High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

30. Liam

30

LIAM

I climb the stairs to Birdie’s apartment, my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets to keep from fidgeting, silently repeating a mantra in my head.

You’re not nervous. She just wants to talk. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

But my body isn’t buying it. My stomach twists itself into knots, and my pulse hammers like I’m halfway through a penalty sprint. Because let’s be real—no one ever says “we need to talk” when it’s something good. Those words have a track record, and it’s not a great one.

By the time I knock on her door, I’ve worked myself into a quiet panic. What if this is it? What if she’s decided she doesn’t want me around anymore? What if—

The door swings open, cutting off my frantic thoughts. Birdie stands there in a striped sweater, her cropped bob tied back on both sides with ribbon. She looks soft and tired and completely beautiful, and my chest does that weird, unsteady flutter it always does when I see her.

“Hey,” she says quietly, stepping aside to let me in. The faint scent of clay and lavender drifts toward me, so unmistakably Birdie that it sends my thoughts reeling.

“Hi, Birdie.”

She closes the door behind me, her movements careful, almost hesitant, and gestures toward the couch. “Sit?”

I do as she says, and she settles beside me, close enough for her warmth to brush against me but not close enough for our shoulders to touch. The space between us feels charged, like it’s holding the weight of everything left unsaid.

I clear my throat. “You wanted to talk?”

She pulls her legs onto the couch and tucks them beneath her. “Liam,” she starts, and my stomach sinks. “I just want to say, first of all, how much I appreciate you. You’ve been so . . . good to me. Better than I probably deserve.”

“Look, if this—”

“Let me finish,” she says, cutting me off with a small, shaky smile. “You’ve been this incredible, steady presence in my life, even when I tried so hard to distance myself. And I really want to keep . . . hanging out with you. I do. But I don’t know if I can be what you deserve. I don’t know if I can be a good girlfriend to you, if that’s what you’re looking for. Honestly, I’d probably be a really bad one.”

She laughs a little, but it’s strained, like she’s trying to make light of something that’s anything but. “What I’m asking is . . . would you stick around? Even if there was nothing romantic going on between us?”

It feels like I’ve been gutted. She’s scared—I can see it in the way her fingers twist in her lap, the way her shoulders hunch like she’s bracing for impact. But if she thinks she’s doing this for my benefit, then she’s not only scared—she’s just plain wrong.

Because I don’t need her to be perfect or put together or anything she thinks she’s not. I just need her to be Birdie.

“No, I don’t accept that,” I say firmly.

Her head snaps up, eyes wide and startled. “What?”

“I don’t accept it,” I repeat, leaning forward, my elbows resting on my knees as I face her fully. “I’m not going to lie to you, Birdie. Or to myself. There is something romantic going on between us. There has been since the day I kicked that ball through your studio window and met you. There’s a spark there, and it hasn’t gone out. Not for me, anyway.”

She blinks at me, her mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t know what to say.

“And I’m not going to keep being with you and pretending it’s something it’s not,” I continue. “I know you’re scared, so if you need time, if you need space, I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as you need. But we’re not just ‘hanging out.’ That’s not what this is, and we both know it.”

For a moment, she just stares at me, like she’s trying to process what I’ve said. Then, to my complete surprise, she laughs. It starts as a small chuckle, then grows into full-on, uncontrollable laughter.

I frown, confused. “What’s so funny?”

She shakes her head, still laughing so hard a tear slips down her cheek. I reach out instinctively, brushing it away with my thumb. My hand lingers, cupping her jaw, and she leans into the touch, her laughter tapering off into a soft, breathy sound.

“I just—” She looks up at me. “I didn’t expect you to say all that. I thought you’d agree, and we’d just . . . keep things casual.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect you to sell yourself so short,” I say, my tone softening. “You’re not a bad girlfriend, Birdie. You’re not anything bad. You’re just you. And that’s all I want.”

She stares at me, her eyes searching mine like she’s looking for a crack in my resolve. But she won’t find one. Not this time.

Finally, she lets out a shaky breath. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” I say. “I want to be with you. You want to be with me. Everything else? We’ll figure it out.”

Her gaze flickers to my lips. Slowly, she leans in, her hands resting lightly on my chest. And then she’s kissing me. Again.

She’s kissing me, and I’m sitting here like a fool, completely stunned, completely lost in the way she feels against me. Like everything else has fallen away, and it’s just her—soft and warm and perfect.

Our lips meet, and when she deepens the kiss by flicking her tongue against mine, something ignites inside me. My hand slides to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, guiding her until she swings one leg over my lap and straddles me.

“Birdie,” I murmur against her lips, my voice rough and unsteady. “Do you—”

She cuts me off with another kiss, her hands threading into my hair. “I want this,” she whispers, her breath warm against my mouth. “I’m sure.”

Her words melt my hesitation, and I kiss her harder. It’s messy and a little desperate, like we’re both trying to say a hundred things without pausing to breathe. She pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against mine, her hands cupping my face. Her thumbs trace soft, deliberate circles over my cheeks.

“You were right,” she whispers. “I am scared. But you . . . you make me feel like I don’t have to be.”

My chest tightens, and I let my hands settle on her thighs, squeezing gently. “You don’t,” I say firmly. “Not with me. I’ve got you, okay? If you don’t want to call me your boyfriend, that’s fine. But just know that I’m yours, no matter the title.”

She shakes her head, and a small, breathless laugh escapes her. “You can be my boyfriend, Liam.”

Relief crashes through me, so raw and overwhelming that it spills into my voice. “Great, I was really hoping you’d say that.”

Her laughter bubbles up again, warm and light, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all day. Then she leans in, her lips brushing against mine, and this time, the kiss is deeper, hungrier, like we’ve both been holding back for too long.

