Chapter 29
PEYTON
I wanted the performance of a lifetime, and Liam is giving it to me.
From the moment I pull into the driveway, he plays the besotted husband role to perfection. My car has barely rolled to a stop before he’s opening my door, reaching for my hand like a man who’s been counting the hours.
“Hey, you.” His voice is pitched low and intimate. For my ears only, except it’s not. My parents are climbing out of their sedan ten feet behind me.
Liam pulls me out of the car and into his arms. He cups my cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone in that way he does that makes my skin buzz. He locks eyes with me with an intensity that steals my breath.
And then he kisses me.
No tongue, my parents are right behind us, watching, but it’s not chaste either.
His body presses into mine until I end up with my back against the car.
The kiss lasts only a few seconds, but when he lets go, I’m sparkling like a shaken can of soda.
Full of bubbles that have nowhere to go.
Pressure building with no release valve.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against my lips.
“It was two days,” I whisper back.
“Longest two days of my life.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners in that smile. The one that’s not for show. Even if the playfulness in his gaze seems to ask, How am I doing?
Too damn good.
“Peyton!” My mother’s voice cuts through the moment.
He’s doing so well, he made me forget the PDAs are for my parents’ benefit. Not because he couldn’t wait to kiss me.
“Are you going to introduce us?”
I step back from Liam, smoothing my hands down the front of my sweater, waiting for the carbonation in my blood to settle, and turn to my parents. “Mom, Dad—this is Liam. My husband.”
The word still sounds strange in my mouth.
Foreign. But looking at Liam, you’d never guess we were anything but starry-eyed newlyweds deep in our honeymoon phase.
He shifts into host mode seamlessly. He shakes my father’s hand, gives my mom a warm hug that makes her blink in surprise, and launches into pleasantries.
Questions about the journey and their first impressions driving through town.
He’s charming and attentive and in control.
And his hands never leave me.
At A Slice of Heaven, Liam guides me through the door with his palm warm against the small of my back. When we slide into a booth, he drapes his arm over my side, and now, as we wait for our food, he’s holding my hand over the table, his thumb tracing lazy circles over my knuckles.
He’s acting like he did that first dinner at his parents’ house. With the same calculated touches and constructed show of intimacy.
Only now it feels different.
More significant. More real.
I don’t know if it’s the same for him, but for me?
The dynamic has shifted. Deepened. Mine is no longer a simple physical attraction.
The inconvenient awareness of how good he looks in dark jeans and a leather jacket or how his voice sounds in the morning.
Though that’s still there. But a deeper appreciation for his character has settled in.
He’s the first man who hasn’t asked me to be “better” or “easier.” He follows me in my craziness, like the pettiness over the wine opener.
And I can’t ignore how safe and comfortable I feel in his arms when I asked him to hold me through the night.
Not that he doesn’t do that already. The little sneak cuddler.
He protects me without trying to control me, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I don’t have to carry the weight of everything alone.
I might—and I’m terrified to even think this—have a mega crush on my husband.
My mother sits across from us, her gaze sweeping over Liam with the assessing precision she reserves for tax audits.
She’s cataloging everything. Her eyes miss nothing.
The ring on my finger that I wasn’t wearing when I went home, Liam’s hand over mine, but hopefully not the nervous energy I’m trying to contain.
My father is quieter beside her, but no less observant. He’s on the prowl. Looking for cracks in our facade, inconsistencies in our story. Waiting for Liam to slip up.
But he doesn’t.
My fake husband is charm-bombing my parents, and they seem as powerless to resist as everyone else.
He asks about their plans for the new CPA office, nodding along when my father describes the challenges of relocating a practice.
Liam offers them help to find a suitable new house and a commercial space, saying he’ll show them some of his real estate holdings’ new developments.
My father’s eyebrows lift. “That’s very generous.”
“Family helps family.” Liam squeezes my hand. “Isn’t that right, babe?”
Babe. I’m being charm-bombed, too.
He’s good at this. Too good.
