Chapter 25
This last week would’ve been an ideal time to have a group of girlfriends—or even just one friend—that I could scream to about what happened with Liam. But I don’t, and therefore, Walt the bird has been getting an earful from me whenever he makes his presence known.
I did tell my mom, but I tell her everything. I don’t think I’ve gone more than two days in my life without speaking to her. And that has nothing to do with dependency and everything to do with her being my actual best friend.
But I guess I am needy when it comes to her. Proudly, though. Because she’s the best woman I know.
I spared her details but let her know she’d be happy to hear I did spend time with someone recently and enjoyed myself. She asked an array of questions, and I answered as willingly as I wanted to, but she literally has no idea it’s Liam Evans, and I’d like to keep it that way for the moment.
I’m still processing how the hell it happened. How I let it happen. But when I replay it in my mind, it was all me. I basically said “please kiss me!” to the one person who wouldn’t have to think twice about it.
I just needed a moment to feel something. I’d been numb for months. Not exactly wanting to admit it, but knowing it nonetheless. And being around Liam makes me feel joy again.
Swinging the sliding glass door open, I take a step out onto the patio. The humid air makes me blow out a deep breath as I take a seat on the chair, watching the clouds slowly move.
It’s only once I lean my head back and close my eyes that I hear the word “fuck” over and over in a hushed, deep tone.
My brows crease and I look toward the sound of the voice, unable to see anything around the corner, but I hear moans and groans coming from a male voice before I hear something louder.
“Son of a bitch!” The words come shortly after there’s a knocking sound on the side of the building.
My lips pull in and I do my best to stifle a laugh, knowing Walt the bird is making his appearance this morning and disrupting whatever it is Liam was doing.
The black silk tie on my robe blows into my open coffee cup as the wind suddenly picks up, and I too find myself yelling out a string of curses as it does.
“Dem?” Liam’s deep voice carries around the corner.
We can’t see each other out here, but we can definitely hear one another.
“Uh, yeah. Hi.” I flick my hand to get the excess coffee off.
“You okay?”
“A little spilled coffee, that’s it. I’m fine.” I pause. “Are, uh, you okay?”
It sounded like someone could’ve been having sex with the way he was moaning a moment ago, and the thought of that unfortunately sends a flicker of jealousy through me.
“Sore ribs, ice bath.” He makes a gasping sound, and I assume he’s moving around at this point. “Come over for breakfast.” He’s definitely not one for subtle or beating around the bush.
“No,” I firmly state.
“But I make great omelets.”
I sigh quietly. He does, actually. And I owe him a flan. One that I actually made two days ago but haven’t had the nerve to bring it to him. My repayment for his dinner the other night.
“You’re quiet. Are you still there?”
I lightly chuckle to myself and feel my cheeks heat at the sweetness of his tone.
“Fine. I have to bring you your flan anyway.”
“Yesss.” He drags out the word, and I hear water sloshing around.
It causes me to picture him and make up my own image in my head of how he looks right now. Something I shouldn’t be doing—but decide not to stop anyway.
Does he take ice baths naked? No, right? Especially on the balcony. He’s at least in a swimsuit. But that doesn’t stop my thoughts from swirling over what a bare chested Liam looks like with droplets of water dripping down his stomach.
“Okay. I’ll get dressed and be over soon,” I say, tugging at the collar of my robe.
“Whatever makes you comfortable.” I can picture the grin on his lips as I slide the door open and then close it behind me.
A few moments after that exchange, I tap on his door a couple times, glancing down at my feet as I stand on the outside of his door holding a pan of flan. Black cardigan over a white tank top and a pair of black leggings. I’m nothing if not consistent with my color palette.
“Good morning.” He beams as the door opens and sunlight comes streaming through his back window.
“Not taking your own advice I see,” I tease, smirking up at him as I tilt my head. He creases his brows, and I avert my gaze from his wet hair and bare chest. “Answering the door without asking who it is. And you couldn’t find a second to grab clothing.”
His arm leans on the door as he steps back with a smile. His body is immaculate. Not that I’d expect otherwise.
“Come on in, Dem,” he purrs. “I have a doorbell camera, remember? I saw you. And look—” He grabs a shirt from the small table near his entryway.
Convenient it was sitting there, but okay.
He pulls it over his head at the same time he pushes the door shut behind me.
I turn as it clicks and when I look back at him, he runs a hand through his hair before doing a little shake, letting some damp pieces fall wherever they please.
And my stomach does seven thousand backflips in a row.
“Problem solved.” He grins, tugging at the shirt he’s wearing.
