High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

31. Liam

31

LIAM

I wake up in a great mood. Like whistling-on-my-way-to-the-kitchen kind of mood. The kind where the world seems brighter, the air feels fresher, and everything just ... clicks. After last night with Birdie, how could it not?

I have a girlfriend, and I only had to beg her a little bit.

I’m practically floating as I shuffle into the kitchen, still wearing my sweats and a faded Dayton T-shirt, thinking about breakfast. Maybe I’ll do eggs. Or pancakes. Or both. It’s a good day. It deserves both.

When I step into the kitchen, I walk into a surreal little scene I wasn’t prepared for. Warren is already sitting at the table, like he’s been there for hours. Like this is just a normal, everyday morning routine. He’s got a bowl of cereal in front of him, a cup of coffee, and an expression that screams don’t talk to me .

“Warren?” I ask, blinking.

He glances up briefly, his dark, disheveled hair flopping over his forehead, green eyes sharp and assessing. Then, as if he’s decided I’m not worth more than a second of his attention, he looks back down at his cereal. “Morning.”

“When did you get here?” I ask, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some coffee.

“Last night.”

“And you didn’t think to let me know?”

“You asked me to move in,” he says, deadpan. “I moved in.”

I set the coffeepot down and turn to face him. “Right, but most people would, I don’t know, give a heads-up first?”

“Didn’t want to bother you,” he says with a shrug, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

I stare at him, bemused. In some aspects, he’s just like me— blunt, straightforward . In others, he’s impossible to figure out—like a book missing half its pages .

“You’re such a little weirdo, you know that?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” he says, unbothered.

I shake my head and grab a chair across from him. The guy is a total enigma, but I can’t say I’m surprised. My aunt has always been kind of a mystery—grumpy, aloof, and perpetually annoyed by the world. It’s no wonder her son would take after her.

Warren’s like a cat that tolerates you because it has no choice. He’s also infuriatingly neat. His hair looks like he woke up and tried not to fix it, but everything else about him—his posture, his movements—is methodical. Even now, he eats cereal like it’s some kind of science experiment. Precise spoonfuls, no stray drips of milk, no slurping.

“So,” I say, sipping my coffee, “Everything good with your room? My mom told me your last place had a mold problem.”

He shrugs, which I’m starting to realize is his default answer for everything. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“For me being such a great roommate,” I say with a grin. “I’m the whole package—great vibes, excellent taste in snacks, and a winning personality.”

He snorts, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve gotten out of him so far.

Normally, I’d hate this kind of chatter. I’m usually the one being prodded for conversation, and I’m not big on meaningless small talk or trying to draw words out of people who clearly don’t want to talk. But with Warren, it’s kind of fun. Like trying to crack a code no one’s solved before, and every shrug or deadpan response feels like a tiny victory.

“So,” I say, switching gears, “how’s the team? You guys getting ready for the conference championships?”

His expression shifts slightly, enough to tell me I’ve hit on something he actually cares about. “Yeah. Next month.”

“Nice,” I say. “What’s your event again? Backstroke, right?”

“Freestyle and medley relay,” he corrects.

“Ah, I’m more of a doggy paddle kind of guy,” I say with a grin. “You think you’re gonna take the title this year?”

He shrugs again. “Maybe. Depends on our split times and who shows up for the other teams.”

“Right,” I say, nodding along like I know what I’m talking about. “Split times are huge.”

His lips twitch, just barely, like he’s trying not to laugh at my cluelessness. “Yeah. They’re kind of the whole deal. But you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, do you?”

“Not even a little. I respect the hustle, though. You swimmers have it rough. Early mornings, endless laps, and smelling like chlorine 24/7.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” I say, taking another sip of coffee. “Tell that to your pruney fingers and your likely even prunier di—”

“Annnd that’s enough of that.”

“What? I’m just stating facts.”

I hold back a laugh and start making myself some pancakes as Warren finishes his cereal. He’s acting like I’m not even here, but there’s something oddly calming about his presence. Like he’s perfectly content with the quiet.

“What’s your schedule like?” I ask after a while. “We can do a calendar on the fridge.”

He stares at me, brow furrowed like I’ve just suggested synchronized swimming lessons. “Why?”

“Trying to figure out when I’ll have the kitchen to myself.”

