Chapter 14
PEYTON
The door swings open, and golden light spills across the threshold.
A woman stands framed in the glow. She must be Liam’s mother despite no familial resemblance. In her late fifties, with highlighted blonde hair swept into an elegant twist, she looks nothing like her son—except for the full lips, though I can’t tell if she’s had help with fillers.
Her eyes are a regular blue, not the stormy gray of Liam’s, but they share the same analytical intensity as they sweep over my unruly hair, my borrowed clothes, and the antique ring on my finger.
“You must be Peyton.” Her face breaks into a radiant smile—polished, polite, but not exactly warm. “How wonderful to meet the woman who captured my son’s heart. I’m Margaret.”
Before I can offer a handshake or a curtsy or flee into the bushes, she pulls me into a hug that envelops me in a cloud of expensive perfume.
As Margaret Rockwood releases me, Liam’s hand finds the small of my back. The pressure of his palm steadies my pulse.
“Hey, Mom.” He leans in to kiss her cheek. “How was the flight?”
She cups his face with both hands, studying him with maternal affection that seems genuine. “Look at you.” Her voice softens. “Marriage suits you, darling. You look happy.” She lets him go.
Liam turns toward me and smiles. And if I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours bickering with him, I’d believe he was gone for me. He pulls me tighter against his side, his fingers splaying over my hip.
“I am happy,” he lies as effortlessly as breathing.
A deeper voice calls from within the house. “Are you going to stand in the doorway all night, or come inside?”
Liam’s father appears behind his wife, tall and broad-shouldered.
And it’s like looking into a mirror that shows the future.
He has the same gray eyes as Liam. The same aristocratic cheekbones.
The same commanding presence that fills a space before he even speaks.
His salt-and-pepper hair is still thick, swept back from a face that’s handsome in a severe, unforgiving way.
So this is where Liam gets his intensity.
The older man eyes me with open curiosity, making no attempt to hide his appraisal. I feel like I’m a horse at auction, and he’s checking my teeth.
Apparently, I pass the audit.
“Well,” he rumbles. “Welcome to the family, Peyton. I’m Charles Rockwood.”
He shakes my hand and claps Liam on the shoulder with enough enthusiasm that his son’s bad leg buckles slightly before Liam shifts his weight to compensate. Only the tightening of his fingers on my hip betrays the jolt of pain.
“Damn time, son.” A grin splits Charles’s stern face. “I was worried you’d stay a bachelor forever.”
“Just waiting for the right one, Dad,” Liam says through a grit-toothed smile.
With the formalities over, we’re ushered inside.
The house is what I expected: tasteful, expensive, filled with antiques and family photos in silver frames. Everything is arranged to perfection. Not a pillow out of place, not a magazine askew on the coffee table.
Margaret links her arm through mine as we walk toward the dining room, separating me from Liam. I glance back at him, my safety blanket yanked away. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod. You’ve got this.
I so don’t.
Margaret’s questions come in rapid succession.
Where am I from? What do I do for work? How did we meet?
I stumble through the rehearsed answers, trying to sound natural while reciting the lies we crafted.
The story sounds absurd coming out of my mouth, but she nods along.
I need to relax. They have no reason to suspect that none of this is real.
She’s not an interrogator out to catch me in a lie.
I still keep my replies vague about my life before and don’t mention Matt.
And when she asks me the inevitable, why we got married so suddenly, I give her the line we practiced: “When you know, you know. We didn’t want to wait anymore. ”
The dining room is formal and intimidating. A table that could seat twelve dominates the space, but only four place settings are arranged in the center, facing each other. Fine china, multiple forks, crystal glasses.
A woman in a simple black dress appears at my elbow. Staff, I realize with a jolt.
“Good evening,” she says quietly. “May I take your drink orders?”
“I’ll have the Chablis, thank you, Sarah,” Margaret replies.
The men enter the room. Liam is limping more noticeably now that his father isn’t watching him like a hawk.
“A Negroni,” Charles says, pulling out Margaret’s chair.
Liam mirrors his father’s gesture, holding my seat for me as I scoot in. His hands linger on the wood inches from my shoulders.
“I’ll have a soda, Sarah, thank you.” Lila told him not to drink while he’s on painkillers. He looks down at me, raising a dark eyebrow. “And for my wife…”
My wife. The words send a strange thrill through me. I shift on the chair, making sure his fingers don’t brush my back.
“White wine too, please.” I, on the other hand, need the liquid courage.
The woman nods and disappears as silently as she came.
Liam settles beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine under the table.
His hand finds my knee, stopping it from bouncing.
His warmth seeps through the denim as his thumb traces small, lazy circles against the fabric. The motion is slow. Probably meant to calm me, but it sends sparks skittering up my thigh instead.
I fight the urge to squirm.
Charles is already talking business across the table, shooting rapid-fire questions at his son. Liam answers easily. He never loses the thread of conversation, but his hand never leaves my leg either.
Drinks arrive, and Margaret turns her full attention to me.
She asks about my parents, where they’re from, if they’re retired.
I tell her they’re in Springfield, running a small CPA office, and still live three blocks from where my dad proposed to my mom forty years ago.
Margaret approves, saying roots are important.
And as she fires off the next question, I do my best to keep Matt’s lawsuit out of my mind.
The probing continues until Charles clears his throat, interrupting his wife’s cross-examination.
