Chapter 31
LIAM
I’m about to get out of the car when Peyton grips my forearm. I freeze with one foot already on the driveway and turn around. Her best friend is still standing on the porch, watching us.
“I’m sorry,” Peyton whispers. “Emma didn’t tell me she was coming.”
I settle back into my seat. And frown at the worry lines between her brows, the way she’s chewing the inside of her cheek.
She told me her ex didn’t want her to spend time with her friends, isolating her, and criticizing Emma for being too much.
I rage inwardly at how that prick has conditioned Peyton.
My new mission is to make sure she’ll feel at ease having her friend around this weekend.
No matter how Emma’s sudden visit torpedoed my romantic plans.
Peyton needs to know her friends are always welcome in our house.
“It’s fine.” I smile.
“Are you sure? My parents just left. I get it if you’re done being social. She can go to a hotel.”
“Nonsense, she’s staying with us.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Positive. Is she okay, though? Does your best friend often show up unannounced?”
“No.” Peyton glances toward the porch, then back at me. “But she probably didn’t want us to have time to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
“Your serial killer assessment.” Peyton winces. “She knows our relationship is fake.”
Hopefully not for long. I pray the thought doesn’t show on my face.
“But,” Peyton adds, her cheeks flushing pink, “I also told her about the kisses.”
A smirk tugs at my mouth. “Yeah? What did you say about these kisses that’s making you blush?”
The pink deepens to crimson. But before Peyton can reply, Emma yells at us.
“I can see you two confabulating!” Her voice carries across the driveway, scolding but amused. “You’re being very rude!”
Peyton flinches. I take her hand, the one still gripping my forearm, and lift it to my lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles.
“Don’t worry,” I murmur against her skin. “I grew up with Lila. I can handle your best friend.”
I release her hand and climb out of the car before she can argue.
Emma watches my approach with her arms crossed and a tilted head, still amused but also assessing.
“Emma.” I extend my hand. “I’m Liam. It’s great to meet the best friend I’ve heard so much about.”
Her handshake is firm, testing. “Likewise. Even if she’s been frustratingly sparse with details about you.”
“That’s because I’m very mysterious.” I reach down and grab her duffel bag. “Let me show you inside.”
As I turn to slide the key into the lock, I catch a blur of movement in my peripheral vision.
Peyton has gotten out of the car and rushed up the steps, intercepting Emma.
The two women collide in a fierce hug right behind me, their voices dropping into urgent whispers.
I pretend not to notice. Give them space.
I leave the door open and carry Emma’s bag upstairs to one of the guest rooms.
When I return to the main floor, I find them in the kitchen. They’re sitting on stools with their heads bent close together as they talk in hushed tones.
They look up and go silent when I clear my throat.
“So.” I lean against the doorframe. “What’s the plan?
Emma, you want to jump straight into the Blue Crescent Harbor experience and come to the football game?
Or we could grab dinner in town. Or—” I shrug.
“I can make myself scarce. Head to the game alone while you two catch up, and we meet up later.”
Peyton answers first. “Yeah, we’ll catch you after the game.”
Emma’s smile turns a little feral. “I appreciate you giving us space to gossip about you freely.”
“Happy to oblige.” I mock-bow. “I’ll go get changed so you can start ripping me apart.”
I’m not three steps down the hallway when Emma’s voice floats after me, pitched loud enough to carry.
“Okay, I knew he was annoyingly hot. But you didn’t mention he was also this charming.” A pause. “How have you kept your panties on after a month of living with him?”
I freeze mid-stride.
Peyton’s gasp is audible. “Emma! Shhhh. The man already has a large enough ego.”
A grin spreads across my face, wide and goofy. I don’t look back. I shake my head and continue up the stairs, thinking that Emma and I will get along just fine.
In the bedroom, I strip off my suit and change into jeans and a light sweater. Then I pull out my letterman jacket—the blue-and-silver Bobcats one that Peyton banned from my wardrobe.
The one that turned her onto jocks.
I shrug it on, check my reflection, and head back downstairs.
Peyton is at the counter, using her ex’s fancy wine opener on a bottle of white.
“Hey.”
She turns. Her gaze drops to the jacket, and her eyes narrow into slits.
“Really?” she says flatly.
I spread my hands in a gesture of innocence. “What? It’s a football game.”
She looks ready to throw a kitchen knife at my head. I shouldn’t find that as attractive as I do.
