Chapter 17
I’ve reread my text to Liam six times in the last minute since I sent it. Should I have even sent it? Why the hell did I? I shouldn’t actually want to talk to this man outside of my work requirements, yet here I am up for an hour contemplating whether or not to send it before I just said fuck it.
Something tells me, though, that Liam would’ve done that for anyone, it just happened to be me and one of his closest friends.
Hotshot Quarterback
I just did what any gentleman should. No need to thank me, but come to think of it, I do enjoy cake.
I roll my eyes at his name coming up as Hotshot Quarterback. I should change it to his name, or something a little less ego boosting for him.
your nutrition plan calls for cake?
Hotshot Quarterback
cake a la Demi, yes.
Liam’s ability to make me shake my head while simultaneously blushing should be studied. Because what the actual fuck, Demi? I should really quit while I’m ahead here, but Liam is proving to be my blind spot when it comes to good choices.
Before I can reply, he sends another text.
Hotshot Quarterback
it’s pretty early. Couldn’t sleep?
I pull the comforter up to my chest as I nestle into the warmth of my bed. It’s weird texting with Liam knowing he’s right next door to me.
He’s right, though, I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been in and out of it all night, and for no particular reason other than I just couldn’t settle myself.
My thoughts kept playing ping-pong and bouncing from one thing to the next. I hate when my nights are spent that way.
Not really… I was in and out all night. You?
Hotshot Quarterback
Slept okay actually. I’m always up pretty early, years of early alarms have conditioned my brain that sleeping in is wrong.
my body disagrees
His body. God, I should not be picturing Liam’s body. The man is handsome, like abnormally handsome. But it still doesn’t mean I should be spending time thinking about him.
What I should be doing is getting up and making myself a well-balanced breakfast. I’ve been eating pastries for too long, and I just know what my sweet mother would tell me about needing to eat something healthier in the mornings. She’s right, but it doesn’t mean I want to hear her say it.
I don’t sleep in much either. Solidarity.
Before he can say anything to continue the conversation, I double text.
I should find something for breakfast though. Have a good day 12.
I get up and pull my closet door open, flicking the light on inside. One eye scrunches shut to help adjust to the brightness and I let my head fall back, stretching my neck. My arms fan out on either side of me before I link them behind my back and pull for another stretch.
No work today, but I have a ton of emails I need to answer, and I really want to try the flan recipe I asked my mom to send me the other day. So at least I can be comfortable on my first full day of not having to leave the house.
I pull a pair of sweats on and opt to stay braless in my tank top. No one is seeing me today so there’s no point in putting one on.
Leaving my closet, I grab my phone from the bed and peek at the screen, there’s another text from Liam.
Hotshot Quarterback
can I borrow two eggs?
I huff out a laugh as I make my way to the kitchen. Become my neighbor, he said.
Sure.
Hotshot Quarterback
Is it ok to come grab them now?
I tilt my head down at my braless tank and sigh. That was short-lived. Reaching for my sweater on the barstool, I pull it over my head and send him a thumbs-up text as I’m making myself some café con leche. It smells so good, and I swear it’s an instant mood booster.
There’s a rhythmic knocking on my door. Not a quick one, two, three. More like a beat. It’s one, then a quick two, and another one. I wonder if he even knows he knocks like that.
I quickly glance in the mirror by my front door. Gray sweats, an oversized NFL sweater, and three-day old hair is about as good as it’s getting this morning. I blow out a raspberry from my lips and unlock both locks on my door before opening it.
“You don’t ask who’s at your door before you answer it?” He arches a brow. No good morning. No hello. No type of pleasantry at all.
Liam, on the other hand, looks criminally good for just waking up.
He too is in gray sweatpants, a treat for all women, honestly, paired with a light blue T-shirt with some fish in the top left corner.
My stomach does that annoying flip when I make eye contact with him.
His stupidly beautiful hazel eyes look so soft this morning.
Nothing like the intensity they showed last night.