“A toast,” he announces, raising his glass. “To new beginnings.” His gray eyes meet mine, assessing. “And to family.”
Crystal clinks against crystal.
I take a long drink of wine. It burns on the way down, crisp and cold, good enough that I want to down the entire glass in one gulp.
Dinner is an endurance sport served in elaborate courses. A soup I can’t identify, but that is delicious. Salad. A main course of sea bass with a foam that tastes like the ocean.
Throughout the entire meal, Margaret asks questions. What are my plans now that I’m married? Will I continue working? Do I want children? How do I feel about living in Blue Crescent Harbor?
I sweat through the minefield, giving answers that sound genuine while leaving room for future revision.
Yes, I hope to work—I’m exploring options.
Children? Someday, when the time is right.
Blue Crescent Harbor is lovely, and I’m excited to explore it.
Liam jumps in when I falter. He steers conversations away from dangerous topics without making it obvious.
He tells funny anecdotes about our “dating” life that never happened.
He teases his father about his golf game to deflect attention and compliments his mother’s hosting.
And he never stops touching me.
He plays with my hair, pulling on a curl, releasing it, twirling it around his finger. He holds my hand between courses. He occasionally drapes his arm on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing my shoulder.
They’re calculated moves, with no real affection behind them. But each one sears my skin. My scalp. Even my hair has developed tactile sensitivity.
I’m so absorbed in the little touches that I don’t finish the delicious chocolate cake before a maid whisks it away, assuming I was done.
But even the dessert is forgotten as Liam pushes my hair behind my shoulder and cups the back of my neck, his thumb caressing the skin on the side. I sit still, concentrating hard on not purring. If he keeps this up, I’ll start radiating light.
By the time Liam sets down his napkin and lets me go, I’m about to glow brighter than Tinker Bell.
“It’s been a long day,” he says, pushing back from the table. “We should head home.”
“Already?” Margaret looks disappointed.
But Charles nods. “They need alone time.” The twinkle in the older man’s eyes makes me want to die of mortification.
Margaret’s lips press together, but she rises gracefully. “Of course. We’ll have you both for a proper dinner soon. When you’re more settled.”
Was this a casual five-course meal in her mind?
The goodbyes are a blur of air-kisses and promises to do this again soon.
Margaret hugs me one more time. “Take care of him,” she murmurs against my ear. Charles shakes my hand with a grip that could crush walnuts.
Then we’re out the door, into the crisp night air, and I can finally breathe.
We get into Liam’s car. He starts the engine, and the silence stretches as we pull away from the mansion.
“It went well,” he says as we merge onto the main road. “You were great.”
I slump in the passenger seat, my head falling back against the headrest. “That felt like walking a tightrope while juggling knives.”
“You looked natural.” He glances over at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Almost like you didn’t want to throttle me.”
“I’m a talented actress,” I mutter, but my heart gives a stupid little flutter at his praise. I hate that I want more of it. That his approval is a drug.
“You are,” he agrees in a whisper.
We don’t speak for the rest of the ride. Liam drives competently, one hand resting on the wheel, maneuvering the car with a casual skill that is annoyingly sexy. He keeps to the speed limit this time—no reckless racing, no banking turns.
Dark trees blur past as the adrenaline crash drains the last strength from my limbs. I’m content to sit in silence and let the motion of the car soothe my frayed nerves.
When we arrive at Liam’s glass house—it still feels more like an Apple store than a home—my second-hand Hyundai is in the driveway, and the foyer is a mess.
Boxes are stacked along one wall, and portable racks of clothes crowd the entryway—my clothes.
It’s my entire life, packed up and transported in just a few hours. Yesterday, these clothes hung in Matt’s closet. Now they’re waiting to be sorted into a new existence I hadn’t planned on living.
“Ah, your things came,” Liam says unnecessarily.
“Yeah, I see. Did Matt give your guy any trouble?”
Liam checks his phone and raises an eyebrow. “Your ex threw a little tantrum, but we had the legal high ground. This stuff is yours; he can’t hold it ransom.” He locks eyes with me and smirks. “We got everything, including the wine opener.”
“Whoa,” I breathe, stepping around a stack of shoe boxes. “You really get things done.”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Liam says, closing the front door.
I don’t know why that statement sounds so hot, but between the touching, the competent driving, and now this, I can’t get away from him fast enough.
“I’m too exhausted to sort this now,” I say.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll have someone help you organize everything tomorrow.”
Yes, he has “people.” Employees who even Matt can’t bully. This is really how the other half lives. If Matt is in the 1 percent, Liam is in the fraction of a percent above that.
I scan the boxes until I find one labeled in unfamiliar handwriting: UNDERWEAR/PAJAMAS. The thought of some stranger sorting through my most intimate clothes makes my own skin feel like a rented suit, but I’m more glad to have my stuff than prickly about how it got delivered.
“I just need this.” I grab the box and turn to Liam. “Where’s my room?”
The confident ease drains from Liam’s face.
He scratches his nape, lowering his gaze to the floor. “Yeah. About that.”
My stomach sinks. “What?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to sleep with me.”
My grip on the box tightens.
“In my room,” he adds quickly. “For this to work, we need to share a bed.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
And I want to take that “I do” back. If his thumb on my neck made me glow, eight hours of horizontal proximity will turn me into a supernova.