“If you’re having a girls’ night,” I add, already backing toward the door, “you could invite Lila. She’s so mopey on Friday nights when everyone abandons her for”—I make air quotes—“stupid football.”
Peyton’s glare softens. “I’ll text her. She’s significantly less annoying than you.”
* * *
I regret suggesting Lila’s involvement about an hour later when I get a text from my best friend.
I’m sitting in the rafters at Harbor Field, hunched in a regular seat instead of the VIP box. I didn’t feel like facing my parents and explaining why Peyton isn’t with me, and I didn’t want to make small talk with the boosters and alumni donors when my mind is a thousand miles away.
Or, more accurately, about two miles away. At my house. With my wife.
The Bobcats are up by two touchdowns when my phone buzzes.
Lila
Thanks for the unexpected Halloween gift
I frown at the screen. What Halloween gift?
Another message pops into the chat.
Lila
Since no party was planned, we’re working with what we have at home. I’m dressing up your wife as a sexy kitten. We’ll be at the Moonshine as soon as that boring-ass game is over
I stare at the phone.
Sexy. Kitten.
The crowd erupts around me—we’ve scored—but the noise doesn’t drown out the pounding in my ears.
I need this game to be over. Fast.
The last quarter drags. Every play takes an eternity. Every timeout is an act of cruelty to torment me.
When the final whistle blows, the Bobcats win 28–14.
I’m out of my seat before the sound fades.
Since my leg has healed and I didn’t have to drive Peyton, I came on the Ducati.
So, while everyone else gets stuck in the post-game traffic nightmare, I weave through the line of cars and hit the open road.
The bike purrs beneath me, responsive and eager, eating up the asphalt between me and the Moonshine.
The dive bar’s parking lot is already half full when I roll in. I kill the engine and pull off my helmet, letting the crisp night air cool my skin.
Inside, neon beer signs buzz on the wood-paneled walls. A cluster of guys is playing pool at the table in the corner. And the TV screens mounted overhead show the highlights of the Bobcats game, but they’ve been muted to make way for a live country band.
The lighting is dim enough to blur edges, to hide the wear and tear that marks every surface. The space pulses in the semi-dark: crowded, chaotic, alive.
I scan the room and find Peyton at the bar, flanked by Lila and Emma. They’re doing shots, slamming the glasses down on the counter, and laughing like dressed-up maniacs.
My breath catches.
Lila wasn’t exaggerating about the costume.
Peyton is wearing tight black pants that hug every curve I’ve been trying not to lose my mind over. A long-sleeved black shirt clings to her torso. She has black whiskers drawn on her cheeks, and cat ears perch on top of her head, nestled in the dark chaos of her curls.
Her hair is loose. Down over her shoulders. Tumbling in waves I want to tangle my fingers in.
Next to her, Emma is shimmying in a red dress, red lipstick, and a plastic headband with devil horns.
Lila went full horror movie instead. She’s wearing a white, ruffled nightgown with long, billowing sleeves. Her skin is painted deathly pale with dark circles smudged beneath her eyes. She makes a good impersonation of a Victorian ghost.
I start toward them when Remy Evans steps in front of the trio, his trademark grin already in place. He is the biggest flirt in Blue Crescent Harbor. But the man doesn’t just talk a good game—he follows through. I’ve lost count of how many women he’s charmed out of their clothes.
He stops in front of Peyton and says something that makes her laugh.
A jolt of irrational heat surges through my chest. A spike of possessiveness so sharp it startles me.
This is stupid. I know it’s stupid. Peyton would never go home with Remy Evans. She’s not the type to be swayed by a charming smile and a few clever lines. And even if she were, even if our marriage is fake—fake-ish—she wouldn’t let others think she’d make a fool of me.
And she’s not my property. I don’t own her.
But knowing all of that doesn’t stop the territorial instinct from clawing its way up my spine.
Remy leans closer to Peyton. His hand lands on the bar beside hers, casual but oh-so-intentional.
I watch her face for a reaction. She’s still smiling, but it’s polite. Social. Not the messy, unrestrained grin that bunches her cheeks and makes small lines appear at the top of her nose.
That smile is mine.
The thought takes root before I can rip it out.
It’s idiotic and immature, this urge building in my gut. The caveman impulse to march over there and mark my territory. To remind everyone in this bar that the woman in the cat ears is my wife, that she falls asleep in my arms every night.
But I’m about to do it, anyway.