5. Ava
5
AVA
T he gala is over.
Liam follows me into my apartment like he belongs here. Like this is just a normal night and not the aftermath of whatever the hell that was back at the gala.
To be fair, I did ask him to drop me back to my place. I just didn't expect it would feel this good not coming back here alone.
I kick off my heels and toss my clutch onto the entryway table, exhaling hard. My pulse is still too high, my body still too aware of the weight of his hand on my waist, the warmth of his breath against my skin.
This was supposed to be fake. And this is me panicking, so I do the only thing that feels reasonable right about now and decide to put all the blame on him.
I spin to face him. "You went overboard."
Liam shrugs out of his jacket like he isn't the problem. "We had an audience."
I scowl heavily at him, arms crossed. " You're mine, Bennett ? That wasn't necessary."
He makes a slow, unbothered gesture by extending his palms outward. "Seemed necessary at the time. We want to make a point."
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see my own past mistakes. "You enjoyed that way too much."
Liam steps closer, like he has every right to, and I don't back away fast enough. His voice dips lower, all teasing and amusement. "You're upset because I sold it too well?"
"Yes."
He huffs out a laugh. "Then I did my job."
I open my mouth, ready to fire back, but I don't know what I want to say. Because the truth is, he did do his job. And I did believe it. Which means others will too.
And I don't know what's worse—that he was so convincing… or that I wanted him to be.
So instead, I grimace at him before turning toward the kitchen just to give myself some distance. "You're insufferable."
Behind me, Liam chuckles, like this is all just so amusing to him. And maybe it is. Maybe none of this is getting under his skin the way it's getting under mine.
But as I grab a glass of water and try to focus on something other than him, I swear I can still feel his gaze on me, heavy and knowing, as if he can totally understand how unsettled I am.
And I hate that I want to turn around.
I hate that I want this to be real.
The thought lingers, sticky and impossible to shake, as I sip my water, as I keep my back to Liam, as I pretend that my entire body isn't still buzzing from the way he touched me tonight.
Fake. It's fake.
But I can still feel his hands on my waist, the press of his lips against my temple, the quiet way he said mine .
I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the glass. I need to shake this off. I need to?—
My phone vibrates on the counter.
I glance at the screen, expecting a text from Emily or Nate, maybe even Dean.
But it's not.
It's unknown.
And the second I read it, my stomach plummets.
Careful how you play, Ava. You're not the only one being watched.
The glass slips from my fingers, clattering against the counter. It doesn't break, but the sound is loud enough to jolt Liam into action.
In a heartbeat, he's behind me, his body radiating heat, his voice low and urgent. "What is it?"
I can't speak. I can't move. I can only stare at the screen, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Liam doesn't wait for me to answer. He reaches past me, plucking the phone from my frozen grip. The silence that follows is thick and electric, stretching until he exhales slowly.
His entire posture shifts. The teasing, the smirks, the easy arrogance—all of it vanishes in an instant.
He pockets my phone and turns me gently by the shoulders until I'm facing him. "Look at me."
I do. Because I don't think I know how not to.
His blue eyes are steady, cutting through the panic curling in my chest. "Breathe."
I suck in a sharp breath, but it's not enough. The words on my screen keep flashing in my mind like a warning, like a noose tightening around my ribs.
My family. Someone is watching my family.
Liam must see the realization hit because he curses under his breath before cupping my face with both hands, grounding me. "No one is going to touch you. Or them. You hear me?"
I nod, throat tight.
He watches me for a long moment, as if assessing whether I actually believe him. Then he exhales sharply and reaches for his phone.
"I'm calling Tyler."
I frown up at him. "And who is that?"
Liam's lips twitch, but there's no humor behind it. "Tyler's my security guy. My fixer. The one who could probably track a man through a blizzard with nothing but a blurry security cam screenshot."
I blink. "That's… oddly specific."
"He's oddly talented," Liam says, already dialing. "And right now, he's our best shot at figuring out who's screwing with you."
Liam steps away as he dials, giving me a second to try and pull myself together. I brace my hands against the counter, dragging in slow breaths, but the text sits heavily on my chest.
It's different now. The other message was about me—about the kiss, about exposure, about rumors.
