Chapter Twenty-Five
Feelings are gross. Unsubscribe.
Amber
Okay, so. Liam’s in love with me. That’s not up for debate. Whether he figures out the word for his feelings or not, it grows more obvious every single day. He is gone for me. Absolutely gone . Like a male lead on crack.
“Bambi, ahh .”
I shift my attention off my laptop to find Liam with a spoonful of sauce positioned in front of my lips. The disconcerting understanding that it looks like cheese, but isn’t, compels me to eye him with wary caution.
“I was planning to mix the pasta with the sauce, but if you hate the vegan alfredo I’ve made, I’ll leave it off and whip up a garlic pesto for you.”
Consideration incarnate.
What am I even supposed to do with him?
I open my mouth for the morsel, and Liam smiles so bright, it’s nearly as blinding as his apron. Which is yellow. And covered in sunflowers. With little mice sleeping in them.
It’s almost a game, finding the little mouse faces sprinkled all over his chest.
Such a cutie.
Unbelievably cutie.
“Like it?” he asks, setting the spoon against his own lips and looking down at me as though he is a hottie, not a cutie. The attack on my heart is anything but appreciated.
So I give the words on my laptop screen a death stare. “It’s great. Love it. You’ve outdone yourself, fake cheese man.”
“Thank you…? It’s cashew.” He wanders back to the kitchen, eyeing me the entire time. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yep.” I tap. I delete. “Why?”
“Your voice—“
“There’s nothing wrong with my voice,” I snap. “Mind yo’ business.”
His deep chuckle flows across my flesh, raising the hair on my arms. It’s the clearest sign he understands what he’s doing, and I don’t appreciate it at all.
I do appreciate the plate full of pasta that winds up set delicately beside me. The heady aroma of not quite cheese and nowhere close to roasted chicken takes over, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the half sandwich I had at lunch.
Getting one more line—that I may or may not delete in a moment—I reach for my fork and twirl the fettuccine.
“Bambi, I was wondering…” He sits on the loveseat across from me, settles in, pulls up one leg, and begins to stab a piece of veggie meat. “Could we go on another date?”
My heart jumps as I fill my face. I swallow. “Another date? It’s been two days since our last date.”
He twists his fork, watching the pasta roll up on the prongs. “I know. Two whole years of my life, gone.”
My brow furrows as I test one of the slices of not-chicken. It is violently not chicken. But the texture isn’t the worst thing in the world, and I guess the flavors aren’t terrible.
His dark eyes flick toward me, then return to his food. He’s giving one hundred percent cutie when he murmurs, “I was just thinking, maybe, it would help you sort your feelings about me if we went on a date without any pretenses.”
That isn’t a bad idea.
Apart from the part where it’s a terrible idea.
“Liam. You’re a very attractive man. But that is the least important thing where a relationship is concerned. I don’t need romantic gestures right now. I just need some time to assess whether or not I… like you. At. Like. A character level.”
His attention rises, settling squarely on me. Mouth open, he holds his fork unmoving in front of it.
“What?” I shift my weight, cross my ankles to uncross them.
Lowering his fork, he swallows. “Can’t we rely more on how I look? And my money? I’d appreciate it if you took those things more into consideration than something stupid like my character. In fact, since you can change the character to be whatever you’d like, I’d really prefer you ignore it altogether.”
This moron.
“Liam, stop saying really sad things.”
“Forgive me. That’s the pesky character shining through.” He clears his throat. “In…other news…I actually did have an ulterior motive with my request that we go on a date. I’m worried you’ll think I’m trying to manipulate you, so if you don’t want to go, please don’t feel like you have to. Just because. It’s already a thing.”
“Already a thing?” I narrow my eyes. “What’s already a thing , Liam?”
“There’s a Valentine Ball this Saturday.”
A what?
“It’s a fundraiser. For charity. I was invited. I…was hoping you’d go with me. As my wife. That is to say, I’ve not entirely introduced you to anyone in my circles, and I would really…really like to.”
He’s certainly not suggesting that I have until Saturday—three days—to decide whether or not I want to publicly come out as his wife .
“If you’d rather not,” he says, hugging his leg tighter to his chest, “there will be other fundraisers and balls and so forth this year where I can introduce you. Assuming you ever want to be introduced. I don’t mind introducing you even if you still plan to divorce me. I’d…really like to pretend this year will last forever. But…whatever makes you most comfortable.”
Being introduced is one thing. It sounds an awful lot like being perceived, and I’m not the biggest fan of that, bottom line. But being introduced as his wife is another layer of feelings I need to work through.
I don’t know what to say.
And Liam must sense that because he changes the subject. “Have you posted your call for advanced readers yet? Reviews and social proof on a debut as a new author will be important.”
My lungs tighten as I shake my head. “No. I haven’t. It feels weird advertising for reviewers when I’m not even done with the book yet.”
“We don’t know what the reception will be like. From what you’ve told me, it might take a while to get a good team together.”
Yeah. This idea that I can put out a low-spend ad in order to gain people willing to read and review my book in exchange for a free ebook copy is crazy. I’m not expecting much traffic, and whatever interest I do get will probably be scammers who just want a free book. Of the hundreds of emails I’ve sent to reliable blogs for my other books, only five percent replied. And of that five percent, only one or two would actually follow through.
I’m not primed for that kind of rejection again. And definitely not when I’m supposed to be doing everything right this time.
“Do you want me to do it?” Liam asks.
My head shakes. I eat my pasta. I sink into the couch cushions and glance at my computer screen. Lines and lines of words. Pages and pages. In a matter of weeks, I’ve written half a novel. “What if it sucks?”
“It doesn’t. I love it.”
“What if you have sucky taste?”
“I don’t. Statistically speaking, people come to me for my opinion on matters of taste every day.”
I frown. “You and your logical arguments.” I stab a chunk of fake meat and point it at him. “You’re vegan . You eat flour meat . This—” I wiggle my fork. “—is a hunk of processed gluten.”
“People love gluten. Flour meat eaters have excellent taste.”
How dare he with his logical arguments, and his charity balls, and his cooking for me, and his encouraging me to attain my dreams, and his… everything . Sometimes, I swear he’s not even evil at all.
He’s just plain demented.
And his demented love language is a new kind where you treat the person you love like a little doll—meaning you take pristine care of them, and appreciate everything they come with because it’s nice to have a personality included . You pamper them by buying them all the accessories and sold-separatelys. You make sure they have their plastic meals several times a day, because what else do you do with a doll if not pretend to feed it?
Ninety percent of their existence is adoring them just for standing there on your shelf and being pretty.
Imagine wanting the best for something completely useless. Imagine loving something just for existing.
That’s the kind of person Liam is.
Careful, and adoring, and appreciative of so many mundane things.
So many people would be happy to have him.
So, what’s wrong with me ?