21. Is that a Threat?
IS THAT A THREAT?
LIAM
I was at the kitchen counter, staring at my phone, when the podcast clip started playing.
Deepika’s voice filled the space, clear and strong.
“The Liam I know isn’t the man these tabloids describe. My fiancé is loyal, protective, and honest. We’ve known each other since we were kids, as our families are connected. I’ve seen him at his best and his worst. I trust him with my life.”
My fiancé.
My chest felt warm and hot as if someone had lit a match behind my ribs.
She didn’t have to do that. She could have distanced herself from me and protected her career. She could have easily cut me loose and gone to her cousin’s wedding with Marcus Reynolds.
But, no. She chose to defend me publicly, even if it meant there was a chance it could backfire and hurt her career.
I listened to the clip three more times, imagining her face in the studio and shivered.
Why are my cheeks hurting?
I called Xavier with an extra bounce in my step.
“Did you see—”
“The entire internet saw—er, heard,” he said. “Your sponsor just renewed and Joshua backed you up in an interview. Sofia’s being exposed for lying so...”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No. Your fake fiancée did,” he said and paused. “She’s good for you, you know.”
“It’s fake,” I blurted, as if it were my practiced answer.
“Sure it is.”
He hung up, and I stared at my phone for a long moment, then looked around my pristine kitchen.
I am going to make her dinner, I thought, heaving my chest up.
Chole bhature was her favorite Indian dish. I had heard her mention it once in passing during a conversation with Kiara.
How hard could it be? Especially for an Olympic gold medalist such as me?
I smirked and got to work.
It was hard.
Extremely hard for an Olympic gold medalist who barely knew how to cook cup noodles.
Two hours later, I stood in front of a smoking pan, the chole burned beyond recognition, the bhature somehow both raw and charred.
The smoke alarm was screaming, and that’s when she decided to come downstairs after her video meeting.
Deepika appeared in the doorway, hair wet from a shower, wearing one of my t-shirts that hit her mid-thigh.
She took in the scene as I stared at her like a deer caught in the headlights.
I swallowed and looked around at the destroyed food and smoke wafting in the air. I probably looked good. With flour in my hair and clothes, splashes of spices and curry on the apron and—what the fuck, how did I get it on my jeans and socks?!
“What the hell happened here?”
“I tried to make you dinner,” I said and repeated it for good measure. “Like… really tried to make you dinner.”
Her face softened as if I had done something sweet instead of nearly burning down the house.
“That’s... really thoughtful.”
“It’s inedible.”
“Most probably,” she said, moving closer and examining the carnage. “If we eat this, we’ll definitely get food poisoning.”
“Agreed,” I said with a sad sigh.
We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Our laughter echoed in the ruined kitchen until our cheeks hurt.
“Come on.” She grabbed her phone. “I know a place that delivers amazing chole bhature with delicious mango lassi.”
We ate on the floor of the living room with containers spread out between us like a picnic. We had cleaned the kitchen together until the takeout was delivered.
“This is really good,” I said around a mouthful.
“Better than yours?”
“Way better.”
She grinned, stealing a piece of my bhature. “Thank you for trying.”
“Thank you for defending me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” She met my eyes, knowing what I meant. “I wanted to.”
The air shifted between us, so I cleared my throat. “I canceled all our plans for tomorrow. You’re spending it with me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”
I smirked. “Consider it one.”
The next morning, after a light breakfast of fruit and coffee that I didn’t burn, I led her to the garage.
Polished to perfection, her vintage convertible sat there. I had it detailed, tuned up until every inch was gleaming.
She stopped dead. “What… how—”
“You’re driving it today.”
“Liam, I’m not—”
“No arguments,” I said, tossing her the keys. “Get in.”
She caught them automatically, staring at the car as if it might bite her. “I can’t.”
“Of course, you can.”
“I’m too scared.”
I moved closer. “Why?”
