4. Liam
4
LIAM
F ake dating Ava Bennett is possibly a bad idea.
It was a bad idea when I said it out loud, a worse idea when she actually agreed, and now, as I step into my loft and toss my keys onto the kitchen counter, it feels like the worst decision I've ever made. And that's saying something, considering I once trusted Vanessa Chase with my heart, my business, and apparently, my sanity.
The place is brimming with the kind of silence that makes your thoughts louder, and right now, my thoughts are a goddamn riot.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire length of the loft, offering a panoramic view of downtown Willow Creek. City lights flicker against the river, their glow stretching across the dark waters like veins of liquid gold. The entire effect is pretty and very soothing, but all I can think about is Ava standing in her apartment, arms crossed, glaring at me like she was already planning my slow demise for roping her into this.
I rake a hand through my hair, roll my sleeves up past my forearms, and head to the kitchen. Overhead lights cast a cool glow over the space, bouncing off stainless steel appliances and polished quartz countertops. It's minimalist and clean, exactly the kind of place that doesn't feel lived in.
Exactly the kind of place Ava would hate.
The thought of her here—picking apart my decor choices, leaving behind mismatched throw blankets and half-empty mugs of tea—shouldn't make my chest feel tight. And yet…
I pour myself a glass of bourbon, letting the slow burn slide down my throat as I lean against the counter, rolling my shoulders to shake off the worry pressing down on me. It doesn't work.
Because the truth is, this is already out of control. I agreed to fake date Ava to keep her safe. To control the narrative before someone else did. But now, all I can think about is how natural it felt to stand in her doorway, watching her glare at me like I'd personally offended every ancestor in her family tree.
How easy it was to tease her.
How much I fucking liked it.
I exhale, finishing my drink in one slow sip before heading for the shower. Cold water should help. Cold water should clear my head.
Spoiler. It doesn't.
By the time I get to The Riverwalk Café the next morning, Dean is already sitting at our usual table, a mug of coffee in hand and his tie loosened just enough to imply that it's been a long morning.
"About time," he says, eyeing me over the rim of his cup. "I was starting to think you finally met someone and spent the night doing something more interesting than paperwork."
I smile, sliding into the seat across from him. "You say that like paperwork isn't thrilling."
Dean snorts. "Your love life is tragic, man."
I could tell him that's about to change. That, for the first time in years, I have a girlfriend. At least, one that exists in theory. But something in my gut stops me.
Dean has always been good at reading me, and if I say Ava's name, if I let even a hint of amusement slip through, he'll pick up on it like a bloodhound on a scent.
So I let him believe I'm still just a workaholic with commitment issues.
"What's tragic is the fact that you're on your honeymoon and still finding time to worry about my social life," I say, reaching for the menu.
Dean shrugs. "Emily insisted that I get out of the house. Said I was hovering."
I chuckle. "Smart woman."
"She is," he says, eyes softening just slightly. "Not sure how I got lucky enough to convince her to marry me, but I'm not asking too many questions."
A strange pang settles in my chest. It's not jealousy, not exactly. More like recognition. Understanding.
Because that look in his eyes? I've seen it before. In wedding vows, in quiet moments when a man glances at the woman he loves and realizes he'd set fire to the whole world to keep her.
It's the same look I caught myself giving Ava last night.
I push the thought away and flag down the waitress. "Black coffee. And whatever he's having."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "You don't even know what I ordered."
"Doesn't matter. It's breakfast. I'll eat it."
Dean shakes his head but lets it go, taking another sip of his coffee. "You sure you don't have someone in your life? You seem distracted."
I clear my throat. "You're the one talking about my tragic love life before I've even had caffeine. Maybe you're the one who needs a hobby."
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head. "Fine, I'll drop it. But if you do find someone, I expect to be the first to know."
I nod, but I already know that's not happening. Because technically, I already have someone. And Dean will be the last person to find out.