I watch him wipe the scowls from my parents’ faces one gracious answer at a time, equal parts impressed and unsettled. The ease with which he navigates their skepticism. The way he draws them in. Is any of this real? Or is he that skilled at performing whatever role the situation requires?
The pizzas arrive, massive pies with crispy crusts and pools of melted mozzarella, and we eat and talk and pretend we’re a normal family having dinner.
My mother relaxes by increments, her pointed questions softening into more standard curiosity.
My dad’s clear skepticism gives way to a guarded warmth.
“So,” my father says, setting down his slice and wiping his hands on a napkin. His eyes fix on Liam with renewed intensity. “I have to ask.”
Alarm bells trip in my brain.
“What do you love most about our daughter?”
I stop mid-chew. We rehearsed the backstory and the timeline. But we never rehearsed the why. If Liam fumbles, the farce is over.
But he doesn’t falter.
He turns to face me, but doesn’t put on the gooey, adoring mask I expect. Instead, he levels me with a stare that’s heavy with intent. His gaze so direct and focused it blocks out the rest of the room. It doesn’t feel like an act for the audience, but a look that demands I pay attention.
“What I love most about Peyton?” he intones. “How generous she is. How caring.” His thumb traces another circle on the back of my hand. “She’d do anything for the people she loves.”
My heart hammers against my ribs with the unspoken end of that sentence: Even marry me.
My parents can never discover he’s talking about what I did for them. But Liam’s appreciation for the gesture doesn’t sound fake. He entered this marriage for himself, for his father’s approval. I didn’t. And Liam is letting me know, with that weighted pause, that he’s very aware of the difference.
“I love her courage,” he continues, his gaze still holding mine.
“She ran from a wedding because she knew it was a mistake, even if staying would’ve been the easy choice.
She refused to live a polite lie just to keep everyone else comfortable.
To have that much respect for yourself is a gift, and I cherish that in the partner I chose for life. ”
He says it so well. With such conviction. I feel like he actually chose me. Like this isn’t a business arrangement sealed with a Zoom officiant from Utah.
“She’s also sassy as hell.” Liam smirks.
“Never lets me get away with anything. Keeps me on my toes.” He glances at my parents.
“And she has the weirdest taste in books,” Liam tells them, chuckling.
“But then again, I already had every one of her ‘foggy island, haunted manor, murderous-wife’ genres in my house anyway. It’s good to know I’ll always have someone to be weird with. ”
My chest cracks open. A fissure that lets light pour through.
“I also love the notes she leaves me on the fridge,” he continues. “Even when they’re veiled threats. Or especially when they’re low-key threats.” He grins. “And I love I didn’t realize how hollow my life was, how empty my house felt, until she moved in.”
The table goes quiet.
My mother’s eyes have gone shiny. She blinks rapidly, reaching for her napkin.
My father’s expression has shifted from skeptical to… respectful? Approving?
While I’m shattering into a thousand pieces right in the booth. Aurora will have to scoop me up like broken glass. Liam has destroyed me. Not for what he said, but because I can’t tell where the performance ends and the truth begins.
Under the table, Liam squeezes my knee.
The gesture could be a reassurance. Celebration. Another piece of the act. Except no one else can see it.
Is it real?
I can’t separate what I want to believe from what I should protect myself from believing. The line has blurred beyond recognition.
Maybe he doesn’t even know.
My mother reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Sweetheart.” Her voice wobbles. “I’m so happy for you. I can see how much this young man cares about you.”
My father nods, his jaw working. “I had my doubts about the rushed timeline,” he admits. “But seeing you two together…” He clears his throat. “It puts my mind at ease.”
Liam catches my gaze and holds it. That same sense of safety I felt earlier, that sense of him always having my back, twists into a deeper longing. A need. A want for more words, more touches, more kisses.
But I don’t know which of those belong to the fiction, and which belong to me.
My mother is talking about dessert, their hotel, breakfast tomorrow. I nod, smile, and hum when needed. Liam’s hand stays warm on my knee.
The rest of dinner passes in a haze of small talk and my parents’ thawing suspicion. They’re buying into our fake love story.
The problem is, I’m starting to buy into that narrative too.