Chapter 19
Liam
“Where the hell are my keys!” Sophie yells, coming out of the bedroom. I scan the breakfast bar, hook her beaded keychain’s loop over my finger, and hold it out to her as she frantically tears apart her bag, dumping everything onto the counter.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling, as she takes her keys from my outstretched finger.
She’s wearing my favorite pair of barely there sleep shorts and my Iron Cats hoodie, which I’m pretty sure I’m never getting back.
Her curls are a wild mess, and her cheeks still flushed from the newest addition to our morning routine.
“I like that new thing you did with your tongue,” she says with a smirk.
“I’ll be sure to add it to the rotation.” I laugh. Sex with Sophie is so…easy. We instinctively know what will make the other person feel good. When to go harder, and when to slow down. We are in tune with each other, like we have this unspoken connection.
Sophie goes into the kitchen and presses buttons on the espresso machine, sliding a perfect latte across the counter. Over the past week, she’s started making me coffee again. I’m not sure if she realizes it, but I do.
Things shifted after she accepted the Senator’s commission—nothing profound, no big declarations, but these little things that feel bigger than they should.
Our standard couch positions have shifted from opposite ends to her legs draped across my lap.
Yesterday, she texted me from the roof to see what she’d painted—the overlook in Pacifica, the cliff, the ocean, and the cypress trees all rendered in muted shades of purple.
When I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind and kissed the top of her head, telling her it was beautiful, she sighed and leaned into me. And I never wanted to move.
I’m mid-sip of my perfect latte when Sophie’s phone buzzes. “Shit,” she mutters, “why does Cal insist on FaceTiming?”
“He likes to see the whites of our eyes,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I’m not answering a video call from his kitchen. So he’ll have to deal with a text saying I’m fine.”
“Have you talked to him at all since he left?”
She shakes her head, thumbs tapping across her screen. “I’m sure he means well, but I can’t really take his constant disappointment.”
“Cal’s not disappointed in you, Soph. He’s always bragging about you.”
“I don’t know. Every conversation feels like a checklist of what I’m doing wrong. It’s always how I should’ve stayed in school, or how I can’t handle my own money, or how Marshall wasn’t good enough—”
“Well, to be fair,” I cut in, “that guy sounds like an asshole.”
She lets out a huff of agreement, then leans her elbows on the counter and narrows her eyes, studying the still-blank canvas sitting on the easel by the window. It’s been almost two weeks since she got the commission, and she hasn’t touched it yet. But I know she’ll start when she’s ready.
“I can hear it in his tone, like I had all this potential and just…wasted it.”
Cal’s always been proud of Sophie, but I understand how his concern can feel like pressure—because I’ve felt it too. His constant reminders about contributing to my 401k probably come from love, but they land like judgment.
“I think he wants what’s best for you,” I say, wishing I had the right words. I wish I could tell her she doesn’t have to earn her worth—not for him, not for anyone. To tell her she already is what she’s trying so hard to be.
“Maybe,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. She pushes herself off the counter. “Is it okay if I shower first? I’m meeting Liv and Andy to show them the new exhibit at the de Young.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say, and I immediately picture her in the shower. This time, I’m imagining myself in there with her—not for sex, but to wash her hair, run my fingers through her scalp, and get those little moans of pleasure from something more than, well, more than what we’ve been doing.
But that isn’t what she wants. She’ll let me bend her over the bathroom counter, both of us watching in the mirror as she comes undone, but then she’ll push me out the door and shower alone.
She’ll curl into me after sex and let me trail my fingers over her soft skin, but just before we both doze off, she gets up and rushes to get dressed.
I try not to let it bother me. We agreed to keep this casual. I try not even to look up when she emerges from the shower and heads to Cal’s room, wrapped in a towel that barely covers her ass, her curls piled on her head to keep them dry. Okay, so maybe I notice.
Label or not, this is the best thing I’ve had in a long time—maybe ever—and I don’t want to screw it up.
I like Sophie. Maybe more than I should.
