Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“What are you . . .” Emily’s words faded as she dropped her gaze to the white tee she was wearing, and her eyes widened. “Shit!” She slammed the door shut and staggered back.
She’d answered the door in only her T-shirt and underwear knowing full well it was Liam since she’d checked the peephole first. What was I thinking?
“I have seen you naked before,” he said loud enough for her to hear. Probably loud enough for Miss Peterson next door to hear even over her seven constantly yapping Chihuahuas. Another reason Emily was anxious to move into her new place next month.
“One second!”
After putting on a bra and pulling on a pair of jeans, she checked herself in the hall mirror and frowned. No time for makeup, damn it.
She swung the door open to see Liam in the same spot, his palm pressed to the frame of the door.
His lips briefly rolled inward before a lazy grin exposed the devastating dimple in his right cheek.
“You’re not in the townhouse anymore.”
“Would you have stayed there if someone you dated, even if it’d been super casual, was killed right in front of you?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
She shrugged, trying to act casual even though the entire event had been insane—but it’d also been how she met Liam and his buddies, and so . . .
“I’m renting this place until my new home is ready.” Her brows stitched together when a thought occurred to her. “But um, how’d you get up here?”
Her building had top-notch security—plus, she had a bodyguard outside.
“Does it matter how?” He dropped his hand, and her gaze followed one of the veins in his forearm up to his bicep. The sleeve of his shirt battled against the muscle there. Every time she looked at his arms the word damn popped into her brain. No exception now.
“Did Owen call you?” She forced herself to tear her eyes away from his muscles as she considered whether or not Owen may have dialed Liam after dinner tonight.
“Why would Owen call me?” He once again braced the doorframe as if he needed the support.
Was he drunk? It was hard for her to believe a guy like him couldn’t handle a few drinks, but then again, alcohol had been the culprit in their whole saying I do debacle.
She leaned forward as if she might be able to smell booze like she was one of the old hunting hounds her grandfather had kept back on the ranch in Montana.
She blinked a few times at the realization that the only thing she could smell was the intense odor of garlic coming from her neighbor in 3-B. The guy loved to bathe his food in garlic to the point she could feel the natural benefits just from a few daily whiffs on her way in and out of her place.
“When did you get to D.C.?” she asked, ignoring his question about Owen once he was inside, and she’d closed the door.
“This afternoon. I stopped over to see my grandfather in Virginia first.” He pointed at her living room, which was five feet away from the area serving as her foyer. “This doesn’t look like you. Not a place you’d live in.”
How many times have we hung out? She did a quick count in her head—six.
Was it really only six times they’d been around each other?
First time—he’d shown up at her door with Owen and Asher and warned her the guy she was dating was dangerous and also an asshole of the highest order.
The next time she’d hung out with Liam was at Luke and Eva’s baby gender reveal party, and although several of the guys had stolen her away to chat, she’d had her eye on Liam the entire time.
How could someone not? The guy could’ve been Chris Hemsworth’s twin.
Accent and all. The God of Thunder from Down Under.
She breezed through the other times they’d spent together, trying to get a handle on how he seemed to know her well enough to determine her current rental wasn’t “her.”
There was the Christmas party. Liam had been devilishly charming that night, but she’d had too many eyes on her to even think naughty thoughts, let alone act on them.
Then a quick trip to Owen’s pub in Charleston in January with Sam—but Liam had been on his way out, and so, they’d only shared a few hours together over breakfast.
Dancing with Liam at a club on Valentine’s Day in New York had only left her with a case of female blue balls.
And then there was Vegas.
“How would you know what kind of place I would live in?” she asked since she couldn’t come up with an answer during her brief walking tour of their past.
“I was at your townhouse last year when that D.C. wanker—”
“Right, but surely you don’t remember what it looked like, or the kind of person I am to assume this place isn’t my style.” Her hands went to her hips as she eyed him.
“The main hall had artwork on the walls—watercolor, right? Scenery, not graphics,” he said without taking pause. “Two brown suede couches and an armchair in your back living room. Lots of family pictures on the far-side wall in there. A fireplace. And your bedroom . . .”
“Okay, I get it. Your memory is off the charts.”