This is something else entirely because it involves my brothers. And while they get on my nerves just about always, they're family. I love them.
Which makes this threat all the more meaningful. Whoever sent it knew me well enough to understand my priorities.
I hear Liam's voice behind me, hurried and strained. "Yeah. Another text. More specific this time." A pause. "She's fine, but I need to know how fast you can trace it."
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my palms against the counter. I should be grateful he's handling this. I should be grateful for the way he's already moving, already planning, already fixing.
But I hate feeling so powerless, hate that I'm panicking.
Liam hangs up a moment later and turns back to me. "Tyler's on it. He'll call when he has something."
I nod, still feeling off-balance, still trying to ground myself.
Liam watches me for a second longer, then scrubs a hand over his jaw. "I'm not leaving."
It takes me a moment to process what he's just said. "What?"
He leans against the counter like it's already decided. Like he's already settled in. "You heard me. I'm staying."
I stare at him, caught between frustration and something a lot more dangerous. "Liam?—"
"Not up for discussion." He sets his shoulders, which I take to mean as any further argument from me will be a waste of my breath. "Not when there's a chance that someone is watching you."
The simple thing would be to argue, to remind him that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, that I don't need a babysitter.
But when I look at him, something in my chest wavers.
Because this isn't about Liam being overprotective. This isn't about my brothers or about my needing saving.
This is about him.
His fingers press into the counter, the skin at his knuckles blanching just slightly. His shoulders roll back, not in tension, but in quiet resolve, like he's settling into the weight of his own decision. He doesn't shift, doesn't waver. His hands stay firm, planted, like moving isn't even an option.
And that—that—is what makes me nod.
"Fine." The word leaves me too quickly, like I'm trying to outrun it. "But you're taking the couch."
His gaze hooks into mine, steady, unreadable. Then, the smallest nod—acceptance, agreement, or something else entirely. "Of course, Bennett."
The way he speaks—that tone, that perfectly smooth, deep, rich baritone—slips beneath my ribs and tugs, winding its way down my spine, curling into my toes. My fingers flex, restless, itching for something I can't name.
Because now we're alone.
In my apartment.
At night.
And Liam Carter is not leaving.
I swallow hard, pressing my fingers to my temples like I can physically stop myself from thinking about what that means.
"Stop thinking so loudly," Liam teases.
I glare at him, but it's weak. "Stop being so loud."
"I'm not even doing anything."
"Exactly."
He lets out a low chuckle, stepping closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to make my breath catch.
Then his voice drops, just enough to make my stomach twist. "Relax, Bennett. I'll be the perfect gentleman."
I mutter a curse under my breath and turn away just so I don't have to see the smirk I know is there. "That would be a first."
He's still laughing quietly as I cross the room, pretending to be completely unaffected by the fact that Liam Carter is spending the night on my couch.
I grab a spare pillow and a blanket, shoving them against his chest when I return. "Here. Don't snore."
Liam catches them easily, but he's watching me too closely. And that's when it happens.
That's when I meet his gaze, and something in the air changes.
It's sharp, immediate.
Like the click of a lock.
Like we both realize, at the exact same time, that this isn't just tension anymore.
This is something else.
Something alive. Something breathing. Something that makes the room feel too small, the walls feel too close, the space between us feel nonexistent.
I don't know who moves first.
But suddenly, he's right there.
And I'm not moving away.
His fingers skim my wrist, barely there, but I feel it everywhere. My pulse stutters. My breath shivers. My entire body goes still.
And then—then—his gaze drops to my mouth.
And I know.
I know.
He's going to kiss me.
I can feel it in the way his grip tightens around my waist, the way his gaze flickers to my lips, the way his breath brushes against my skin, warm and uneven. I know it in the way my heart slams against my ribs, in the way my body leans toward him like it can't believe this is fake.
Then he does.
His lips crush against mine, firm and sure, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me closer, like he needs this as much as I do. There's nothing careful about it, nothing hesitant, just heat and hunger and the kind of desperation that's been simmering under the surface for far too long.
I don't even remember closing my eyes. All I know is that I'm kissing him back. My fingers fist into his shirt, his heartbeat pounding against my palm. I tilt my head, and he groans into my mouth, deep and low, like I've just given him something he wasn't sure he was allowed to have.
