Chapter 21 Andrea #2
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell chimed, and a succession of men in black polo shirts appeared as if they were auditioning for a heist movie. Bags multiplied on the kitchen counter—sushi, mezze, at least five salads, and a box with steam escaping from the edges. It smelled of garlic and wet dog.
I stared. “This is … light?”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want.” He looked from bag to bag like he was checking if he’d done it wrong. “I ordered a variety.”
I opened the steaming box. It was a steak the size of my laptop, with something weird shaved over the top of it.
“What’s the garnish of black scabs?”
Liam choked. “You mean the truffle slivers?”
“Oh dear. Sounds expensive. Is it meant to smell of old socks?”
He laughed. “It’s a type of mushroom. I’ve always got hints of gas station forecourt, myself.”
“So … are these guys the Hell’s Angels of the fungus scene? Petrol and sweaty feet?”
He snorted. “Some people like it, you know.”
“Must be a Mayfair thing.” I waved him away, reaching for the salads. Fancy grains and vegetables I didn’t recognize. They looked like they’d been styled for a magazine shoot. “I’ll leave you to your foot shrooms and steak.”
Liam laughed again and looked at me. “Andrea—”
I paused, a forkful of exclusive grains halfway to my mouth. “Yes?”
I shoved the salad—or whatever it was—into my mouth, instantly regretting it. The food wouldn’t crush—it definitely wasn’t safe to start speaking. He kept looking at me as I gave him a thumbs-up and tried a half smile, my cheeks bulging out like a hamster’s.
He continued. “I appreciate the shopping might have had moments today when it was … well, not something you’re used to.”
In possibly the least feminine moment of my life, I finally managed to gulp most of the food down. Liam didn’t seem to have noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t show it.
“It was fine, Liam. Fun, actually. At least, once the RBF assistant buggered off.”
“Who?”
“The assistant. Sylvia, or whatever her name was. Resting bitch face on steroids.”
“Oh. Right.” He laughed. “Yes. She was a bit … um … RBF, wasn’t she?”
“She was.” I rested my gaze on his. He was still chuckling, his right hand gripping a piece of sushi between two chopsticks.
“Thanks for that,” I said. “I saw what you did.”
“Oh, I didn’t really—”
“Yes, you did.” I paused. “You can be quite intimidating, you know.”
The skin between his brows creased. “Can I?”
“Yeah. You can.”
He looked down at his knees, then lifted his head and looked away again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to be.”
“It’s okay. That was nice of you to do that. For me.”
The kitchen felt very quiet. Even his fridge was apparently too posh to hum. I should probably “add my touch” to it with a few well-placed fridge magnets and a shopping list for Tesco.
“Can I offer you some mineral water?” he asked. “I’ve ordered some drinks anyway. They’re on the way up.”
“Water would be great, thanks.”
He pressed a button on the tap and dispensed fizzy water into a glass. “Here.”
I took a swig. “So, Liam.”
“Yes?” He sat next to me on one of the high stools at his kitchen island.
“How’s your CV addendum coming along? I was hoping your apartment would give me some clues to prepare me for the Hugo-Miranda interrogation, but I’m not getting a lot of personality.”
“Like I said, I’m not here a lot.” He rubbed the top of his head and looked down again.
“I get it. It’s just. You know. You’re still really—” Oh dear. Now I’d opened a can of worms.
“I’m what?”
“You’re kind of … private.” That sounded better than closed off. I knew there was more to him behind that wall. Would he ever show me? “I don’t know who you are, Liam. Not really.”
It was like I kept seeing two very different people. I preferred the sweeter one that he kept mostly hidden. “I thought, for the wedding thing, that would help.”
“Yes. Of course. Actually, I’ve given that some thought.”
“You have?”
“Well, yeah, I thought it might be easiest for you to just ask what you’d like to know. To make this thing”—he waved his hand toward the gap between us—“more believable.”
He shrugged his jacket off and placed it on a chair. His T-shirt was tight across his shoulders, and his neck looked wider now, without the coat framing it. He folded his arms on the countertop, the veins just visible beneath his light tan.
“So. What’ve you got?” he asked.
Wow, okay. What I’d like to know. Lots of things. Way too many. I should probably start off light.
“You said you like eighties movies. That your mum was into them.”
“I do. She was.”
“Me too, actually. But it doesn’t really fit with your … energy.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not? Is there something about my energy … that’s specifically anti-eighties?”
“Hmm.” Hard to explain. Probably shouldn’t mention he was leaning a bit American Psycho at times. Eighties films were so innocent. It was what made them so adorable. Liam—or at least, Wilhelm von Roth—didn’t feel like that. At all. Did he just like them because he missed his mum?
“What’s your favorite?” There. A much safer place to start.