A few hours later, I pull up to Ava's apartment, idling at the curb. I'm taking her to a charity event. There'll be photographers there. Not the tabloid bottom-feeders, but the kind whose shots end up in glossy magazines and high-profile blogs. The kind who can take a perfectly timed photo and turn a carefully crafted illusion into a headline.
She steps out a minute later, eyes narrowing the second she sees me. "You said this was casual."
I glance at her outfit—black heels, fitted dress, subtle makeup that still somehow makes her look like a knockout. I arch a brow. "And you listened to me?"
She scoffs, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut. "I listened until I realized you are a scheming bastard with ulterior motives. Where are we going?"
I shift into drive, smirking. "Charity event."
Her eyes narrow. "What charity event?"
"The kind where your entire social circle and half your brothers' friends will be in attendance."
A beat of silence.
Then, "You threw me into the deep end?"
I glance at her, taking in the way she's already fuming, her fingers gripping the edge of her clutch like she's imagining throwing it at my face.
I grin. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."
She exhales slowly, like she's debating murder.
I let the silence stretch for a moment before adding, "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't let you drown."
She turns to me, green eyes blazing.
"Oh, I will drown," she says. "And I'm taking you with me."
God help me, this might be fun.
She's ready, and she's honestly dressed to kill. She looks devastating .
The kind of devastating that has nothing to do with knives or weapons and everything to do with the way her dress clings to her, the way her hair tumbles over one shoulder, the way she scowls at me like she's debating whether or not she can legally commit homicide in public.
The second we step through the doors at the event, heads turn. The Riverwalk Foundation's annual charity gala is one of the most well-attended events in Willow Creek, which means we're about five minutes away from being the hottest piece of gossip in the room.
Ava stiffens beside me, her fingers flexing around the clutch in her hand. "I hate you," she mutters under her breath.
I slide an arm around her waist, guiding her deeper into the crowd. "You hate how good I look in this suit," I murmur back, my lips just brushing her ear.
She scoffs. "I hate you," she repeats, but there's something breathy about it. Something less convincing than it should be.
Interesting .
I tighten my grip, just enough to remind her of our agreement. "Smile, Bennett.”
I feel her inhale. Just the smallest, sharpest breath—one I'd bet my last dime she doesn't even realize she's taken. It's quick, fleeting, like her body is still catching up to the fact that I'm this close. That my fingers are resting low on the curve of her back, my lips dangerously near her ear.
And then, because she's Ava, she recovers with record speed.
"Oh, I am," she murmurs, her voice as smooth as the honey-drizzled champagne we were handed earlier. She tilts her head slightly, just enough that a lock of her auburn hair brushes against my shoulder, soft as silk. "Grinning from ear to ear, sweetheart."
I chuckle under my breath, tightening my grip just a fraction. If she's going to play, I'll make sure she feels it.
The gala is in full swing—crystal chandeliers gleaming, jazz murmuring in the background, champagne flutes meeting fine China with a practiced clink. The room is a study in effortless opulence—cool marble underfoot, Art Deco flourishes catching the light, and towering floral arrangements in deep, moody hues.
The guest list is exactly as expected—a curated mix of Willow Creek's elite. Business moguls, socialites, and politicians glide through the space with the kind of polished ease that comes from years of exclusive events and expensive tailoring. Here, networking is an art form. Deals are sealed over vintage Bordeaux, whispered alliances forged between delicate bites of caviar.
And Ava Bennett, in her fitted black dress that's somehow both elegant and unholy, stands out effortlessly among them.
I watch as she offers a smooth smile to an older couple who've just greeted her, her posture straight, her expression poised. But I know her well enough to see the way her fingers twitch at her side, the way she resists the urge to fidget under the weight of so many eyes.
She doesn't belong here. Not in a bad way. Ava could charm the devil himself if she wanted to. But this kind of scene? The artificiality of it? The endless small talk, the power games disguised as casual conversation? It's not her.
And yet, she's here.
Because of me.
That thought settles somewhere deep in my chest, an ache I refuse to examine too closely.
