Chapter Twelve #2
and finish each other’s sentences during a job. Somewhere along the way, we became more than partners, and then somehow, we
became nothing at all.
He still doesn’t know why I left. I’m not sure I could explain it even now—just that one morning I woke up next to him and knew that if I didn’t go, I never would.
That the life we were living would become the only life I’d ever have.
So I wrote three lines on hotel stationery, took nothing but my go bag, and disappeared.
And he didn’t come looking. I don’t know if that made it better or worse.
I took the heartbreak I’d caused myself and I used it to build a new life, one that didn’t involve Liam or diamonds or looking over my shoulder every time I walked down the street.
Except now the past is sitting across from me in a dive bar in Red Hook, asking me to dig up twenty million dollars from frozen
ground.
“He doesn’t know,” I hear myself say. “About any of it. Who I was, what I did. He thinks I’m just Sloane’s assistant.”
“And you want to keep it that way.”
It’s not really a question either.
“I don’t know what I want.” The admission feels like pulling a tooth. “I want to be the person he thinks I am. I want to deserve
the way he looks at me. I want to pretend for just a little longer that I can have a normal life with a normal future.”
“But you can’t.” Liam’s voice is gentler than I expect. “Not with this hanging over you. Not with someone hunting for a diamond
that can bring your whole new life crashing down. That could get you killed.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
I finish my whiskey in one long swallow and set the glass down harder than I mean to. The sound makes the bartender glance
over, then look away.
“When do we leave?”
Something morphs across Liam’s face. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or something more complicated that I don’t have the energy
to unpack right now.
“In a couple of days,” he says. “I’ll send the details to the burner. Pack for cold—we’re talking negative thirty, maybe worse.”
“And Knox?”
“Tell him you’re going somewhere for Christmas. Family emergency, old college friend, whatever story works.”
“And if he wants to come with me?”
“Then don’t let him.” Liam’s eyes are steady on mine. “This has to stay between us. The fewer people who know, the safer everyone
is. Including him.”
I nod, already calculating the lies I’m going to have to tell. The excuses. The misdirection. Knox will want to come. Knox will want to protect me, because that’s who he is, and I’m going to have to push him away to keep him safe from a past he doesn’t even know exists.
Merry fucking Christmas indeed.
“I should go.” I slide out of the booth. “He’s expecting me for dinner.”
Liam stands too, and for a moment we’re close enough that I can smell his cologne. Different than it used to be, something
warmer and less sharp, but still somehow essentially him. My body remembers things my brain is trying to forget.
“Hailey.” He catches my wrist as I turn away. His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling my heart pitter patter. “For
what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For not giving you everything you deserved. For everything.”
“Don’t.” I pull my hand back. “You don’t get to apologize for five years of silence in a bar booth. Not tonight.”
He lets me go. Liam’s never been one to push when pushing won’t get him anywhere.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “whoever this Knox guy is—he’s lucky. I hope he knows that.”
Something in my chest cracks, just a little.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
I walk out into the December cold without looking back.
The whole subway ride to Knox’s place, I rehearse the lies. Traffic. Chloe had a crisis. My phone died. Anything to explain
why I’m showing up forty-five minutes late with guilt written all over my face and whiskey on my breath.
But when Knox opens his door, all my careful excuses evaporate.
He’s wearing a soft gray henley pushed up at the sleeves, and there’s a dish towel thrown over his shoulder like he forgot
it was there. His apartment is warm behind him, golden with lamplight, and the smell of rosemary and butter drifts from the
kitchen. He looks comfortable. Domestic. Like a home I didn’t know I was missing.
“Hey.” His face changes when he sees me—that instant softening, tender and open. “You made it.”
“I made it.”
He reaches for me, and I let him pull me inside, out of the cold, into the heat of his apartment and the smell of something
incredible cooking. The door closes behind us and suddenly we’re in our own little world, the city locked out, and he’s cupping
my face in both hands like I’m something fragile.
“You’re freezing.” His thumbs trace along my cheekbones, warming the skin there. “And you have snowflakes in your hair.”
“It started coming down on the walk from the subway.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just brushes the melting flakes from my hair with gentle fingers, tucking a strand behind my
ear, his eyes searching my face like he’s reading a map. Looking for something. I don’t know if he finds it.
“Everything okay?” His voice is soft. “You look . . .”
I don’t know how to finish that sentence for him. Guilty? Terrified? Like I’m about to destroy everything?
“Just tired,” I manage. “Long week.”
He keeps looking at me, those pale blue-gray eyes seeing too much, the way they always do. For a second I’m sure he knows.
He has to know. You can’t look at someone like that and not see the lies written all over them.
But then his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, and he leans down and kisses me.
Not rushed. Not demanding. Just slow and thorough, his lips moving against mine like we have all the time in the world. One
hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and the other settles at my waist, pulling me closer until there’s
no space left between us. He tastes like red wine and something sweet, and he kisses me like I’m the only thing that matters,
like everything outside this apartment has simply ceased to exist.
I melt into him. I can’t help it. My hands find his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through the soft cotton, and I let myself get lost in this for a moment. In being wanted. In being held like I’m precious instead of a problem.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. His breath mingles with mine in the warm space between us. He kisses
my forehead, soft and lingering, then takes my hand and leads me toward the kitchen.
“How was Chloe?” he asks over his shoulder, and the question lands like a knife between my ribs.
“Good,” I lie. “She’s good.”
He doesn’t push. He just squeezes my hand and tells me dinner’s almost ready, and I follow him like the coward I am.
The guilt sits heavy in my stomach, right next to the whiskey.
Tomorrow. I have until tomorrow to figure out how to say goodbye.