It should scare me, how much I want this. How much I want him.
But it doesn't.
Not until I feel it tipping too far.
Because when Liam Carter kisses, he doesn't do it halfway. He takes. Consumes. And I—God help me—I want to be consumed.
That's exactly why I have to stop this.
I break the kiss, breathless, my forehead still resting against his. His hands stay where they are, steady and warm against my lower back, but he doesn't move, doesn't pull me back in. He just watches me, his blue eyes dark and unreadable, like he's waiting for me to make the next move.
I swallow hard. "Liam, I…"
His thumb brushes against my waist. Not pushing. Just there.
"I know," he says, voice rough, and I think he actually does.
He knows that if we keep going, I won't stop him. That I won't want to stop him. And that's the problem.
Because this? This isn't supposed to mean anything.
I step back. His hands fall away. The loss of his warmth is immediate.
The silence stretches. Not awkward, but aware.
Then Liam exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "Right. Okay." He nods once, like he's trying to pull himself together, then glances at me. "You hungry?"
That catches me off guard. "What?"
"Dinner," he says, moving past me toward the kitchen, like nothing just happened. "You need to eat."
I stare at him. Liam Carter just kissed me like a man starved, and now he wants to talk about food?
"Are you seriously?—"
He shoots me a look. "Ava, you had half a glass of champagne and a handful of hors d'oeuvres all night. You need actual food."
I cross my arms. "And you're suddenly a chef now?"
One corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly. "I have my moments."
I huff, but I follow him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he rummages through my fridge. Watching Liam in my space feels strange. Not bad, just… unfamiliar. He looks too big, too sure of himself in my tiny kitchen, pulling out ingredients with the same confidence he probably uses to close million-dollar deals.
"What are you even making?" I ask, watching as he sets a carton of eggs, a block of cheese, and a package of bacon onto the counter.
"Omelets."
"At" —I glance at the clock— "ten thirty at night?"
He shrugs. "Breakfast for dinner is a universal fix for any crisis."
"Are we calling this a crisis now?"
He meets my gaze, and something flickers there, something unreadable. "Ava."
I swallow, suddenly too warm. "Right. Omelets. Carry on."
I watch as he moves through the motions, cracking eggs into a bowl with practiced ease, whisking with one hand while heating a pan with the other.
"So," I say, because silence feels dangerous. "Is this a secret skill, or do you just make breakfast food when you can't sleep?"
Liam smirks, flipping the bacon with an ease that shouldn't be attractive, and yet, here we are. "Little of both."
Something about that makes my chest ache. Not the cooking. The not sleeping.
I don't ask. Instead, I watch him cook, and it's… weirdly domestic. Comfortable.
And even though it's foolish and I'll probably regret this when I wake up alone, I can't stop myself from watching the way his sleeves are still rolled up, his forearms flexing with every movement. From focusing on the way his jaw clenches slightly when he concentrates.
From imagining what it would be like if this weren't fake.
I drag in a breath, shaking off the thought. "Fine," I say, pushing off the counter. "But if I get sick, I'm suing."
Liam chuckles, like he knows I'm just filling space. "Noted."
A few minutes later, he slides a plate in front of me. And, damn it, it actually looks good.
I take a bite, trying not to moan at how stupidly perfect it is. "Okay, that's annoying."
His brows lift. "What is?"
"The fact that you're good at this too." I gesture at the food. "Is there anything you can't do?"
Liam leans against the counter, smiling as he takes a bite of his own food. "Plenty."
I narrow my eyes. "Name one."
He chews, swallows, then meets my gaze. "Stay away from you."
Oh .
Liam holds my stare for a beat longer, then shakes his head, like he's just now realizing what he said. He pushes off the counter, taking his empty plate to the sink. "I'll take the couch."
And just like that, the moment is over.
I exhale, watching as he moves into the living room, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it onto the couch like he's done this before. Like this is normal.
It isn't.
But I don't stop him.
I don't say stay .
I don't say I don't want you to leave .
Instead, I carry my plate to the sink, wash it in silence, and pretend that Liam Carter sleeping on my couch doesn't make my entire apartment feel different.
And I definitely don't acknowledge the part of me that wonders what it would be like if he didn't have to.