scandal.

I roll my eyes, tugging my wrist free. “Kind of?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “What’s that mean?”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “There’s a man, yes, but he’s just helping me with my proposal. He’s . . . the son of that donor I told you about.”

“And he’s helping you with your proposal,” she awkwardly parrots, blinking twice. “So, you’re ... using him, then?”

My nose scrunches. “No, you drama queen. I asked him for help, and he was open to it.”

“And now he’s here, in the middle of the night.” She gives me this knowing look and waggles her eyebrows like she’s living in some ridiculous soap opera. “You sure you’re not trading him some favors in return?”

I shove her shoulder. “God, no. It’s not like that. Stop being weird.”

She snickers. “Whatever you say.”

I quietly slip out of her room and into my own, closing the door behind me with a sigh. I could write Sena’s accusations off as ridiculous, but even I can’t deny she has a point.

If I were to hook up with anyone these days, it would probably be him. He’s handsome, goofy in a way that puts me at ease, and just the right amount of charming without being a total schmooze.

The thought isn’t exactly unwelcome—it’s just not why he’s here.

I flop onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, my mind too wired to sleep, the house too quiet without Liam rattling on beside me. And Sena’s comments keep on stirring inside my head.

What am I really doing here? I asked Liam for help, and he agreed. I didn’t blackmail him; I didn’t coerce him by offering empty promises or favors in exchange. But does that automatically mean I’m not taking advantage?

We’ve only spent a little bit of time together, but I already know that I like being around him. He’s helpful, sure, but he also has this way of making everything feel lighter, easier—like I don’t have to try so hard to keep it all together.

Maybe that’s why I feel a little guilty, why I let Sena’s teasing dig under my skin. She’s good at pressing, cutting to the core in a way that feels almost too accurate, like she sees through all my excuses and bullshit straight to my core.

That’s how I ended up living with her in the first place. After the accident, everything shifted. My entire life flipped upside down, and nothing felt the same anymore. I pulled away from everyone I’d known for years, retreating into myself.

My friends didn’t understand why I was shutting them out, why I couldn’t just “move on” the way they all insisted I should. “It wasn’t your fault,” they’d say, like that somehow erased the guilt gnawing at my insides. Like it made a difference to Emily’s parents, her family, her friends.

They didn’t get it. I’d catch their exasperated looks whenever I refused their invites to parties or when I stopped responding to group texts. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about them anymore, but after the accident, I felt like I was existing in a different world.

A world where I was constantly haunted by what happened, and they were free to live without that weight. Eventually, I stopped trying to explain. I stopped talking to them altogether.

And I realized I didn’t miss them all that much.

So, when Sena came into the bookstore last spring to order a play anthology for her directing class, I was intrigued. She was grounded and self-assured. And I wanted to know more. I asked her what interested her in directing, and she just said, “I like being in charge. Obviously. And I’m damn good at it, too.”

It was funny. Blunt. The kind of open levity I was missing in my old relationships.

She came back the next week to pick up her book and asked me to tape up a flyer on the community board:

Theater major in search of roommate. Here for a good time, not a long time. Must be chill and punctual.

I jumped on it without even thinking. It was an out—a chance to disappear from everything that felt suffocating. To put the final bit of distance between myself and the life I once lived.

And here we are now—two random girls thrown together by circumstance. She pushes me out of my shell, and I haphazardly allow it. To some degree. It’s easier, I think, to listen to someone who doesn’t know your past. Who doesn’t try to fix you or make you explain it all.

Someone who isn’t worried so much about appearances. Because they don’t need to look like they have it all figured out, they just do , effortlessly.

I roll over, pulling the blanket up to my chin, letting the weight of the night settle over me. If I can’t change the past, then I’d quite like to stop running from it. For now, I suppose my disappearing act will have to do.

When I emerge from my room the next morning, my hair’s a mess, and my oversized T-shirt just barely covers my ass. Liam is still lying on our couch. I freeze when I see him, blinking away the sleep from my eyes.