But even if we cut off the sex, I still want to spend time with her.
She’s smart, funny, unpredictable, brilliant—and somehow my life feels more complete with her in it.
But fuck if I don’t want more. I want lazy weekends in our PJs.
I want to walk hand in hand with her back from Bar None.
I want to bring her flowers for no reason.
And I want this to last longer than Cal’s house-sitting needs.
Which is wild, because I’ve never wanted any of this domestic shit before. Baseball was always enough—until her.
But she’s not looking for a relationship. So I need to get my damn puppy-dog eyes under control and stick to the deal. Even if a part of me still hopes she’ll change her mind.
My phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, not recognizing the number.
“Liam Blake? This is William Vallera. I’m not sure if you remember—”
“Coach Bill?” A lump forms in my throat at the sound of my first Little League coach’s voice.
I wasn’t a bad kid, but I had a lot of energy and misplaced anger.
I hadn’t hit my growth spurt yet, and I was a little shit when other kids teased me.
Coach Bill took me under his wing. He taught me how to use my size-to-strength ratio to my advantage.
He made me love baseball and, maybe more importantly, take myself and my talent seriously.
“I guess you do remember me,” he laughed.
“Listen, I know this is a long shot, but I have some kids in the program right now. Well, they remind me of you.” I can almost hear him shaking his head through the phone.
“If you’re ever in town, maybe you could stop by and show these kids that there is life after their hardships. ”
My stomach drops. I owe Coach Bill so much, but how could I be some fucking mentor to kids when I failed at the one thing I could do?
“You still there, Liam?” Coach Bill asks when I don’t respond.
“Yeah, I’m here. It’s just that I don’t really…know when I’ll be back in town. I’m pretty busy.” I feel like an asshole as the lie slips out.
“Of course, I figured as much. But I wanted to reach out. You know I’m proud of you, kid, I talk about you all the time.”
“Sure, Coach, thanks.” I bite my lip hard to fight the sting behind my eyes.
“Well, keep me in mind if your schedule opens up.”
I click the end button on my phone and stare at the blank screen.
“What was that about?” Sophie asks. I’m not sure how long she’s been standing in Cal’s doorway, listening. She’s wearing a baggy pair of jeans and a tight white tank cropped just below her chest, and my eyes linger on the strip of creamy skin exposed at her waist.
“Nothing,” I say, lifting my gaze to her face. “Someone wanting a favor.”
“Who’s Coach Bill?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“God, Sophie, how long were you eavesdropping on my phone call?” It comes out harsher than I intended. “He was my old Little League coach,” I add, trying to soften my tone. “He wanted me to come talk to some kids at the youth center. Sign some balls or some shit. But I’m not going.”
Sophie pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me. “Why not?”
“I don’t know, I’m just not. I don’t have time for that shit.”
She glances dramatically around the apartment. “What, you can’t squeeze it in between burpees and beers on the couch?”
“Hello pot, meet kettle,” I shoot back, but she doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Those kids could look up to you. Why won’t you go?”
There’s something soft in her voice—too soft—and it gets under my skin. I snap.
“Because I’m a fucking failure, Sophie. They don’t want to hear from me unless it’s as a cautionary tale on how to screw up every aspect of your life spectacularly.”
“You’re not a failure, Liam.” She meets my eyes, and there’s something there—something close to pity—and I don’t need that. Fuck that.
“Aren’t I?” I laugh bitterly. “Look at us. We’re both stuck. Stuck in this apartment. Stuck in this life. You got that commission two weeks ago.” I jab my finger at the huge blank canvas on the easel in the corner. “And that canvas looks pretty fucking empty.”
I instantly want to reel the words back in.
“Wow,” she mumbles.
“Soph—” I reach for her, my hand moving almost instinctively, but I stop. Or maybe she does first, stepping just out of reach.
“It’s fine,” she says, grabbing her bag from the back of the chair. “You clearly want to wallow in your little pity party, so I’ll leave you to it.”
She strides to the door. Her voice is flat, final. “Enjoy your lonely burpees.”