He swirled a finger in the air as he did a three-sixty, examining her apartment. “This place is cold. Barely lived in. Like it’s almost—”
“So sterile a surgeon could operate here?” She smiled.
“Well, the place came furnished. Super minimalistic, and my guess is it belonged to a doctor before, given the smell of antibiotic soap the walls sort of absorbed.” She motioned for him to have a seat on the black leather sofa.
“Of course, that smell does act as a barrier to my neighbor’s love of garlic, so I can’t complain. ”
“Ah, that’s what I smelled in the hall.” He jerked a thumb toward the door then dropped down onto the leather.
There weren’t any other seats aside from the sofa, but she wasn’t quite sure if she could bring herself to sit so close to him. Not yet, at least.
She had to first reduce the hammering of her heart to a near-normal level.
“The bed is mine, though,” she noted, feeling the need for him to know she wasn’t sleeping in some other guy’s bed. The idea had creeped her out, and so it’d been written into her rental agreement to swap the beds. “The rest of my stuff is in storage until moving day.”
“Good call.” He swiped a hand over his blond head. His hair was shorter on the sides and a bit longer on the top with a touch of gel to style it.
“So, um, did you get shitfaced with your grandfather before you came here?”
His green eyes, rimmed in blue, locked on her face. A palpable tension that no way could only she be feeling moved through the air and hit her.
“No.” He cleared his throat. “I stopped at the bar around the corner until I got the nerve to come see you.”
She wondered if this was alcohol-induced honesty.
But she was also currently suffering from the warm and fuzzy effects that had kicked in after she’d moved on to her second bottle of red.
A fluttery sensation traveled from her stomach up to her chest. “Owen told me you were back. I was hoping to see you soon. I just didn’t realize it’d be tonight.” She would’ve dressed for the occasion at the very least. Then again, how does one dress to sign annulment papers?
“Does he know what happened? Does Sam?” He could’ve been asking about the weather—he didn’t sound nervous or concerned.
“No, but um, how was your trip?”
He crossed his ankle over his knee and held it. “It was good, but . . . I wasn’t focused, and then there was this kid that I was worried about. Still worried about.”
“Oh.” Her mouth rounded in surprise. More honesty and she almost felt guilty about listening to him talk. She had to assume Liam was like Owen, who was super tight-lipped about his work. Liam probably wouldn’t normally share so much if he hadn’t hit the corner bar first.
So, she decided not to prod. She didn’t want Liam having any more regrets when he woke up tomorrow. Surely, they had enough already.
“Well, I have the papers to sign. I assume that’s why you’re here.” She’d been drinking wine and staring in a daze at them when he’d startled the hell out of her by ringing the bell.
“You work fast.”
She found his eyes again. There was a sadness there. She hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because she’d been too focused on his panty-melting smile.
“We used to have a no-marriage rule at work,” he blurted.
“What?” She inched closer to the couch, which she instantly regretted because, when he rose, they were inches apart.
His chin dipped so their eyes could meet—he had at least half a foot on her height of five-eight. Her legs were beginning to feel unsteady, and she had the urge to grab hold of his arms to stay upright.
“You’re so damn beautiful.” He lightly gripped her biceps, doing what she’d wanted to do to his arms moments before.
My husband. Husband!
“I, um, I doubt I’m your type,” she said, trying to deflect. To protect her heart from the look in his eyes that could surely ruin every other man for her.
“You’re right, you’re not my type.” His words were rough, like the touch of an uncut diamond drawing blood as it scraped over her skin.
She tried not to flinch, to let him know how crushing his comment had been.
He released his hold of her and shut one eye. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted.” He looked heavenward, and she took the chance to create space between them and stepped back.
“I’ll grab the papers.”
A couple of signatures away from being Emily Summers again.
She thought about her few memories from their wedding night as she went to her bedroom.
“Mrs. Evans. It sounds good,” Liam had said.
“Well, husband, what do you want to do with me now?” She’d hooked her arms around his neck.
“Make love.” The words had brushed across her lips before he’d kissed her, taking command of her mouth, and she’d surrendered and let him. Gave him complete control, too.
“You’re not my type because you are my type.”
Startled, she turned to find him standing in her bedroom doorway, his shoulder leaning into the interior frame as he observed her.
“Yeah, that doesn’t make much sense either,” she mumbled.