49. Liam
FORTY-NINE
LIAM
The bed is empty when I wake up.
When I turn over, I see Piper’s phone on her side of the bed, and I wonder if she’s on the balcony again because she can’t sleep.
I smile and kick off the sheets, making my way through the apartment to the noises coming from the kitchen. It might be the middle of the night but it’s bright as hell out here. I round the corner and find her in one of my big T-shirts. Socks that come halfway up her calves and a messy bun that makes her blonde hair look like ribbons of sunlight. She turns on the stove and sets a kettle on the burner, a mug sitting on the counter and Pico rubbing against her ankles.
I like the look of her in my space. Slotting into my life and revolving around me like we’ve been doing this for years. She’s not a distraction. Not a chore or a burden, and in the weeks we’ve been spending together, not once have I felt like I’ve had to make a sacrifice between hockey and her.
I clear my throat, wanting to make my presence known, and Piper jumps a foot in the air. She yelps and Pico darts away, taking off for the hallway.
“ Jesus , Liam.” She turns and scowls at me, and I can’t help but smile at the dangerous look in her eye. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Did I do something?” I walk toward her and grab a mug for myself. “Or are you just skittish?’
“Asshole.” Piper huffs and checks the burner. “Did I wake you up?”
“Nope. Woke up on my own. Missed you and wanted to come find you.”
“Well, here I am. Helping myself to your tea. You have a very fancy setup here, Sullivan.”
“I stocked it up when you started staying over.” I shrug and tap the box of tea bags. “Wanted you to be comfortable.”
Her face softens, and she tugs on the waistband of my pajama bottoms. “You’re too nice to me.”
It pisses me off she considers stuff like this nice , when it should be the bare minimum. I don’t want to know all the details about her ex treated her—I’ve heard enough—because it’s going to make me want to buy her everything in the world she could want. I already do want to spoil the shit out of her, and knowing I’m making up for lost time only fuels the fire.
“I have something for you,” I say.
“Is it a friend for Pico?”
“Slow down there, Pipsqueak.” I reach for the junk drawer to the left of the stove and pull it open. “Hold out your arm and close your eyes.”
“You’re going to cut off my hand, aren’t you?”
“Severed limbs aren’t really my jam, but close.” I grab a paper towel and run it under the faucet. When it’s wet, I wrap my fingers around her wrist and turn her arm. I peel back the plastic film from the small temporary tattoo I bought at the drugstore the other day and drag my fingers over her pulse point. “You told me something when we were in Edmonton.”
“I told you a lot of things in Edmonton.” She huffs at the memory, then quiets when I press the tattoo on her skin. “Which was your favorite? When I propositioned you for sex?”
“I mean, have you seen me complaining?” I cover the tattoo with the cloth and hold it there. “Open your eyes.”
Piper watches me move the paper towel away and laughs, holding up her wrist. “A tattoo? What is it?”
“A lotus flower. It represents strength and resilience.”
“And why are you giving me a tattoo?”
“Because it’s one of the things you said you wanted, and I want them too. With you. Slow dancing in the kitchen. Kissing in the rain. Getting matching tattoos and being an absolute idiot with the next person you fall for. Be an idiot with me, Piper. I’m begging you, because I’m head over heels for you.”
Her fingers shake as she traces the outline of the flower and she sniffs. “I’ve never wanted to be an idiot before, but you make me want to be stupid. You make me want to get married in Vegas and laugh until my sides hurt. I thought I knew what being happy was, but then I met you, and everything changed. That wasn’t me being happy. This is me happy, and it’s because of you.”
There’s so much else I want to say to her.
The important words.
The stupid words.
The three words that have been echoing in my head this last week. I hear them when she smiles at me across the ice. When she waves at me and blushes. Right now, as she looks at me like I’m someone who can keep her safe. Like I’m someone she wants to keep around, and this, this , suddenly means more to me than anything I’ve ever done in my playing career.
Fuck the accolades.
Fuck the wins.
Fuck a losing record or the Stanley Cup or making the All-Star team.
They don’t mean shit if I don’t have her around.
“I think…” I trail off and dance my fingers down her jaw. Tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and smile. “I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, Piper Mitchell.”
“I think I’ve been waiting my whole life for you too, Liam Sullivan.” She beams at me then looks at the junk drawer. “Did you get a tattoo for me to give you?”
“Yeah, but it’s nothing special.”
“Okay, now you have to show me.”
I pull out the four leaf clover and shrug. “They had a deal for buy one, get one free.”
“Look at you being thrifty.” Piper plucks the tattoo from my possession and motions for me to hold out my wrist. “My turn to mark you, Sullivan.”
She goes through the steps, taking her time to read each direction carefully. I laugh when she has trouble peeling back the plastic film, and the glare she shoots me is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
I didn’t expect to be putting on temporary tattoos with someone in my kitchen at three in the morning.
I didn’t expect to have anyone in my kitchen at three in the morning, but I like that I’m here. I like that she’s wearing my T-shirt and blowing on my skin, her eyelashes fluttering up at me while her mouth curves into a smile, pleased with the results.
“There.” She drags her thumb across the tattoo, slow to pull away. I’m close to begging her to keep touching me. To give me a hundred other tattoos wherever she wants if it means she gets to put her hands on me. “Now you’re lucky.”
“How do I look?”
“Not nearly as cool as me, but it’s not bad. I like the real ones better.”
“Guess I need to get another real one. Ready for the next thing I have for you?”
“Is it your dick?”
I burst out laughing and shake my head, proud of her sass. Proud of her confidence. Proud of the journey she’s going through to get to right here.
“No. It’s not my dick, unfortunately.”
“Anything else is going to be very disappointing.”
I take her hand in mine and rest the other on the small of her back. Her breath hitches when she realizes what we’re doing, and hope flickers in her eyes. I hum a tune I heard on the radio, swaying back and forth with her until the kettle whistles and we both forget about everything except each other.