I give a thumbs-up and raise the dish in my other hand as something bumps into the back of my ankle and it startles me slightly.
“Oh,” I gasp. “Right. You have a cat.”
“That’s Birdie. You aren’t allergic, are you?”
I shake my head, offering him a smile as I see the genuine concern flash on his features. “No, not at all. I like cats.”
I refer to the dish again as the playful kitten darts away from me. “Can I put this in your fridge?”
“You know you didn’t really have to make it.” He opens the fridge door, making some space on the top shelf toward the back.
“Yes, I did. And it was good practice anyway. It’s one thing I crave. Well, I crave a lot of sweets.” I lightly laugh at myself. “But this one’s my favorite and I’d like to perfect it. So you’ll have to tell me how it tastes.”
Liam reaches into a drawer, grabbing two forks, and places them on the counter.
His apartment is cleaner than I anticipated it would be. I guess I didn’t really know what to expect, but it looks like no one lives here. It’s minimally decorated, but the things that are here are incredibly masculine. Dark colors, leather, rich scents.
“Let’s taste it now.”
“Uh, okay. Sure.” I open the airtight container I’ve had it in.
“Dig in.” He hands me a fork.
“Don’t you want to cut a slice?”
“Nah,” he says, sticking his fork into the dessert. “It’s just us.”
I’m somehow loving the fact that he’ll just eat a dessert straight out of the container.
“Fuck,” he moans as he tilts his head backward and goes in for a second bite.
“Good?”
“See for yourself. It’s amazing.” Taking his fork, he scoops up a giant piece and brings it to my mouth. “Try it.” He licks his lips, and I hesitantly open my mouth.
I guess I’m going to let him feed me.
My tongue runs between my lips, tasting the sweet flavor and feeling pretty fucking proud I made that.
“It’s good,” I say, reaching for a paper towel on his counter.
He nods. “So fucking good.”
He closes the container, my fork still in his hand, and his eyes firmly locked on me as he licks it clean.
There’s a dance happening in my lower stomach that I have absolutely zero control over as I watch him suck on the fork before he places it in the sink. When he finally turns away, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and finally regain some of my composure.
“So I’m really only great at making omelets. I’m sure that comes as a shock to you since I’m so good at everything else.” The corner of his mouth lifts and he gives me a knowing smirk.
One that I’d like to brush off his face. With my lips.
No.
I roll my eyes and take a seat at the counter. There’s a wooden fruit bowl in the center, filled with apples, oranges, and bananas. They’re so perfect they look fake.
“I’m fine with an omelet if that’s what you planned on making.” My fingers skim the outside of the orange in front of me.
“You can have whatever you want,” he says referring to the bowl. “I can peel that orange for you.”
“Oh,” I say, pulling my hand back. “I-I can peel an orange.”
He nods, moving the paper towel closer to me. Liam begins to work on the omelets while there’s music playing from his phone and a candle burning off in the distance. It smells like apple cider.
I instantly feel comforted in his apartment. For a space with so few decorations and photos, he’s made it feel so homey.
“Can I have a slice?” He tips his head toward me, walking around his island so he’s now at my side.
I look up at him standing over me. Piercing blue green eyes, a five-o’clock shadow, a few pieces of hair that went rogue falling onto his forehead.
“My hands are eggy.” His mouth opens, and I take one of the pieces and bring it to his mouth. There’s no hesitation in his bite as he takes the whole piece into his mouth and smiles with closed lips as he does. And, honest to god, why is that one of the cutest fucking things he’s ever done?
“So…” I say on a sigh as I watch him walk back to the stove. “How are you feeling after the game? Pretty nice you own an ice bath.”
“My body’s beat up.” He winces as he lifts his shirt and I can see a bruise already forming on his side.
“I hate that we lost the game. But we didn’t play at the level we’re capable of, you saw it.
There’s a lot to work on.” His shoulders shrug up and down and he shakes his head as he plates the omelet.
“But I know it’s early in the season. We’ll clean up the things we need to clean up and things will get better. ”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine, placing the steaming hot breakfast right in front of me.
“This smells so good.” I lean in closer to the dish and inhale.
“Oh, and yes”—he raises the spatula in his hand and points to the sliding glass doors—“I do have an ice bath. Want to try it?”
I swallow hard as I look at him once he turns back to face the stove, finishing up his own omelet.
I study how the shirt on his back hugs his muscles, how he’s stretching something at all times.
His neck, a shoulder, his back, hips—he’s constantly moving his body.
It feels like a tactic to keep me staring, and I hate to admit it, but it’s working.