2. Liam
2
LIAM
T he morning after Dean's wedding, I wake up to the kind of headache that has nothing to do with whiskey.
The room is dark except for the slant of sunlight cutting across my bedroom floor, slicing through the city skyline beyond the windows. The sheets are twisted around my waist, the crisp, expensive kind—Egyptian cotton or some other luxury I don't remember choosing. The loft is quiet, save for the distant call of traffic below, but my pulse is still pounding like I've spent the night running.
In a way, I have.
I drag a hand over my face, exhaling slowly, trying to shake off the ghost of last night—the vineyard, the heat, the way my best friend's sister tasted like champagne and strawberries.
"Just perfect," I mutter to myself, rubbing my eyes.
I stare at the ceiling, willing my brain to rewind, to put some distance between me and the biggest mistake I've made in years.
But all it does is replay the same thing in high definition—her lips parting beneath mine, the little hitch in her breath when I pulled her closer, the way she fit against me like she belonged there.
I groan and sit up, shoving the heels of my hands into my eyes like I can scrub her out of my memory.
It was a mistake. I told her that, told myself that.
But if it was such a mistake, why am I still thinking about it?
The answer to that is something I don't have the bandwidth to deal with, not when I have a full day ahead of me and a best friend who would fucking kill me if he knew I spent last night with my tongue down his little sister's throat.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stretch, rolling the tension from my shoulders. The air is cool against my bare skin, and the city below is already wide awake, horns blaring, the smells of coffee and asphalt creeping through the open window.
My loft is clean, minimalist. Exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furniture in neutral tones. The kind of place people expect me to live in—a man who builds luxury real estate for a living, a man who made his first million before thirty.
But for all the high-end design, the space still feels empty.
The kitchen is spotless, every surface gleaming under the morning light. The coffee maker kicks on automatically when I step inside, filling the air with the rich, dark scent of something strong enough to keep me from making another monumental life choice.
I need to move on and act like nothing happened. I need to pretend that kissing Ava didn't unravel something inside me that I wasn't ready to name.
Moving to the kitchen counter, I pour myself a cup of coffee, black. My phone buzzes on the marble surface—back-to-back emails, meeting reminders, a message from my assistant, Oliver, reminding me that I have a conference call in an hour about the new luxury development I'm overseeing in downtown Willow Creek.
Good. Work. I can focus on that.
I take a slow sip of coffee, watching the city move outside my window, but even as I run through today's schedule in my head, my thoughts circle back to Ava—in that dress, looking at me like she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.
I swear under my breath and push off the counter, shoving my phone into my pocket. It's fine. I can shake this off. I have to. She's my best friend's sister. If I start something I can't finish—as history suggests I will—I might as well pick out my own gravesite because if I don't, Dean sure as hell will. And knowing him, he'll make me dig it myself.
Instead, I decide to focus on work—or try to, at least.
After finishing my coffee, I shower, letting the hot water roll over my shoulders, scalding away the ghost of last night—the feel of Ava's body pressed against mine, the way she tasted like champagne and trouble. I stay under the spray longer than necessary, bracing my hands against the cool marble as if sheer force of will could scrub her out of my system.
By the time I step out, towel slung low on my hips, the ache in my chest is still there. Frustration, regret, something deeper I refuse to name. I ignore it, pull on a crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks, and slide my Rolex onto my wrist. The routine is automatic. Controlled. Necessary.
Because if I let my mind wander, if I let it stray even an inch back to last night, I'll lose whatever grip I still have on my self-control.
Downstairs, my assistant, Oliver, is already waiting in my office when I arrive. The space is as sleek and structured as the rest of my life—glass walls, dark wood, everything arranged in a way that leaves no room for clutter or mistakes. A lot of people expect my office to look like the properties I design—luxurious, classic, polished to within an inch of its life.
But this is different. This is where I work.
And right now, work is the only thing keeping me sane.
Oliver barely looks up from his tablet as I walk in, his usual smooth efficiency on full display. "You've got a ten o'clock with the investors from the Prescott project," he says, "then a site visit at one. And at three, you're meeting with the marketing team for the Riverwalk development."
"Add a call with legal," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "I want the updated contracts finalized before next week."
Oliver nods, tapping something into his tablet. "I'll get it scheduled."
I sink into the leather chair behind my desk, scanning the morning's reports. The numbers are solid. The Prescott project is ahead of schedule. Carter Holdings is expanding, dominating the high-end real estate market in Willow Creek, with new clients lining up for properties that only I can make happen.
This is what matters. This is what I've spent years building.
So why the hell am I still thinking about her?
I grip my pen tighter, forcing my focus back to the blueprints in front of me. For the next several hours, I push through. Meetings. Calls. Site visits. Every second accounted for, every ounce of my energy spent doing what I do best—turning crumbling historic buildings into something worth millions.
But then, as I step back into my office, rolling my sleeves up past my forearms, my phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen.
It's Ava. Of course it is. I stare at the name for a beat longer than I should. Then, against my better judgment, I swipe to open the message.
Ava: We need to talk.
No greeting. No soft approach. Just straight to the point.
Something tightens in my chest.
I should ignore it. I should be smart. I should?—
Me: Where?
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Ava: Riverwalk Café. 3 PM.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, my body already tense in ways I don't like.
The right thing would be to tell her I'm busy. Instead, I grab my keys, loosen my tie, and head straight for her.
On the drive to the cafe, all I can think is I don't second-guess most of my decisions .
