Chapter 8
Sophie
“I think this is the first time I haven’t gotten kicked out of that bar,” Liam says as we step onto the sidewalk in front of Bar None just after midnight.
“I feel like you have some stories to share,” I say with a little hiccup.
The night had been delightful. I was out of the house and actually talking to Liam, and I don't think I realized how much I was craving both. When Liv, Andy, and Owen said goodnight, I wasn’t ready to head back to Cal’s.
So I suggested we stay for another drink.
Honestly, I have no idea what my nightly total was, but it was way more than I was used to.
“Let’s just say I didn’t handle myself very responsibly when Cal first left,” Liam explains.
“Why didn’t you tell me you got cut?”
Liam drags his hand through his hair. “I don’t know, maybe I haven’t come to terms with it myself. That the career I’ve wanted since I was twelve is over, and I have nothing to show for it and no fucking clue what comes next.”
“Welcome to the club,” I say, stealing a glance at Liam’s profile as we pass under a streetlight. The sharp angle of his jaw, the rise of his cheekbones, but also the sadness in his eyes. “But you said your agent still thinks there’s a chance of getting picked up by another team.”
“Yeah, but Soph,” Liam shoves his hand into his jeans pocket, making his bicep bulge. “It’s July. The chances of someone picking up a thirty-one-year-old with a bum knee this late in the season? Pretty damn low.”
“Pretty damn low is not none,” I tell him.
“And what do you mean by ‘welcome to the club?’ I’m pretty sure you just got a commissioned art piece out of tonight. Senator Langford? That’s a huge deal, Soph.”
“I doubt anything will come of it. No one at that table was exactly sober tonight. I’m sure Owen won’t even remember to tell her about my art.” I look down at a cigarette butt on the sidewalk. “Besides, she’s not going to want a piece from some art school dropout.”
Liam stops walking. “You dropped out of art school?”
“I figured Cal already told you.” I shrug.
“He said you were taking a break. What’s your version?”
I rarely talk about this, and I’m an expert at changing the subject. But maybe it’s the tequila, or perhaps the way his eyes glint when he looks at me makes me want to tell him.
“When I was a kid, I loved to draw.”
“I remember. You were never without your sketchbook.”
I smile, surprised that too-cool-for-school Liam Blake ever noticed his friend’s bratty little sister, much less her sketchbook.
“Other people realized I was talented, and it just snowballed,” I say, and start walking again, thinking this will be easier if I don’t have to look him in the eye.
“One show led to another, and suddenly everyone wanted something—my art, a promise of future success, a piece of me. I never felt like I could stop and catch my breath. My parents were so proud, and I wanted to make them proud, but I think I just piled all this pressure on myself and on what my art was supposed to be. I’m not sure I was ever capable of living up to it. ”
“You’re clearly capable of it, if Owen could tell from a blurry iPhone photo that Meredith Langford would be into your style.”
“But that photo was taken three years ago. It’s gotten harder and harder to live up to the expectations others had of me. Or maybe harder to live up to my own expectations.”
“Welcome to the club,” Liam echoes back, holding the front door to the apartment complex open for me.
I glance back as we climb the stairs and catch him looking at me. Really looking. His smile has faded, replaced by something heavier. Something that makes my pulse stutter. I hurry up the remaining steps, trying to keep from tripping.
I fumble with the keypad on Cal’s door, the numbers swimming. “That might have been one too many tequilas,” I mutter. “Or four.”
Liam chuckles, low and warm. “Want me to try?”
I shift to the side, and although it’s dim in the hallway, I can see the faint stubble that has appeared across his jaw. I want to trace it with my finger. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing before his eyes drop to my mouth, just for a flash, and I feel it everywhere.
I think about that first night when I climbed into bed with him. The way his hands felt on my waist, the way he pressed me close, the heat of him behind me, steady and solid.
I lean in, just a little. My hand brushes his chest, and I swear I can feel his pulse dancing under my palm.
His fingers lift to my hair, threading in gently, sending a curl of heat to my core.
His pupils are blown wide, and he’s leaning in too now.
He pauses on a ragged inhale, like he’s giving me time to change my mind—but I don’t want to. Not even a little.
His big palm cups the back of my head, angling me toward him, and my eyes flutter closed.
“I know it’s late, Jessica, but the quarterly metrics don’t sleep!” A voice shouts from the stairs.
We both jerk apart like we’ve been caught stealing.
Harper, Cal’s neighbor, crests the final step, AirPod in her ear, heels in her hand, and a look of sheer disgust on her face. She barely glances at us, still whisper-shouting into her phone. “Tell Spencer sleep is for people who have met their KPIs.”
I try the lock code one more time, and the door finally beeps. I push open the door and step inside without looking back at Liam.