He pulls out his phone and taps away. “Morning practice, afternoon classes, evening practice. Pretty much the same every day.”

“Cool,” I say, nodding. “Guess I won’t have to worry about hiding the good snacks.”

“I’m not interested in your protein bars and sour gummy worms, anyway.”

I sigh dramatically. “Ah, a man with no taste. No wonder you’re always so serious.”

“Right.” He stands, washes out his bowl, and sets it back in the cupboard like a robot programmed for efficiency. “See you around, Donovan.”

“Later, Flipper.”

He disappears back into his room, door clicking shut behind him.

Warren’s definitely a little strange. Grumpy, aloof, and way too serious for someone who spends most of his time in a Speedo.

Still, I think I’m gonna like having him around. He’s nothing like Chase, miles away from Hayes and James, but there’s something solid about him. And I guess, despite the unfamiliarity, change doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

It’s quiet this time of day, with most students in class or holed up in the library. Birdie walks ahead of me, her cropped bob bouncing slightly as she moves. She’s still nervous—I can see it in the way she fidgets with the strap of her bag—but there’s a steadiness to her that wasn’t there just last week.

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low as we approach the front desk.

She glances at me, her lips quirking in a small, hesitant smile. “Yeah. I think so. Thanks for coming with me.”

“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it. If she asked me to haul these pieces to the moon, I’d probably find a way. But we’re just at the Ellsworth, picking up her artwork. And standing here beside her is no big deal, really.

The receptionist barely glances up as Birdie explains why we’re here. Her pieces from the fellowship showcase are stored in the back, and she hasn’t been by to pick them up yet. She felt too awkward before—too sad, she told me last night—but today, there’s a quiet determination in her.

“This way,” the receptionist says, motioning us through a door that leads to a storage area.

The back room is dimly lit and packed with everything from towering canvases to delicate glass sculptures, all labeled and stacked neatly. Birdie scans the space, her expression softening when she spots her work.

“There they are,” she murmurs, stepping closer to a set of ceramic pieces arranged on a low shelf. Her fingers hover over one of the larger vases, brushing lightly against the glaze.

“They’re beautiful,” I say, and it’s not just a line. They are. The colors, the shapes, the way they catch the light—it’s all Birdie, through and through.

Her cheeks flush. “Thanks.”

I pick up one of the smaller bowls, running my fingers over the smooth, cool surface. It’s a deep, glossy blue, like staring into the heart of an ocean. The craftsmanship is undeniable—perfectly balanced, flawless in execution, and yet brimming with something deeply personal.

And yet, even as I admire it, there’s this nagging thought I can’t shake. I’ll never know if I’m the reason she didn’t get chosen. If my so-called “help” backfired. If my dad docked her points because he thought I gave her an unfair advantage.

Or worse—maybe she really wasn’t the best candidate, though I can’t bring myself to believe that. The idea that Birdie—who breathes life into clay in ways that feel like magic—wasn’t enough? That’s harder to swallow than any of the other possibilities.

“I still can’t believe they didn’t pick you,” I say, my voice low.

She glances at me, her brow pinching slightly. “Liam, don’t bother—”

“I’m not harping,” I say quickly, carefully setting the bowl back on the cart. “I’m just saying . . . my dad’s a loser. He should’ve chosen you.”

“He wasn’t the only deciding factor,” she says, grabbing a blanket from her bag and draping it over one of the larger pieces. “But Nick told me something interesting,” she adds lightly. “Apparently, your dad and his were fraternity brothers here at Dayton.”

I blink, then laugh—a dry, humorless sound. “Of course they were. Should’ve guessed.”

She cuts me a sharp look. “I’m not saying that’s why Nick won. Nepotism maybe gained him some points, but he’s a brilliant artist, too.”

I shrug, not in the mood to dissect my dad’s choices any longer. We’ll never know what really happened because that man is an enigma of business strategy and ego, and trying to understand his decisions is like trying to catch smoke.

“Maybe,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you weren’t just as deserving. If not more.”

Her smile is small and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, we focus on gathering her pieces, wrapping each one carefully in blankets and loading them onto a cart.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” I ask, watching her secure the last piece. “I can drive everything over to your place, then circle back and walk home with you.”

“No, it’s freezing.” She straightens, brushing her hands on her sweater, and nods. “And I trust you. Just . . . talk to me the whole way, okay? Distract me.”

