CHAPTER THREE #2
My words act as some sort of beacon for Liam.
He finally emerges from his relaxed pose on the molding of the library entry to amble toward the rest of us.
That devilish grin still frolics on his face, his dirty-blond hair a mess in an I-look-this-good-rolling-out-of- your -bed seductive kind of way.
His hazel eyes are crinkled at the corners, and as he nears, a whiff of nicotine wafts over me—a smell I detest. Celeste has always found it sexy, but I can’t for the life of me understand why.
Being a doctor’s daughter cements certain things.
Other than the lingering blanket of smoke, Liam is all sex appeal and nothing but trouble.
He stops right before me, beer in hand, his teeth snagging his lower lip as though I were his missing pretzels. “Staying, like moving in?”
“Yes,” Wells barks, tugging on my hip possessively. “She’ll be here as my … guest .”
Guest? Okay. We’re not sharing our possible engagement with Liam then.
Liam stretches his arm out, squeezing Wells’s shoulder, but never averting his fixed scrutiny from me. “Since we all live here, it seems as though she’ll be my guest too. Right, Chief?”
Ty smacks Liam’s chest. “So, Liam, this is Ivanna Kingston. Ivy, meet Liam Graves, otherwise known as the pot stirrer.”
“Hey.” Liam laughs as though Ty nailed it and he’s not at all ashamed. “I keep things fun around here. Wells and Gage are far too serious.” His eyes bounce in mockery. “What about you, Ivy? You like to have a good time, don’t you?” He winks, and although he’s kind of a dick, I like him.
A laugh spills out of me while I take in the three of them—all lean and fit and at least six-two or six-three, Liam being the tallest by a hair over Wells. And their charisma, although each different, is as lofty as their height.
“Yeah, I’m not opposed to fun.”
His lips twist in doubt. “That outfit certainly camouflages your fun side—”
Before Liam can continue commenting on my attire or so obviously dragging his gaze up and down my body, I cut him off.
“I dressed to meet Wells tonight, confident he’d be the picture of class.
If I’d known I would be hanging with some frat boys”—I gesture to his black T-shirt, relaxed jeans, and the Modelo in his hand—“I would’ve worn my vintage Pearl Jam tee and cutoff jean shorts, fully prepared for keg stands. ” I shrug. “Next time.”
Ty howls with a clap while Wells chuckles quietly beside me, his fingers lightly nudging my hip.
Liam nods to both of them. “I like her. She can stay.” He turns toward me. “But now, you owe me a keg stand, High Society .”
Ty tugs me away from Wells, wryly quipping, “How about something to drink, seated at a kitchen stool?” He tows me out of the library, Wells and Liam staying behind.
“You did good,” he says as we halt at the island.
“Liam’s a shark, and if he smells fear, he goes for the kill.
He’ll keep trying to ruffle you, but you’ve already impressed him. ”
An odd sense of pride fills me. These men are far more enthralling than the boys in college and more put together, but some things never change.
I drop onto a stool, brushing my fingertips across the smooth granite countertop. “He came off a bit more like a wild boar, but thanks, Ty. I bet it’s a trip living here with both of them. You seem far less … intense.”
He tilts his head, a heaviness briefly coasting over his features. “We all have our demons, Ivy. I just appease mine with a smile.”
The weight of that hits me. “I know the feeling.”
“I’m sure you do,” he replies with a wistful roll of his lips, which seems wholly misplaced and comforting, all at once. Like he can see how much I hurt from the loss of my father—his essence anyway—without me ever showing it. Like we share a secret somehow even though we don’t.
He offers me a vast selection of drinks and snacks, ultimately pouring me a glass of the lemonade I settle on due to the hour drive I have in store. While waiting for Wells and Liam, we bond over our common hobby of people-watching.
“If we’re ever in a crowd together, I’ve got a game for us,” I say. “Match a person to a movie character as quickly as possible.”
He leans forward on the island, sipping a Kraken Black Label Rum and Coke, his brown eyes narrowed. “Are the matches judged by accuracy or humor?”
“Hmm. We need a sliding scale—too many variables, but humor is always favorable.” On the word favorable , Liam swaggers in.
I jerk my head in his direction and lower my voice.
“Humorous but possibly kind of accurate—Brad Pitt’s character, Tyler Durden, in Fight Club .
But an equally funny choice is Kevin Bacon’s character, Ren, in Footloose . ”
Ty smacks the counter with a cackle. “Fucking perfect.”