When I sign a deal, I know it's the right one. When I invest in a property, I've already run the numbers a hundred different ways. I don't hesitate. I don't make reckless choices. I don't let emotions complicate what should be simple.
And yet, here I am, driving straight into a complication.
Traffic moves sluggishly through downtown, the afternoon sun glinting off shop windows and historic brick facades. The Riverwalk Café is nestled in the heart of the district, perched along the cobblestone streets that give this town its charm. I find parking a block away, kill the engine, and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel like it might talk some sense into me.
I shouldn't be here. I should have ignored her text, let things settle, let Ava be just another bad idea that never got the chance to turn into something worse.
But ignoring Ava Bennett has never been easy.
I step inside, and the scents of coffee and warm butter wrap around me. The café is packed, the low murmur of conversation blending with the clatter of plates and the hiss of the espresso machine. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, glinting off mismatched chairs and wooden tables, giving the whole place a lazy, honeyed glow.
I spot an open table in the back and claim it, facing the door. The menu is scrawled on a chalkboard behind the counter—house-made biscuits, crispy bacon, eggs over easy, thick slices of sourdough slathered with jam. Exactly the kind of food that could chase away the remnants of last night.
If only everything else were that easy to fix.
I barely get my coffee order in before the bell over the door chimes.
And there she is.
Ava scans the café, her gaze locking onto mine almost instantly. There's no hesitation in her stride as she makes her way over, shrugging off her leather jacket to reveal a fitted sweater, the soft fabric clinging to curves I shouldn't be noticing. Her auburn hair is loose, falling over one shoulder in a way that makes my fingers twitch.
I sit back, schooling my expression, but I already know it's a lost cause. Because she walks in like a problem I want to have.
She drops into the seat across from me, crossing her legs, her knee brushing mine under the table. "You came."
"You said we needed to talk." I keep my voice even, unreadable.
She arches a brow. "And here I thought you'd ignore me."
That earns her a low chuckle. "I thought about it."
Her lips curve slightly, but it's guarded. "Fair enough." She leans back, folding her arms over her chest. "So. Last night."
I swirl my coffee lazily, watching her. "What about it?"
She levels me with a look, unimpressed. "You kissed me."
"You kissed me back."
Ava exhales through her nose. "Right. Well. We both agree that it was a mistake."
There's a beat of silence.
I tip my head slightly. "Do we?"
Her brows knit. "You literally said it was."
Fair point. I lower my gaze and focus on my coffee. "Just making sure you agree."
She scoffs. "Please. You think I wanted to make out with my overbearing brothers' best friend in the middle of a vineyard?"
My lips twitch. "That's exactly what I think."
Ava makes a strangled noise and looks away, grabbing a menu, probably to keep herself from throwing it at me. "God, you are infuriating."
I grin, pleased. "So I've been told."
The tension between us is tight, strung so thinly I can feel it thrumming beneath my skin. But Ava takes a slow breath, resets, and when she looks back at me, her expression is composed. "Look, Liam. We both had too much to drink, and we got caught up in the moment. That's all."
That's all.
I hold her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then I nod once. "Agreed."
She relaxes slightly, like she expected me to argue. Like she wanted me to.
Instead, I flag down a waitress. "We need food."
Ava perks up slightly. "Hangover food?"
I nod. "Cures most things."
Her lips twitch. "Not regret."
I smirk. "I don't know. A good biscuit might change your mind."
The waitress approaches, and before Ava can protest, I order for both of us—fluffy biscuits drenched in honey butter, thick-cut bacon, perfectly crisped hash browns, and scrambled eggs cooked soft. Ava quirks a brow but doesn't argue.
When the food arrives, her eyes light up. "Okay. This does smell like an apology meal."
I hand her a fork. "Who says I'm apologizing?"
She rolls her eyes but takes a bite of biscuit anyway. The moment she does, her shoulders drop slightly and a quiet moan slips out. I nearly drop my coffee.
She points at me with her fork, mouth still full. "Okay. Fine. You might have been right about this."
I grin, pleased. "Told you."
The meal stretches longer than it should. We talk—banter, really. She teases me about my need for control, and I call her a menace. There's something so easy about it, so familiar, that for a moment, I forget why this is a bad idea.
By the time the plates are empty, I feel settled in a way I haven't all day.
Then the check arrives, and Ava reaches for it immediately.
"I've got it," she says.
I don't argue. If I tell her no, she'll dig her heels in harder. Instead, I stretch my arm along the back of the chair, watching with amusement as she hands the waitress her card. "Emily teach you that trick?"
Ava bobs her head, signing the receipt. "She calls it taking the power back."
I chuckle. "Sounds like her."
She stands, slipping on her jacket. "I should go. I'm meeting her in a bit."
I nod, pushing back my chair. "I'll walk you out."
The sun is lower now, casting long, golden streaks across the cobblestones outside the café. We stop near the curb, where my car is parked.
Ava hesitates, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. "Well. That wasn't awful."
My lips twitch. "High praise."
She grins. "See you around, Carter."
I watch her go, her auburn hair catching in the afternoon light, and tell myself this was the right call.
Then I slide into my car, and my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.
Unknown Number: You really shouldn't kiss people in public if you want to keep secrets.
My blood turns cold at what I see next. Attached to the message is a blurry photo. The setting is incredibly familiar—it's a dark vineyard. Two figures are locked together, mouths pressed, hands fisted in fabric.
That can't be good.