"Liam Carter," a voice drawls from behind me, thick with an easy arrogance I recognize instantly.
James Langley.
I school my features before turning, offering the man a firm handshake. Langley's a big player in Willow Creek real estate—old money, new developments, and an ego so large I'm surprised he doesn't charge it rent.
"James," I greet smoothly. "Didn't expect to see you here."
He lets out a good-natured chuckle, the kind that only sounds natural to people who've spent their entire lives insulated by wealth. "You know me—always where the money is." His gaze flicks briefly to Ava, assessing. "And I see you've brought some rather charming company."
Ava, to her credit, doesn't flinch. She tilts her chin up, meeting his gaze with effortless confidence.
"Ava Bennett," she introduces herself, extending a hand.
Langley takes it, his grip just a little too lingering, his smile a little too knowing. "Ah, the Bennett girl. You've certainly grown up, haven't you?"
My jaw tics.
Ava's smile is polite. "That does tend to happen with time."
Langley chuckles. "I suppose it does. Though I admit, I never thought I'd see you on Liam's arm. You always struck me as the independent sort." He glances at me, eyes gleaming with something just shy of amusement. "Or have you finally been tamed, Carter?"
Ava stiffens slightly, her fingers twitching in my grasp.
Not tonight, Langley.
I let out a slow, lazy chuckle, sliding my arm fully around Ava's waist. "Oh, I wouldn't say tamed." I glance down at her, letting a smirk tug at my lips. "She keeps me on my toes, don't you, sweetheart?"
Ava tilts her head, her green eyes flashing with something I can't quite name. And then, to my complete and utter shock, she leans in.
Her body presses against mine, warm and soft, her lips just brushing my jaw as she murmurs, "Always."
Langley raises a brow, mildly surprised, but he's got nothing left to say.
Ava pulls back with a saccharine smile. "If you'll excuse us, James, I believe we're needed elsewhere."
I don't bother to hide my smirk as she guides us away, her hand still looped around my arm.
"That was?—"
"Don't," she interrupts, tossing me a warning look. "Just let me have that moment."
I chuckle. "Oh, I am. Trust me."
For the next hour, we play our roles flawlessly. I keep a hand on her waist, whisper teases into her ear, brush my fingers along the bare skin of her back just to feel her breath hitch. She elbows me once, mutters something about how I'm enjoying this too much, but she doesn't pull away.
She doesn't stop leaning into it.
And neither do I.
At some point, we find ourselves by the grand piano in the corner of the room, where a string quartet plays something soft and romantic. The champagne has loosened her up, and I can see the way she's finally breathing a little easier.
Ava's laughing at something, her head tilted back, and it's… something.
Damn.
It's a problem, how much I want to kiss her.
Not for the act. Not for the show.
Just for me.
I shove the thought away as she glances up at me, still smiling.
"You're staring," she murmurs.
I lift a brow. "Maybe."
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Careful, Carter. Someone might think you actually like this."
Its crazy how much I want to smile like an insufferable idiot. "And that would be a real shame, wouldn't it?"
She doesn't answer.
But she doesn't look away, either.
And I have a feeling that's going to be a problem.
Because for a second—just one fleeting, reckless second—I forget that this is all pretend.
It's easy to get lost in the act, to slip into the role of the devoted boyfriend when Ava is standing there, flushed and radiant, her green eyes glinting beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers. When she looks at me like that, lips slightly parted, a hint of something unreadable flickering across her face, I almost let myself believe this is real.
But it's not.
I clear my throat, forcing a lazy smirk as I reach for the champagne flute in her hand and take a sip before passing it back. "Careful, sweetheart," I murmur. "Wouldn't want you getting ideas."
Ava lets out a breathy laugh, but there's something in her expression—something hesitant, like she's unsure whether she should keep playing or call me on whatever the hell that was.
Before either of us can figure it out, a voice cuts through the hum of conversation.
"Well, isn't this unexpected."
I turn, already fighting the urge to sigh.