His hand pulls at his jaw, and I catch the way his forearm flexes as he does. He genuinely looks concerned that I opened the door without asking who was on the other side and it’s equally sweet and annoying.
“I’m not expecting any visitors today so I knew it was you,” I say as I pull the door open and walk back toward the fridge, grabbing the egg carton. “Plus, I don’t know anyone else who wouldn’t just knock like a normal knock, knock, knock.”
I hear a faint laugh as I’m in the kitchen, but I don’t see him which means he’s still standing outside my door.
“You should ask who’s at your door. Even if it’s a secure place, you should ask. Or have a doorbell camera.” He projects his voice, another sign he’s not actually in my apartment.
“You can come in,” I say, taking two eggs from the carton and placing them on a napkin.
When I look up, Liam’s waltzing around the corner, and I hear the door shut behind him.
“Do you have a doorbell camera?” I ask.
He nods, looking around. He hasn’t been here since I’ve moved in.
“It smells so good in here.” He inhales twice in a row, and I smile.
“It’s probably this,” I say, lifting my coffee cup to his nose. “My coffee.”
“Wow, that’s the coffee you’re always drinking, isn’t it? I recognize the smell.”
I step back and feel my cheeks heat at those words. He recognizes the smell of my coffee. I place my cup on the counter and I don’t miss how his eyes scan over me. There’s a hint of a smile when he fully takes in my outfit and I place both hands on my hips and clear my throat.
“Yes.” I smile. “Café con leche. Here are the eggs,” I say, handing him the napkin gently.
“Oh,” Liam replies, allowing me to place the eggs in his cupped hands. He inhales one more time like he’s literally trying to hang on to the scent. “Thank you. I’ll bring them back.”
His mouth curves into a lazy, beautiful smile, and out of nowhere the next five words fly out of my mouth as if I’m not in control of my own actions.
“Do you want a cup?”
He seems just as shocked as me when he tilts his head and stares my way. Dammit, Demi, what are you doing? He was about to leave.
“Can I take it to go?”
I’m kicking myself for even offering. Of course he can’t stay. This man probably has a million better things to do than slum it in my apartment with me this morning. But why does that bother me all of a sudden? On a normal day I’d never have even offered.
“I don’t want you to think I don’t want to stay. I do, really.” He takes a step toward me. “It’s just—” He raises his hand with the eggs.
“Right, of course, you’re in the middle of something.”
I shake my head, embarrassment creeping up my spine as I make him a quick cup to go.
“It’s hot,” I warn as I give him the cup. Both eggs are cradled in one hand, and I hate how my mind wonders how many more he could hold with the size of it.
“Thanks.” He smiles as he walks toward the door and I open it.
There’s a small, but likely, chance I curl up into a ball the rest of the day and replay this whole interaction, questioning my decisions because what the actual fuck was the last ten minutes?
Once Liam is out the door, I lock the door behind him and hear him say “thank you” from the hallway. His obsession with home security makes me laugh.
When I make my way back into the kitchen, I turn the dimmed lights up all the way, and I reach into the fridge to pull out the eggs again.
Gathering all the ingredients I need for flan based on the list my mom sent me.
She makes cooking seem so easy, but it’s never been something I took much interest in.
I’m sure something she wished was different, considering how much she loves this.
But I’ve never been too much into the same things as my family.
I’m proud of who I am and where my family comes from, but after thirty-five years, I’ve really come to be okay with the fact that I’m not like my mom in a lot of ways.
Something that, at first, was hard on both of us, but now we’ve never been closer.
As I’m whipping the eggs, my thoughts drift to what Liam needed his eggs for.
Is he baking? Does he cook? I sigh to myself and refocus on the bowl in front of me.
The text from my mom says not to whip the eggs too much and I need to focus on that, not Liam.
I should not care about his life outside of football.
It’s been easy to find myself so comfortable with him though, a feeling I’ve not had in so long. Maybe that’s why something internally is wanting to be around him more. I’ve been in fight or flight mode for so long and my nervous system has been craving peace and calm for years.
I just can’t fucking believe I feel it most with Liam Evans.