Chapter 4
Liam
Liam walked to his car as if someone else was moving his body for him, each step automatic and disconnected. The world outside the studio felt wrong. The sunlight was too sharp; the hum of traffic too loud; even the fit of his shoes felt off, like they didn’t belong to him anymore.
He didn’t stop to talk to anyone, just nodded absently when a PA mentioned they’d be in touch. One moment his keys were in his hand, the next he was behind the wheel, caught in traffic, staring blankly at the glow of a red light.
His palm dragged over his face, and the heat of his skin startled him.
That hadn’t been acting.
Except—of course it had. Jacob Wolfe was a legend for a reason. A generational talent. The kind of actor who didn’t just play a role but sank into it so completely the rest of the world bent around him. It made it impossible to tell where the character ended and Jacob began.
That’s all it had been. It had to be.
God, the way Jacob had looked at him. That stare that pinned him in place and made it feel like nothing else in the room existed. It had to have been orchestrated. Jacob knew exactly what he was doing, because otherwise—
No. He couldn’t even finish that thought. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
He clung to that explanation, listing details as proof: Jacob’s body language, the steady escalation, the exact pause before the kiss.
All of it too perfect to be anything but deliberate—a masterclass.
And Liam? He’d just done his job; matched the energy and fed off the moment. That was what a good scene partner did.
Sure, maybe his hands had curled, his breath had caught, and maybe his knees had gone weak for a second, but that was adrenaline. That was the scene, that was—
Jesus. His mouth was still tingling.
Then why hadn’t his stomach settled? Why couldn’t he stop replaying that rough sound Jacob made right before pulling away? Why the hell did his body still feel lit from the inside, like it had no idea how to calm down?
He stared through the windshield, lips parted, pulse uneven, the city blurring beyond the glass.
He wasn’t attracted to Jacob; he couldn’t be. He was straight and he loved his wife. This was just a blip, an anomaly. Jacob Wolfe was just that good—that’s all this was.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Liam walked into a coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a dog groomer—the kind of place you only found if someone dragged you there first. The walls were lined with too many plants, the furniture was aggressively mismatched, and the scent of burnt espresso had permanently fused with the cushions.
Cassie had picked it, of course. She said it had character.
Cassie Finch was already waiting, half-hidden behind a mug that looked too big for her hands and a pair of sunglasses that had no business indoors. She was curvy, with red curls as untamed as the rest of her, and a fierceness that never wavered.
She had been in his life for more than a decade.
They’d grown up in the same small town, both theatre geeks with a shared love of old noir films they were too young to understand.
They survived the same high school drama club and had the same blunt refusal to give up on their dreams. She’d come to LA within a year of him, and no matter how chaotic things got, their friendship never slipped.
She was sharp, unfiltered, and one of the best screenwriters he knew.
“God, you look terrible,” she said brightly as he slid into the seat across from her.
“Hello to you too.”
“I meant it in a nurturing way.” She lowered her sunglasses and studied him with narrowed eyes, the deep blue pools seeing straight through him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
She snorted. “Liam.”
He exhaled. “The chemistry read was this morning.”
Cassie perked up instantly. “Ooh. Big deal. With the Wolfe?”
He gave a tight nod.
Her whistle was low and theatrical. “Damn. And you’re alive to tell the tale? That man is not real. He’s engineered to devastate women and gay men everywhere.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips.
She caught it, grinning. “So? How’d it go?”
He picked at the chipped mug that had already been waiting for him. “It went… well.”
“Well,” she repeated, unimpressed. “You always say that when something went either extremely not well or exceptionally well. Which one is it?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m a screenwriter. I get paid to be dramatic.” She took a sip. “So what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
She lifted her brows. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” He sat back, but his hand kept turning the mug in circles.
“You blinked weird when you said that,” she said, leaning forward with a grin that cut right through him. “Your lie-blink is back.”
He gave her a look. “There’s no such thing as a lie-blink.”
“Yours is very specific. Like a nervous lizard.”
A laugh broke out of him despite himself. He ran a hand through his hair, letting it fall forward again. “It was intense, all right? Jacob’s… intense.”
Cassie leaned in, elbows braced on the table. “Intense how?”
“Just—” He hesitated. “He’s one of those actors who doesn’t leave much room around him. He’s… commanding.”
She nodded. “So he steamrolled you.”
“No. I don’t know…” He smiled, already regretting that he’d answered at all. “It was a good scene. That’s all.”
She leaned back, studying him for a moment. “So why are you being weird today if it went well? It’s like your body’s here but your mind’s elsewhere.”
Liam drew in a breath, steadying himself. “It was just a scene.”
“Then why do you look so rattled?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not in a way that made sense out loud.
Cassie nudged his foot under the table, her voice lighter. “Hey. You’re fine. This isn’t your first big audition. Maybe you just care about this one more than you want to admit.”
“Maybe,” he said, and this time, it almost sounded convincing.
They lingered for a while after that, conversation meandering the way it always did with Cassie—old jokes, half-serious debates about films, the kind of nothing-talk that had carried them through a dozen rough patches over the years.
She had that rare gift of drawing laughter out of him even when he swore he didn’t have any left.
For a little while, with her teasing and her sharp wit filling the space, he almost managed to forget the kiss. Almost.
* * *
Two nights later, Liam ended up on the living room floor with Emma, both of them bent over a pile of board games they hadn’t touched in years. She claimed he’d been too wound up since the auditions and prescribed an emergency round of Scrabble.
“You’re cheating,” he accused as she slapped down ZYGOTE across the triple-word score.
Emma’s laugh rang through the room, bright and smug, as she reached for her tea. “Pregnancy brain doesn’t cancel out genius, babe.”
He grinned despite himself, shaking his head. “You’ve been hoarding those tiles since the start.”
“Strategizing,” she said with a smile. “You always jump in too fast. That’s why I beat you every time.”
He tossed a cushion at her, gentle enough that she caught it against her belly with mock indignation. For a while it was easy—easy to laugh, to lose himself in her warmth, and to pretend he hadn’t spent the past forty-eight hours replaying the kiss until it had worn a groove through his chest.
Then his phone buzzed against the coffee table. He almost ignored it, but the name flashing across the screen stopped him cold. The studio.
Emma arched an eyebrow. “Well? Aren’t you going to answer?”
He swiped to accept, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Liam.” Ellen’s voice crackled with energy. “Congratulations. The role is yours.”
For a moment he forgot how to breathe. “I—what?”
“You heard me. You and Wolfe. It’s locked in. Your contract will come through this week, but consider it official.”
His gaze found Emma, her expectant smile tilting as if she could hear every word. His pulse hammered in his throat. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Ellen said warmly. “You earned it. We’ll be in touch with the schedule.” She hung up before he could stumble over more words.
Emma’s eyes lit up. “That’s it, isn’t it? You got it?”
He nodded and she squealed, launching herself across the Scrabble tiles and into his arms. He caught her carefully, mindful of her belly, laughing as she kissed his cheek again and again.
“I knew it,” she said breathlessly. “I told you—you’re incredible.”
Her joy reminded him of their early years, when any scrap of progress—a callback for her, a two-line part for him—was reason enough for cheap champagne and barefoot dancing in her kitchen.
The stakes had grown, but the rhythm between them hadn’t; still the same laughter, and the same instinct to celebrate every victory together.
His arms tightened around her, the warmth of her happiness spilling through him. He held onto it, clung to it, wishing it was enough to drown out the echo of a kiss that still burned in the back of his mind.