Chapter 6
LIAM
For an hour, I circle the perimeter of the grand ballroom, nodding at familiar faces, introducing myself to new ones, and lifting a glass of champagne I have no intention of drinking.
The key is to keep moving. A stationary target is an easy target.
But if I avoid my father long enough, I could get away with pretending I’ve been around since the opening toast.
The string quartet saws through delicate, classical music, their melody a polite veneer over the low hum of shop talk.
My leg is not cooperating. A dull, persistent throb has settled in, and it’s getting worse with every step.
The ill-fitting pants are a constant source of irritation.
The cheap fabric chafes against my skin, and the cuffs keep creeping higher as the night wears on.
I ignore the discomfort. I keep my conversations short, my smile fixed, while scanning the crowd for him.
It’s when I stop searching and am engrossed mid-conversation with a couple from Kansas City, nodding along to their enthusiastic questions about the resort’s marina, that a prickle raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
The atmospheric pressure shift announces Charles Rockwood’s approach like an incoming storm front a second before a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “Liam.”
I compose my face into a neutral expression before I turn. “Dad.”
He surveys me, his gaze sweeping from my disheveled hair down to my mismatched pants and scuffed shoes. I brace for the lecture, the disappointed sigh. The pointed comment about punctuality. How he’ll say “son” like it’s a burden.
Instead, he smiles. He pulls me into a bear hug and claps my back.
The Kansas City couple murmur polite excuses and drift toward the champagne tower, leaving me trapped into this parallel universe where my father is happy to see me.
“There you are.” He releases me. “I’m proud of you, son,” he says in a voice I haven’t heard since I was ten and won the junior fishing tournament at the lake.
I pull back another step, blinking. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.
“What for?” I ask, because I’ve got nothing.
He chuckles, a dry, rustling sound. “Don’t play coy, son. Your mother is going to be furious you didn’t tell her. There’ll be hell to pay when she gets back; you’re lucky she couldn’t be here tonight. But I get why you wanted to do it on your own terms.”
My brain is wading through mud. The champagne I haven’t touched seems to affect me, anyway. “Dad, what are you talking about?”
“The wedding.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather. “Tying the knot without setting up a social circus.”
“I’m not married.”
“The cat is out of the bag, Liam.” His eyes, the same gray as mine, sparkle with something that looks disturbingly like paternal pride. “I know about your secret wife. The one you’ve stashed in the honeymoon suite.” He claps my shoulder again. “She’s been the talk of the staff.”
So the staff has been playing a game of telephone, and I’ve come out of the other end hitched.
“Dad—” I’m about to set the record straight, but he barrels on.
“After that mess last year.” He interrupts me. “I had my doubts about your judgment. With that picture of you… all over the internet. It was a disgrace. Made you look like a child.” He shakes his head, smile thinning.
He means the photo my ex—if you can call someone I dated for a month that—posted to her seventeen thousand Instagram followers.
Me, asleep, with my mouth open, drooling on a pillow, hair matted, wearing nothing but white boxer briefs, that she tagged with a line she probably thought was cute about how she wanted to take a bite at my buns.
She deleted the post the second I asked, but the image had already become a viral meme about my ass—flattering, I guess, but not the best look among the business upper crust.
Is This How the Rockwoods Test the Pillows at Their Hotels? was the kindest headline.
The company stock dipped 2 percent. My father didn’t speak to me for a month.
“And then you floundered the Evans deal right after.” He exhales through his nose. “We had a prime opportunity, and you decided to grow a heart instead.”
I clench my jaw, itching to remind him that the “prime opportunity” meant squeezing a family still digging out from the wreckage of a tornado.
Ryder Evans would’ve fought us tooth and nail, and strong-arming him into selling his land would’ve been a PR nightmare.
And even if he lost, his rich girlfriend would’ve bailed him out.
But I’ve had this argument with my father a hundred times over the past year.
It’d be pointless to add another. He sees compassion as a liability and won’t change his mind.
I have no excuse for the social media thing. That was pure stupidity on my part.
And now I have to tell my father that the bride upstairs isn’t my wife. She’s a stranger I almost killed. I’m not a reformed man. I’m the same reckless liability I was yesterday.
“Dad—” I start.
“Yeah, yeah. I want to hear everything about her.” He holds up a hand, steamrolling my attempted confession.
“But not tonight. We’ll get to the proper introductions later.
Tonight, we have a job to do.” His gaze sweeps across the ballroom, taking in the clusters of investors.
“I’m glad you’ve finally stepped up. We run a family company; our values matter, and projecting a solid, traditional image is key. ”
A noose tightens around my neck as he continues, “I know I’ve been hard on you.
But it’s because I see your potential. And you taking this step, committing to someone—” He pauses, his jaw working.
Charles Rockwood doesn’t do emotions well.
This is as close to tender as he gets. “Don’t fuck it up, son. ”
The crude language is so unlike him it throws me off my already shaky balance. My father doesn’t curse. Not in public. Not at galas. Not ever.
“Keep your head down and your wife happy. Show me you can handle responsibility, and—” He locks eyes with me. “I might finally enjoy an early retirement.” He gives my shoulder one last squeeze. “Go talk to the Millers. They’re by the ice sculpture.”
He walks off, absorbed back into the crowd like the matter is settled, leaving me standing alone with my borrowed pants, throbbing leg, fake wife, and the nuclear bomb he dropped into my lap.
I roll a finger inside the collar of my shirt. It’s getting tighter, the air in the ballroom too warm, too thick. Sweat prickles along my hairline despite the cold evening, and the vast space sways, the chandeliers blurring into golden smears above me.