“Because Grandma and Grandpa cherished this car. They loved it. And what if I crash it? Or ruin it? What if I—”
“Deepika,” I said, holding her hand. “They didn’t give you this car to keep it pristine in a garage. They gave it to you to drive and to make your own memories in.”
“But what if I—”
“Even if you crashed it. Even if you dented every panel and scratched the paint and totaled the whole thing.” I squeezed her hand. “It would mean something because you would have lived in it, used it, and made it yours. That’s what they would have wanted.”
Her golden-brown eyes went glassy, and I squeezed her hand.
“Come on.” I opened the driver’s door for her. “Let’s make some memories.”
We drove through the winding streets of LA with the top down, the engine’s low growl competing with Britney Spears blasting from the stereo at a volume that was probably illegal.
The air was a mix of warm Santa Ana winds, the faint tang of exhaust, and the intoxicating, soft scent of Deepika’s jasmine perfume.
Deepika’s long, dark hair whipped around her face in a silken frenzy, her cheeks were flushed a delicious, deep rose, and she was belt-out-loud singing every single lyric. She looked so vibrant, so completely unburdened, that I couldn't look away.
The late afternoon sun caught the gold of her skin and the spark in her dark eyes, and my chest felt tight. Partly from the speed, but mostly from the sight of her.
I’m in so much trouble.
“Eyes on the road, Fish Boy!” she shouted over the bridge of ‘Toxic,’ flashing me a grin that made my heart stutter.
“I’m not the one driving, Sharma! I’m just admiring the scenery.”
“The scenery is to your left, Fish Boy!” She spared a split second to glance at me, her eyes raking over my face before she focused back on the asphalt.
“You’re the designated passenger princess today.
Your job is to look pretty and stop staring at the driver like you’re trying to peel my clothes off with your eyes. It’s distracting.”
I leaned back into the sun-warmed leather seat, the vibrations of the car humming right through my spine and settling low in my gut. I let my gaze linger on the way her grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles elegant and brown against the black leather.
“It’s not a distraction, darling, it’s called moral support,” I said, letting a lazy, suggestive wink pull at the corner of my mouth. “Every driver needs a fan club. I just happen to be the president of yours today.”
She snorted, a gorgeous, unrefined sound that made me want to pull her across the center console right then and there.
Instead of arguing, she just reached over, her fingers brushing my arm sending a jolt of heat straight to my cock and cranked the music even louder, her laughter lost in the wind as we sped toward the coast.
After an hour of aimless driving, I directed her toward my gym.
She frowned as we pulled into the parking lot. “What are we doing here? Am I dropping you off for practice?”
“No, my darling dear.” I unbuckled. “I canceled everything today for you.”
I hopped out and opened her door.
“Come on out.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “What have you planned?”
I pouted. “Don’t you trust me?”
“No.”
I gasped, clutching my chest. “Did you lie on that podcast? About trusting me with your life?”
“Yes. I might have.”
“You’re such a party pooper! Come on! Or I will pick you up and—”
“Fine! Fine!” she got out, glaring at me. “But if this is weird, I’m leaving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The gym was massive, with three floors, state-of-the-art equipment, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Olympic athletes trained here, like professional swimmers and people who took their bodies seriously.
But I led her past the weight room, past the cardio section, through a hallway that opened into the aquatics center.
She gasped.
The pool was Olympic-sized with lanes marked in perfect lines. The water was so clear that you could see the bottom. Diving platforms at one end and the ceiling arched high above, letting in natural light that made everything glow.
“This is incredible,” she breathed, looking around with wide eyes.
I showed her around the locker rooms, the hot tub, the sauna, and the viewing area where coaches watched their swimmers.
“But why are we here?”
I smirked.
She started backing away. “No.”
I stepped closer. “Yes.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-uh.”
“Liam James.”
“Deepika Sharma.”
She turned to run.
I grabbed her waist, lifting her off the ground as she yelped.
“Put me down!”
“Not a chance.”
“I’M NOT GETTING IN THAT POOL!”
“You absolutely are.”
“I can’t swim!”
I stopped and set her down, turning her to face me.
“I know.”