And there she is, Rebecca Kingsley, a socialite with a penchant for sharp words and sharper stilettos.
Rebecca has been circling the Willow Creek business elite for years, attaching herself to whichever power players offer the most social capital. And right now, she's watching Ava with thinly veiled curiosity, her red lips curving into something smug.
"Ava Bennett," she purrs, tilting her head. "Didn't think I'd ever see you at one of these."
Ava smiles, but it's the polite, practiced kind. "Rebecca."
Rebecca lets out a thoughtful hum, faux-pleasant, before her gaze flicks to where my arm is still draped over Ava's waist. "And with Liam Carter, no less." A beat of silence, then, with a saccharine smile, "Didn't take you for the commitment type, Liam."
Ava stiffens beside me, just slightly.
And just like that, I'm done playing nice.
I tighten my grip on her waist, letting my fingers press into the small of her back, grounding her. "I guess you don't know me as well as you thought," I say smoothly.
Rebecca's brows lift, intrigued. "Clearly."
Then, because she's incapable of leaving well enough alone, she turns back to Ava with a condescending little laugh. "I have to admit, I always wondered if you'd end up settling down, but I figured it'd be with someone… safer."
I don't know what pisses me off more—the way she says it, or the fact that Ava doesn't immediately roll her eyes.
I see it then.
The way her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. The flicker of something she tries to hide behind that carefully composed expression.
And I realize… she's heard this before.
She's used to this.
People underestimating her, writing her off as the Bennett brothers' kid sister, the baby who's never taken seriously.
It pisses me off more than it should.
So I lean down, brushing my lips against her temple, slowly and deliberately. "Oh, she's anything but safe," I murmur, just loud enough for Rebecca to hear. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."
Ava's breath catches.
And Rebecca?
Rebecca falters.
It's subtle, but I see it in the way her smirk wanes and grows cooler, the way she shifts slightly, not expecting me to push back.
Satisfied, I squeeze Ava's waist. "Now, if you'll excuse us," I say easily, already steering her away, "I believe I owe my girlfriend a dance."
I don't wait for a response.
By the time we reach the dance floor, the irritation rolling off Ava is almost palpable.
"That was unnecessary," she mutters, but she doesn't move away as I pull her in, her body warm against mine.
I flash a grin, unrepentant. "You looked like you needed saving."
Her fingers press lightly against my shoulder, a touch that's more reflex than resistance. "I don't."
"I know." My voice drops. "Doesn't mean I won't do it anyway."
She doesn't respond right away. Instead, she lets me sway her across the floor, her breathing even, her fingers grazing the fabric of my jacket.
"You didn't have to say that," she says quietly after a moment.
But the truth is, I did.
Because I don't like the idea of anyone—even Ava herself—thinking she's anything less than formidable.
So instead of answering, I pull her closer, my hand pressing against the small of her back, fingers grazing the delicate zipper of her dress.
And then, because this is still a game—a dangerous, intoxicating game—I lean in and murmur against her ear, "You do realize you're in my arms right now, dancing at a charity gala like we're in some kind of romance novel."
She lets out a quiet laugh. "Fake dating, remember?" she teases. "Have to sell it."
Oh, I'm selling it, all right.
I guide her through another slow turn, letting my thumb brush against the bare skin of her back. "So," I murmur, lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, "how am I doing?"
She exhales sharply.
And then, because Ava Bennett never lets me win, she lifts her chin and looks me right in the eye.
"Solid seven out of ten," she says, deadpan.
I bark out a laugh. "You're impossible."
"I know."
The song winds down, and I finally release her, ignoring the way my hands feel wrong when they're not on her.
As we leave the dance floor, I catch the way people watch us. Really watch us. Our act is working.
And so, because I can't resist, because I know we have an audience, I pull Ava against me one last time, my lips at her ear.
Loud enough for just the right people to hear, I murmur, "You're mine, Bennett."
I'm sure that by tomorrow, half the town, including the Bennett brothers, will know Ava Bennet and I are dating.