Chapter 5 #2
“Speaking of which.” He lifts the coffee I bought him, almost brings it to his mouth, then frowns before setting it back down as though remembering just in time he doesn’t drink sugary drinks anymore. “We need to figure out how we’re going to convince your family we’re still together.”
“I just thought we’d try and act normal,” I say, but as soon as the words are out, I realize that neither of us knows what that means anymore.
What is normal? How are you supposed to act around someone you used to be so in love with that it hurt?
Someone who’s seen you naked, scars and all.
Someone you’ve let into the most intimate parts of your life, who knows your secrets, your hopes, your fears.
Who’s seen you at your worst. And your best. Someone who now feels like a stranger.
He seems to be having the same thought because, after a beat, he asks, “What’s normal?”
“Well…We could be nice to each other,” I try. “Should be easy enough, right?”
He shakes his head, dark eyes going stormy. “That’s not going to work.”
I frown, taken aback. “Why not?”
“Nice isn’t enough. You know how your family is. They’re…” He grasps for the word. “Intense.”
He’s right. My family has a hard time with boundaries and staying out of one another’s business. Especially Bella, who can sniff out gossip better than a tabloid.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask.
“I’m suggesting a strategy. Guidelines, for what to do and not do in this”—he gestures vaguely—“arrangement.”
“Okay…” I mull this over, trying to think of every fake-dating book I’ve ever read, but my mind goes inconveniently blank. “Do you want to use a safe word or something?”
As soon as I say it, I’m hit with a memory of when Liam and I started experimenting more in bed. We’d landed on in this economy as our safe word, but neither of us took it seriously and kept using it at the most inappropriate times, sending us both into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
I wonder if he remembers, but it’s been a while since we had the kind of sex that required a safe word. Or any sex at all for that matter.
“I mean like touching,” he says. “We’re probably going to have to touch, right?”
I scan his features, looking for hints as to how he feels about that, but his expression remains carefully blank.
“I think there will have to be some touching,” I tell him.
His chin tilts, considering. “Where?”
My cheeks grow warm at the thought of me outlining where my husband can and can’t touch me. In another universe this would feel like foreplay, some kind of erotic game.
“I could put together some diagrams and a PowerPoint on acceptable touching zones if you’d like,” I joke, trying to crack the tension, but his face remains stony.
Okay, then. Tough audience.
“How about just holding hands?” I try. “Or an arm around the shoulders?”
His mouth tightens into a thin line. “We don’t need to be all over each other in order for this to work.”
It takes everything in my power not to remind him that he’s the one who used to be all over me.
That it was his fingers that would slide under my skirt beneath the dinner table.
And it was his hand that would sit on my thigh whenever we were in the car.
But apparently, either he’s trying to annoy me (spoiler, it’s working) or he’s suffering from a bad case of amnesia. Either way, it’s not worth the fight.
“Fine. We’ll keep the touching to a minimum,” I tell him.
“And only in front of other people,” he adds.
I’m momentarily bombarded with an image of Liam and me, alone, touching. The thought swells inside me, awakening something hot and slippery, but I quickly shove it back down into my own personal Pandora’s box, where it belongs.
“Anything else?” I ask.
He swallows, his jaw pulling tight before he says, “I don’t think we should kiss.”
The words come out hot and fast, like he’s been holding on to them, and for a moment I’m stunned. Not that I thought he’d want to kiss me. Or that I want to kiss him, but did he have to say it like that? Like he’d rather get a prostate exam than put his lips anywhere near mine?
“Listen, I’d prefer if we didn’t kiss too,” I say stiffly. “But I don’t think we should totally rule it out. What if we have to?”
He frowns. “Why would we have to?”
“I just mean what if we’re in a situation where it would be expected for us to kiss?”
His frown intensifies. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just asking, in case,” I add.
His brows draw together. “Last time I checked, we’re not attending any New Year’s Eve parties. But if we happen to find ourselves in a rousing game of spin the bottle in front of your family, then I suppose kissing’s fair game.”
If I had any doubts as to whether he was over me or not, now I know.
“Fine,” I say stiffly. “No kissing.”
Liam’s jaw tenses as he sits back in his seat, eyes dancing toward the door like he’s hoping a meteor will hit the building and mercifully end this conversation. When it doesn’t, he says, “Anything else we need to go over?”
I mentally review the itinerary Jonah emailed everyone, trying to determine if zip-lining or jungle hiking might provide any difficult situations when my mind stalls on a more pressing matter. Something I completely overlooked until just now.
“What about the bed?”
His gaze widens, understanding sifting through his features. “We could alternate who gets it each night?”
“And where does the other person sleep?”
“The floor.”
My first instinct is to tell him no. I’m thirty-one years old. I’ll probably need a hip replacement if I sleep on the floor. But this is a very delicate scenario, and I don’t want to rock the boat, metaphorically or literally.
“Fine, we can alternate,” I say. “Is that everything?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I sense some kind of energy brewing behind his tautly pulled jaw muscles, a kind of energy that makes him flex his hands and purse his lips before he finally says, “If this is going to work, I think the main thing is that we’re going to have to try and be cordial with one another. At least in front of your family.”
The annoyance I’ve been trying to keep at bay finally boils over.
“I’ve been perfectly cordial this entire time. You’re the one who showed up twenty minutes late.”
“I told you,” he says tightly. “I just got off a twenty-four-hour shift of clinical trials for a new treatment that could save thousands of lives. So excuse my lack of punctuality.”
My inner fuse crackles. Of course perfect Liam has the perfect excuse. But I need to prove this isn’t the worst idea ever, so I gather my breath, purse my lips, and say in my most diplomatic voice, “I can be cordial if you are.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it before setting it into a hard line. “Fine,” he says at last, and I try to ignore the Pavlovian stomach clench that comes with hearing him say that word.
We stare at each other, caught in a wordless standoff for a handful of seconds before he gives me one last heavy look and stands to go, coffee still untouched.
“If that’s everything, I’ll see you at the airport,” he says.
“Shouldn’t we arrive at the airport together? Since we’re meeting my family there?”
Liam runs his hand down the back of his neck, fingers tracing the collar of his shirt. “Right. Good idea.”
“We can meet at the house,” I say.
His throat shifts as he swallows. “I’ll see you then.” He turns to go.
“Liam?”
His eyes drag back to meet mine.
“Make sure you wear your ring.”