He looks different in the daylight—more peaceful, almost misplaced, sprawled across the couch with his long limbs claiming most of the space. His messy hair falls into his eyes, and a faint dusting of stubble shades his jaw.

I bite back a smile as I watch him stir, shifting under the blanket I’d tossed over him. He looks so ... comfortable here, like he belongs.

I inch closer, trying not to wake him as I head to the kitchen for some coffee. The apartment is blissfully quiet—Sena’s already left for her usual early morning catch-up with her theater pals, something about “creative brainstorming.”

I would feel bad for waking her up in the middle of the night, but she always says theater people thrive on chaos. If anything, I probably gave her some fresh material for her next improv session.

Liam stirs, his face scrunching briefly before relaxing again. He stretches those impossibly long arms, groaning as he rubs a hand across his face. “Mornin’,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, cracking an eye open to look at me.

“Morning,” I reply, moving toward the coffee machine. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” He sits up and runs a hand through his blond hair. “What time is it?”

“Just after eight.” I pour myself a cup of coffee, taking a slow sip before offering, “You want some?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He gives me a lazy grin. “You need a ride to campus?”

I cough, caught off guard. “What was that?”

He stands, stretching again, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of toned stomach. I quickly look away, pretending to focus on something outside the window.

“I said, I can give you a ride. Since we’re both headed there.” He scratches the back of his neck, yawning. “I’ll just pop by my place, brush my teeth, wash my face ... you know, make myself look less like I just rolled off your couch.”

I laugh nervously and tug the hem of my T-shirt over my barely there shorts. “I usually ride my bike or walk, so ... thanks, but no, thanks.”

His brow furrows slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s been pretty cold lately. You really wanna bike it?”

“It’s fine,” I murmur. “It’s a quick ride.”

Truth is, I really, really don’t like car rides. Not driving, not riding with people I barely know, and definitely not being a passenger with no control. The thought makes my chest tighten a little.

“Suit yourself.”

I clear my throat, trying to shake off the unease. “Thanks again for helping me last night. I’m almost done with the proposal. And I’m feeling a lot more confident now, too.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, still watching me. “You did all the heavy lifting.”

“I’d give you a hug goodbye, but you know . . .” I gesture vaguely to my chest. “Braless, pantsless, haven’t brushed my teeth yet. And I don’t really like hugs, either. My old friends used to say Collins is like a cactus .”

“Sharp, unapproachable, and thriving in dry conditions?”

“Exactly,” I say, deadpan.

His lips twitch with the beginnings of a smirk. “It’s okay,” he says, “I’m not usually a touchy-feely sort of guy, either.”

“Really?” I snort, rolling my eyes. “Isn’t physical touch, like, every guy’s love language?”

“Didn’t realize we were talking about love here.”

My face flushes, and I instantly regret the joke. “I just mean ... most guys I know like to be touched. In some manner of speaking.”

He grins, tilting his head. “Oh, I like to be touched, Birdie. But I’m selective about who gets the honor.”

I groan and throw my hands up. “Why do I even try?”

“Because deep down, you like me.” He shrugs, his expression so casual it almost feels like he believes it. “And because I’m the only guy who’ll show up at midnight to fix your broken proposal.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m pretty sure you just fell asleep on my couch and let me finish up the real work.”

“Falling asleep was part of the process,” he says, all mock seriousness. “You know, moral support.”

“Moral support,” I repeat, deadpan. “Right. I’ll remember that the next time I’m stuck waffling alone at 3:00 a.m.”

“Please do.” He shoots me another grin, his hands still tucked in his pockets, as if he’s entirely at ease despite my awkward fumbling. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. But seriously, if you ever need help—or a ride —you know where to find me.”

He tips his chin, and I hesitate for a moment, watching with reluctant fascination as he heads toward the door. There’s something about his easy confidence that leaves me both exasperated and . . . intrigued. The kind of charm that feels effortlessly disarming, like he doesn’t even realize the effect he has.

As the door clicks shut behind him, I shake my head, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in my chest.

“ Call me for a ride ,” I mutter under my breath, mocking him despite the quiet, undeniable smile tugging at my lips. “What a generous guy.”