The throbbing in my leg has intensified into a vicious, grinding ache that radiates from my knee to my ankle with every heartbeat. I fish in my pocket for the Tylenol bottle and discreetly pop two more pills dry. They stick in my throat, bitter and chalky, but I force them down.
I find the Millers, a husband-and-wife development team from Chicago.
As I walk them through the vision—the potential for a second Rockwood Resort location, the market research, the brand synergies—only half my brain is present. The other half is upstairs, in the honeymoon suite, wondering about the woman I’ve accidentally passed off as my wife.
Why was she on the street? She ran from her wedding; that much is obvious. But why? What kind of man did she leave at the altar?
And more pressingly: what the hell am I going to do about my father’s assumption?
I could tell him the truth. Walk up to him right now, pull him aside, and explain the ridiculous misunderstanding. The motorcycle accident. The stranded bride.
But then I picture his face. The pride draining away, replaced by the familiar disappointment settling back into the lines around his mouth. And the retirement promise evaporating.
He’d see it as another colossal screw-up. Proof that I’m incapable of making a single sound decision. The old bastard would work until he was a hundred just to spite me.
What’s the alternative, though? I can’t actually marry a stranger to impress my father.
Can I? The thought is so insane I almost miss Miller’s question about projected yields. I rattle off the answers I’ve learned by heart and move on to the next person to schmooze.
I grind through two more hours of business talk. Standing, smiling, and selling a future that is not yet mine to sell. I steer clear of my father and grandfather before another member of my family congratulates me on my nonexistent nuptials.
By the time I’ve shaken the last investor’s hand, the pain in my leg has burned through the medication and settled into a deep, agonizing fire. A poker jammed through my shin with every movement.
I’m sweating through my jacket, and the room is swaying worse than before.
I grab a glass of champagne to have a cold surface to hold against my forehead, to give myself an anchor against the waves of dizziness.
On my way out, I limp so badly that I bypass the grand staircase and head for the service elevator, not wanting anyone to see me.
I drop the glass on a utility cart as I enter the small metal box and lean heavily against the wall.
The cool surface is a slight relief against my feverish skin.
I jam the button for the penthouse floor.
What am I doing? She must be asleep. And even if she isn’t, what’s the plan?
Barge into the room and say, “Hey, remember me? I’m the guy on the bike.
How are you enjoying your stay?” Then toss in a casual, “Will you marry me?”
I’m not proposing a marriage of convenience to a woman I’ve known for two hours, most of which we spent screaming at each other.
I should find an empty room and call Lila.
Have her check this leg. It can’t wait until morning.
I close my eyes and breathe through the pain until the doors open.
When they do, I stumble into the hallway, bounce off one wall, overcorrect in the other direction until I pinball to the bride’s suite, my balance shot to hell.
If anyone saw me, they’d assume I was hammered.
I reach her door and stand outside, my hand raised to knock. But I can’t do it. I drop my forehead against the wood with a soft thud.
I want to sleep. My eyes close.
The door suddenly swings inward, jolting my precarious hold on consciousness.
I pitch forward, my body tipping into the sudden absence of support.
But instead of hitting the floor, my landing is soft.
And it smells good. Clean, like the expensive citrus peel and amber soap we stock in the resort bathrooms.
A startled protest erupts from beneath me. “What are you doing outside my room?”
Hands press against my chest, pushing me upright. I stumble backward, catch myself on the doorframe, and blink her into focus.
The breath punches out of my lungs. Her hair is down, a wild storm of raven curls framing a face that, scrubbed clean of melted makeup, is unrecognizable. Dark brows are pinched over wide brown eyes, and her mouth looks softer without lipstick.
She’s stunning. And naked… under one of the hotel’s fluffy robes. My gaze trails to the corner of the room, where a pile of tulle and bridal underwear confirms she’s wearing nothing underneath.
A slow, stupid smile spreads across my face. “You’re awake.”
“What are you doing here?” she demands, her brown eyes narrowing with a mixture of shock and annoyance.
“I—” I step into the room, and my left leg gives out entirely. My shin collides with the corner of a low table, and the world explodes into stars. The carpet rushes up to meet me. I land on my side and curl up in pain.
I lie with my eyes squeezed shut and no will or ability to move.
A moment later, she’s on the floor beside me. Cool fingers touch my forehead. “Oh my gosh, you’re burning up. You need a doctor.”
The words jolt me out of my stupor. My eyes fly open. Doctor. Hospital. Medical records. Questions about how I got injured, why I didn’t seek treatment, why I was at a gala instead of an emergency room.
My father finding out I crashed my motorcycle. Again.
“No. No doctor.” I fumble for my phone, shove it into her hands. “Call Lila.”
“Who’s Lila?” she asks, her voice tight with panic. “You need an ambulance.”
With the last of my strength, I grip her wrist. Her skin is soft. “No hospitals,” I plead. The words are a ragged whisper. “Just… tell Lila I need her. She’ll know what to do.”
“Lila who?”
“Callaway, she’s in my contacts as Cally.”
“And who are you?” The bride huffs, a sound of pure frustration. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Liam.” My grip slackens. The edges of the room are going dark. “What’s yours?”
She hesitates for a beat. “Peyton.”
“Peyton,” I repeat, testing the syllables. They feel right in my mouth. “I like it.”
The last thing I hear is her voice, annoyed and worried in equal measure, muttering about stubborn idiots who refuse medical attention.
Then I plunge into darkness.