Propping his weight on the counter beside my stool, Liam speaks low in my ear. “What’d I miss in here?”
“Nothing much.” I grin. “Do you dance?”
Liam winks, beaming like he’s won something, but his eyes shift between Ty’s howling and my barely contained laughter. He straightens, deciding not to answer.
Astute.
Wells saunters in, surveying the room with a cocked brow, which makes Ty and me lose it more.
“We’ll save that one for later,” Ty says with a snicker, referring to Wells.
I nod. “Better be good with all the extra time you’ll have.”
His kind eyes twinkle with amusement. “Challenge accepted.”
Wells sidles up beside me, fingers grazing down my arm, leaving goose bumps in their wake, before threading with mine. “Let me show you your room.”
While his touch is thrilling, relief floods my veins that there’s a separate room for me.
Of course, the part of me that has lost all sagacity is pouting in disillusionment.
A pang stings my gut, like I’m almost wishing for a one-room, one-bed, green-card marriage.
It’s as though every moment of wise decision-making and overthinking that has driven my life choices is disintegrating at the foot of Gavin Wells.
Tonight, I’ve had fun, felt connected and seen—all the markings of a fantastic first date.
But marriage? He’s showing me to my room, in his house, where I will live as his wife with a separate bedroom and three other male roommates.
This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever considered.
But if not this, then what? One of those pretentious, waxy society bores my mother picked?
Ughhh. Even if one of them could be a decent pick for this completely fucked-up situation, I can’t bear the thought of her striking a deal , like I’m an arm candy offering.
This is maddening. I should forgo my inheritance.
That’s the smart thing to do. Walk away.
I have my art, my education, my connections.
Starting fresh wouldn’t be so bad, and it’s not as though my mother will kick me out and disown me.
Plus, I’ve never really cared about the money.
Although it’s easy to say that, having always had it.
I might not be spoiled, but being broke still probably wouldn’t suit me, not that it suits anyone.
“Ivy?” Wells’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I realize I haven’t absorbed anything he’s shown me.
We’re standing in the middle of a beautiful bedroom with classic decor—cream walls, plush cream-and-black bedding with purple accents in the pillows, drapes, and coffered ceiling. Tasteful and elegant.
My eyes flit around the room before landing on his. “Yeah?”
He chuckles. “I was showing you that you’ll have an en suite bathroom, but you seem to be thinking about something else.”
“Sorry … I struggle with staying present … a lot.” My heart is hammering in my chest, making it difficult to catch my breath. “It can be frustrating for other people—”
“I’m not frustrated.” His fingers squeeze mine. He’s still holding my hand.
“No?” I ask, mesmerized by our tethering. It’s been two days since we met. Right? Or three? Doesn’t matter. It’s strange, new, and familiar at once.
“No. Where did you go this time?”
This time. Because I drifted away at the restaurant too. Most of the time, it doesn’t embarrass me. I don’t usually worry about impressing people or care if they’re irritated by my zoning out—it’s not as though I purposely lose myself or lose time—but nothing about this, about him, is usual.
“Just thinking about being here … or not,” I answer.
“Ahh.” He moves us a few steps into the wall so I can lean back comfortably. “It’s a lot to think about. And at the restaurant? Where’d you go when you zoned out there?”
“I’m not sure,” I lie.
Sharing that isn’t happening because at the restaurant, I was imagining how different this would have been if he’d simply seen me, felt an attraction, and asked me out.
How maybe we’d be swept up in one another, have a passionate love affair, and marry the old-fashioned way.
Maybe the way we’re handling it is somewhat old-fashioned—marriage as a business deal.
Regardless, that little jaunt into the beauty of what could’ve been if this inheritance issue hadn’t stolen it lent a muted echo of peace. Peace that isn’t mine to hold.
Dandelion dreams.
“You don’t want to tell me.” There’s a sternness to his tone, proclaiming he doesn’t appreciate me withholding something.
“I asked because you seemed free at the restaurant, but this time, you were anxious.” He braces his shoulder against the wall, close enough now for me to feel his breath cascading over my cheek and neck even though he towers over me with my heels on.
Can he hear my battering pulse? See the chilled bumps?
He tips my chin up so I’m staring into his dizzying emerald eyes. “Are you having second thoughts? Don’t lie to me this time.”
Being the inexperienced dater that I am, the intimacy in this moment—his command to tell him the truth, the raspy timbre he used to deliver it, his proximity to me, and his knuckle under my chin—is overwhelming.