Chapter 11 The DM
The DM
Harper
I’m deep in the thrilling world of police officer agendas, highlighter poised over a particularly riveting paragraph about patterns in the justice system, when my phone buzzes against the dining table.
Maddie’s across from me, legs tucked up in her chair, working through what looks like a statistics problem that’s causing her physical pain based on her expression.
The quiet of our Saturday study session is broken by that distinctive notification sound, and I glance at my phone screen without really thinking about it.
Then I freeze.
The Instagram notification preview makes my blood turn to ice water: Liam Murphy sent you a message.
“Liam DM’d me,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Maddie’s head snaps up so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t get whiplash, her eyes immediately lighting with the kind of mischief that usually ends with me making terrible life choices.
“Open it!” she demands, abandoning her homework.
“Nope.” I shove my phone under a stack of notebooks. “I don’t even want to know what it says.”
“Harper—”
“Nope. Not happening. I’m pretending this never happened and going back to my very important research on why police do what they do.”
But Maddie’s already moving, lunging across the table with the reflexes of someone who clearly spent too much time wrestling with siblings growing up. She snatches my phone before I can react, holding it triumphantly above her head.
“Hey!” I make a grab for it, but she’s already unlocking it with muscle memory from all the times she’s stolen my phone to take unflattering selfies. “Give that back!”
“Relax, I’ll just read it and give you the executive summary.”
“That’s worse than reading it myself.”
Maddie clears her throat dramatically like she’s about to perform Shakespeare, then reads aloud in an exaggerated serious voice: “Busted liking my old pictures, Trouble. Miss me? I saw you unliked it, so are you gonna confess or make me drag it out of you?”
Heat creeps up my neck like I’ve just stepped into a sauna fully clothed. “Oh my god.” I press my hands over my face, wishing I could disappear into the floor. “That’s absolutely mortifying.”
“It’s also totally a Liam thing to say,” Maddie says, laughing. “I mean, the confidence alone...”
I shake my head vigorously. “Exactly why I’m ignoring it. This is exactly the kind of cocky bullshit I don’t need in my life.”
“Wait, does he have a nickname for you?” Maddie’s grin turns positively wicked. “Trouble? That’s actually kind of hot.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s a little hot.”
“It’s presumptuous and annoying.”
“Presumptuous, annoying, and hot.”
I grab my highlighter and wave it at her threateningly. “I will throw this at your head.”
She dodges with practiced ease, then shifts gears. “Speaking of Liam, there’s a party tonight. Sirus invited me.”
“Have fun,” I say, turning back to my textbook with forced concentration.
“You should come.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Music, dancing, beer in red Solo cups—”
“All the more reason to stay home with my pajamas and bad Netflix movies.”
Maddie rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’ll go by myself and tell everyone my cousin is boring and has given up on human interaction.”
“Tell them I said hi.”
Before she can launch into another round of persuasion, my phone buzzes again. We both look at it like it might bite us.
“Another one,” Maddie says gleefully.
This time I grab the phone before she can, reading the message myself.
Party tonight. Come.
My fingers move before my brain can intervene.
Definitely not.
The reply comes back almost instantly—a smirking emoji that somehow manages to convey exactly the expression I know is on his face right now.
“See?” Maddie says, peering over my shoulder. “He wants you there.”
I wave her off, setting my phone face-down on the table. “And I still said no. You go have fun. I’m staying in to start my new book.”
Three hours later, I’m curled on our couch in my most comfortable pajamas—soft cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that’s older than my driver’s license—half-watching some romantic comedy about a woman who inherits a bakery and falls in love with the grumpy contractor who’s supposed to renovate it while also reading a dark spicy romance.
My phone buzzes from the coffee table where I’ve been steadfastly ignoring it.
Another message from Liam.
Skip the party. Come hang at my place.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, then type back.
Is this a booty call?
His response is immediate.
Maybe.
I blush. At least he’s honest.
Couldn’t find anyone at the party?
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.
Don’t want anyone else.
My stomach does this weird fluttering thing that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. It’s just the leftover pizza I had for dinner. Definitely not butterflies caused by four simple words from a guy I’m supposed to be forgetting about.
I stare at my phone for what feels like an eternity, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
This is a terrible idea. This goes against every rule I’ve made for myself about not getting involved with players, about keeping things simple, about protecting my heart from guys who collect broken promises like trophies.
But my fingers are already typing.
Fine.
The second I hit send, I’m moving. Lightning-fast shower to wash off the day’s studying, lotion that smells like vanilla and makes my skin soft, the kind of casual makeup that looks effortless but actually takes twenty minutes to perfect.
Jeans that fit exactly right and a fitted top that’s sexy without trying too hard.
I’m just slipping on my jacket when my phone buzzes.
Outside.
My heart is thudding so hard I’m surprised the entire building isn’t shaking as I head for the door. Liam’s truck is idling in front of the building, windows down, music playing low enough that I can’t quite make out the song.
He grins when he sees me, that devastating smile that should come with a warning label, and I feel that familiar flutter of attraction mixed with the knowledge that I’m about to make another spectacularly bad decision.
“Hey, Trouble,” he says as I climb into the passenger seat.
“I hate that nickname.”
“No, you don’t.”
And damn it, he’s right. I don’t hate it at all.
The drive to his apartment is filled with the kind of charged silence that makes the air feel electric. Every red light feels like an eternity, every glance he shoots my way makes my pulse spike higher. By the time we’re walking through his building’s lobby, I can barely think straight.
The elevator ride up to his floor is torture. We’re standing on opposite sides of the small space, but I can feel the pull between us like a magnetic force. When the doors start to close, something in me snaps.
I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m pressed against the wall, his mouth on mine, my hands tangled in his hair. The kiss is desperate and hungry, like we’ve been starving for this moment since the second I left his apartment last weekend.
The elevator dings softly as we reach his floor, but neither of us moves to break apart. The doors slide shut again, carrying us back down, but I’m already lost in the taste of him, the way his hands frame my face like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once.
By the time the doors open again, the rest of the world has completely disappeared.