He slid a bowl of poncy-looking crisps toward me. “Say Anything,” he said, without hesitation.
“Seriously? You?”
“Why not me?”
“I just don’t picture you eating ice cream out of the tub and quoting John Cusack.”
“It’s not about the lines,” he said. “It’s about Lloyd deciding to act even though he doesn’t have leverage. No status, no certainty. Everyone thinks he’s ridiculous, and he knows it. But he doesn’t care.”
I blinked. His gaze caught mine for a beat too long.
“So,” I said, “you’re telling me you admire clueless men making grand gestures?”
He laughed. “People always make that mistake about Say Anything. The guy makes this big statement with the boombox, but everything still blows up. That’s the point.”
“That’s not how I remembered it.”
“Most people remember the image, not what comes after.” He paused. “He can’t mend it all. He just … stays. They don’t know what’s going to happen, but they decide that’s okay.”
He held my eyes for a few moments, then turned his head and looked out over the view. Not what I was expecting from Liam. My fork hovered over the salad bowl, forgotten.
“You didn’t confirm about the ice-cream-out-of-the-tub thing, though,” I said after a couple of seconds. “Do you? And if you do, please say H?agen-Dazs and not Ben and Jerry’s.”
He laughed. “H?agen-Dazs every time. Sometimes I eat too much, though, so I have to—”
He looked at me, like he wasn’t sure he should continue.
“What?”
“Well …”
“Is it H?agen-Dazs blood-of-the-innocents flavor or something?”
“No.” He laughed sheepishly. “I just … I get cold when I eat a lot, so I, ah—I wear a Snuggie.”
“A Snuggie?” A laugh popped out of me, and I clapped a hand over my mouth.
“Yes. They’re … warm. And my couch is leather, so … it’s better.”
Oh my God. How in the hell was Liam Roth, corporate cyborg, into Snuggies and romcoms?
Could he really be that … cute?
No.
I was never going to be able to process this. I had to see it for myself.
“Show me.”
“What? No!”
“Liam. This is exactly the sort of thing I need to know to convince people I’m your girlfriend.”
“The last thing I want you doing is telling Hugo—or anyone else, for that matter—that I like to wear a Snuggie.”
“Liam.” I leaned forward, my voice soft.
“Come on. If you show me, I won’t tell anyone.
But if you don’t … well, I’ll be obsessed about it.
It’ll be on my mind. I can’t promise it won’t pop out accidentally.
” I batted my eyelashes at him theatrically.
“What is it, like a tweed one? Does it have the von Roth family crest on it?”
“No.” He huffed. “It’s not tweed.”
“So? Why can’t I see it?”
“Okay, fine.” He pushed back his stool and headed down the hallway. I grabbed my handbag, then jumped up and followed him.
The door opened onto another expanse of designer perfection.
Floor-to-ceiling glass across one wall, with lamps that looked like sculptures placed in strategic spots.
In the center was the largest bed I’d ever seen, covered in dark gray linen bedding.
One side was rumpled, the sheets twisted and indented.
The other side was almost untouched, like it had never been slept in.
Wow. He actually lived here.
I could see a pair of muddy running shoes half-stuffed under the bed. There was a plain black hoodie on a chair by the window and a tea-stained mug on the nightstand. Next to it, a paperback with curling pages and a cracked spine—Neuromancer.
It looked so normal. Nothing like the rest of his space.
“This … this isn’t like your living room.” I dropped my handbag to the floor at the foot of his bed.
“The cleaners stay out of here except for once a week. I prefer it that way.”
The wardrobe doors were open. There was a blister pack of medication just visible under a neat stack of papers. Next to it, a box half open, the corner of a photo tucked against it.
And then, thrown over a chair, something so out of place it stopped me cold.
“Liam—” I walked toward it and touched the soft fabric.
“Yeah, I know. It was a gift from Ben. He thought it was funny. But it’s so comfortable.”
My phone meowed. James. I ignored it. There was no way I was checking my phone right now.
Liam. Roth. Had. A. Snuggie.
“Well. Now you’ve seen it,” he said.
“Put it on.”
“I will not.”
“Liam.” I folded my arms. “Someone once told me that sometimes you have to stop worrying about looking ridiculous and just do it anyway.” My lips twitched. “In your Flamin’ Hot Cheetos Snuggie.”
He glowered at me.
“Please. For me?” I picked it up and offered it to him.
“Oh, what the hell. Hand it over.” He leaned slightly forward and grabbed it, then began searching in the bundle for the opening so he could slip it on.
Eventually, he lifted it and stuck his head into the fabric, his arms rising above his head.
His T-shirt rode up with them, giving me a glimpse of firm stomach muscles visually sandwiched between the orange blankie and slim denim-clad hips.