“Done,” I say without hesitation. “You’re not gonna have a second to think about the car.”

She smiles, something soft and grateful. “Good.”

I close the trunk with a satisfying click and step over to open the passenger door for her. Her smile stays firmly in place, and I silently promise to do whatever it takes to keep it there for as long as she’ll let me.

Before I can shut her in, her fingers curl around the front of my shirt, tugging me in. She presses a soft kiss to my lips, her hand sneaking up to ruffle my hair before pulling back, leaving me dazed.

I blink, shaking off the haze, and catch sight of her fingers dropping back into her lap. That’s when I realize what’s missing. My hat. Damn it.

“Hold on,” I say, straightening. “I left my hat inside.”

Birdie leans back in her seat, giving me a teasing look. “Don’t take too long,” she murmurs, her voice carrying just the slightest edge of humor. “I don’t trust these drivers to not ding your bumper while we’re out here.”

I grin, closing the door gently. “Good to know you’re looking out for my precious car.”

She smirks but doesn’t say anything else as I jog back toward the gallery, retracing our steps to the storage room. My hat’s sitting right on the counter where I left it—typical—and as I grab it, the door behind me creaks open.

“Liam?”

I turn to see Claire Mahler stepping out from the back, her cropped auburn hair catching the light. She’s taller than I remember—or maybe it’s just the way she carries herself, with a self-assured ease that feels magnetic.

“Ms. Mahler,” I say, startled.

“Please,” she says, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Call me Claire.”

“Claire,” I correct, fumbling slightly. My brain is already bracing for some mention of my dad, but she doesn’t go there. Instead, she tilts her head, her green eyes sharp and curious.

“You’re friends with Bridget Collins, right?”

“Yeah, actually,” I reply, surprised. “Birdie’s just outside, loading her pieces into my car.”

Her smile deepens, her eyes softening. “Good. Can you give her something for me?” She reaches into the pocket of her blazer and pulls out a sleek white business card, extending it toward me.

I hesitate for a second before taking it, glancing down at the embossed letters. Claire Mahler, Ceramicist .

“Of course. Is everything okay?”

“More than okay,” she says, her tone deliberate yet warm. “I’d like her to call me when she has a moment. I have a proposition for her.”

My heart skips a beat, the significance of her words sinking in. “A proposition?” I echo, trying to keep my eagerness in check. “I can grab her now if you want. She’d love to talk to you.”

Claire shakes her head with an elegant flick of her hand. “I’d rather not put her on the spot. I suspect she’s had enough surprises lately. Just let her know I’m very interested in her work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say automatically before grimacing at myself. “I mean, Claire.”

She chuckles softly, already turning back toward the storage area. “Thank you, Liam. And tell Birdie she has remarkable talent. Truly.”

I stand there for a moment, staring down at the card in my hand like it’s solid gold. When I finally make my way back to the car, Birdie looks up from her phone, her brow furrowing at the look on my face.

“What?” she asks, sitting up straighter.

I slide into my seat, pull the door shut, and hold out the card. “Claire Mahler wants you to call her.”

Birdie’s eyes widen, her fingers trembling slightly as she takes the card. “What? Why?”

“She didn’t say,” I admit, grinning now. “Just that she has a proposition for you and that she thinks you’re a fantastic artist.”

Birdie stares at the card like it might dissolve in her hands, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to process the words. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face—small at first, then growing until it lights up her entire expression.

“Liam,” she breathes, her voice shaky with disbelief. “This—this is—”

“Yeah,” I say, cutting her off with a grin. “It’s a big deal. And you deserve it.”

She looks over at me, her eyes shining, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. Then, before I can react, she leans across the console and throws her arms around my neck, the awkward angle doing nothing to diminish the warmth of her embrace.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

“For what?” I ask, laughing softly as I hug her back, my hand resting lightly on her arm for balance. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You always show up,” she says simply, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, her smile softer now but no less radiant. “That means everything.”

My chest tightens, and I give her a crooked smile. “Always,” I promise.

She settles back into her seat, still clutching the card like it’s her ticket to another world, and I start the car. As we pull out of the parking lot, I can’t stop glancing at her—the way her excitement glows quietly beside me, like a sunrise breaking over the horizon. Gorgeous and so unapologetically herself.