My hands move instinctively, gripping her waist, sliding up her sides, feeling the heat of her through the soft knit of her sweater. She’s so close, so perfectly here, and I know I’ll never get enough of her—of this.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, sending shivers down my spine, every nerve in my body lighting up at once. The way she presses against me, the soft, breathy sounds she makes, the way her fingertips trace the edge of my jaw—it’s intoxicating. It’s everything.

My hands move to her lower back as she shifts on my lap. A low groan escapes me, and she gasps softly, her lips parting against mine. “Birdie,” I murmur, my voice unsteady.

“Mm.” Her lips trail along my jawline, down to the curve of my neck. My head falls back against the couch, my eyes fluttering shut as her mouth brushes a spot just beneath my ear, her teeth grazing my skin. A jolt of pleasure shoots through me.

I jerk my hips, unable to help myself, pressing my erection against her, and she lets out this soft, breathy sound that makes my entire body tighten. She shifts again, grinding down, and we both gasp at the friction.

“God, Birdie,” I groan, gripping her hips to hold her steady, though it feels like I’m the one who needs grounding. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Her lips find mine again, the kiss deep and consuming, her fingers threading into my hair as I lose myself in her. My hands slide under her sweater, skimming over the warm, bare skin of her back. She arches into me, her soft moan vibrating against my mouth, and I think I might lose my mind.

I want her—badly. So badly it’s all I can think about. But I don’t want to rush her. I pull back slightly, resting my forehead against hers, my breathing ragged and uneven.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, my voice low and raw with need but laced with hesitation.

She nods, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as her eyes meet mine. “Please,” she whispers.

That one word nearly undoes me. My hand slides under the waistband of her pants, hesitating for just a heartbeat before slipping beneath the thin fabric of her panties. She’s warm and wet, impossibly soft, and the feel of her sends a shudder down my spine.

“Fuck,” I rasp, my fingers brushing lightly over her clit. Her hips jerk, and I can’t stop the groan that slips out. “You’re so . . . goddamn perfect. So responsive.”

She buries her face in my neck, her teeth scraping lightly against my skin as my fingers move in slow, deliberate circles. Her breath is hot and uneven, and I can feel the tension building in her with every movement, every shiver.

Her hips rock against my hand, matching my rhythm, and the quiet, desperate noises she’s making have me on the brink of losing control. My other hand slides up her thigh, gripping just enough to keep her steady, to anchor her as she moves.

She trembles, her breath catching. “Oh, God, Liam.”

Hearing her say my name like that—breathless, needy—it sends a pulse of heat straight through me. My hips snap up reflexively, pressing against the place where my fingers are working her, and she cries out softly, her hands clutching my shoulders like she’s holding on for dear life.

“Birdie,” I rasp, my voice breaking under the weight of the moment. I’m so close to losing it, and she hasn’t even touched me. But it’s everything—how good she feels pressed against me, how beautiful she sounds when she whispers my name, how much I want to give her everything I have, everything I am.

Her movements grow more frantic, her breath hitching as my fingers press harder, faster. She’s so wet, so warm, and every tiny sound she makes pushes me closer to the edge.

“I told you I’ve got you,” I murmur against her ear. “Just let go.”

Her body tenses, her hips stuttering as a soft, broken moan escapes her lips. She shudders against me, her nails digging into my shoulders as she falls apart, her release washing over my hand.

The sight of her, the feel of her trembling against me, the way she whispers my name like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded—it’s too much. My hips snap up again, grinding against her, and the tension inside me unravels all at once. A guttural groan rips from my throat as I come, the heat of it coursing through me in waves, raw and overwhelming.

We stay like that for a moment, tangled together, both of us breathing hard and trembling. Her forehead rests against mine, and her hands slide down to cup my face, her thumbs brushing lightly over my cheeks.

“Wow,” she whispers, her lips curving into a small, breathless smile.

I press a soft kiss to her forehead before gently easing her off my lap. “Be right back,” I murmur, standing and heading to the bathroom.

Once inside, I grab a washcloth, wet it with warm water, and clean myself up first, my hands a little shaky but steady enough to get the job done. My reflection catches my eye for a second—flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and a dazed kind of smile I don’t even try to hide.

Shaking my head, I rinse a new washcloth and wring it out before heading back to the living room.

Birdie is still curled up on the couch, looking softer and lighter, like the weight of the world isn’t pressing down on her quite as hard anymore.

“Here,” I say, crouching in front of her. “Let me clean you up.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t protest as I carefully help her shimmy out of her pants just enough to reach her thighs. I wipe between her legs with deliberate care, keeping my movements gentle and precise. Once finished, I tie the little drawstring back up securely.

“There,” I say as I sit back on my heels. “All good.”

She brushes her fingers over my jaw. “Thank you.”

I nod, standing to toss the washcloth back into the bathroom before returning to her side. I pull her into my arms again, and she leans into me, her cheek pressing against my chest as I drape a blanket over both of us.

It’s obvious something fundamental has shifted between us, like we’ve uncovered a tiny bit of solid ground to stand on together, even if the rest of the world still feels unsteady.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, breaking the quiet. Her fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, her voice wavering just enough to crack something in me. “For trying to keep you at arm’s length. For thinking you were better off.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her, tilting her chin up so I can meet her eyes. They’re shining, but not with tears. It’s something else—something warm and hopeful that makes my chest ache. “Just . . . don’t do it again, okay? Because I’m not going anywhere, Birdie. Not unless you tell me to.”

She swallows hard. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I echo, leaning back against the couch and letting her settle against me.

We sit in the quiet, her hand resting over my heart, her breathing soft and even. And I’m thankful. So unbelievably thankful because right now, it feels like we’ve found something real, something solid—like we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.