Chapter 6
***
The little café is brimming with life, a cozy haven against the icy chill outside.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods drifts through the air, warm and inviting.
Couples are tucked into corner booths, leaning close as they share whispered conversations over steaming mugs.
Families crowd around tables, their children giggling with whipped cream mustaches from oversized cups of hot cocoa.
A few singles, like me, sit at scattered tables, their focus split between laptops and the occasional glance out the frosted windows.
I’ve been hunched over my laptop for the past two hours, diving deep into the life of Liam Thompson, the snowboarding star at the center of these doping allegations.
The more I dig, the more I realize there’s more to him than the flashy competitions and Olympic medals.
Three siblings—an older brother and two younger sisters.
Parents who still live locally and own an art gallery of some sort.
And then there’s the cousin who married a tech billionaire; Liam officiated their wedding, looking surprisingly good in a tux in the photos I found. Not that it’s relevant to the story.
What is relevant? His one high-profile relationship.
Lyla Goldberg, a marketing executive. There’s a strange pattern here: as soon as they started dating, gossip sites lit up with stories about him.
Before her, the only mentions were about his victories and his Olympic medals—one gold, two silver.
After her, it was a flood of speculation, rumors, and intrusive snapshots.
I write her name in my notebook, underlining it twice: Lyla Goldberg. Something about her feels like a thread I need to pull.
Stretching my back, I close my tabs and glance around the crowded room.
My coffee cup is empty, and I take it as a sign to refill my caffeine reserves.
The line at the counter is long but moves quickly, and as I step closer, I can’t help but admire the café’s charm.
Strings of twinkling lights are draped along the wooden beams, and a chalkboard menu hangs above the barista, each item written in whimsical cursive.
The counter itself is cluttered with jars of homemade cookies and pastries, their golden surfaces gleaming under the warm light.
“Another refill?” the barista asks with a cheerful smile as I reach the counter.
“Please,” I say, sliding my cup across the counter.
As I wait for my drink, I glance at the café’s communal bulletin board near the door.
Flyers for ski lessons, art classes, and a charity bake sale cover the corkboard, along with handwritten notes from locals advertising everything from dog walking to snowplowing.
It’s the kind of place that reminds you there’s still charm in small-town life.
The barista hands me my steaming cup, and I cradle it in my hands, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
As I head back to my table, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m onto something.
The story isn’t just about doping—it’s about the man behind the accusations.
And the closer I get to understanding Liam Thompson, the more I sense that his story is going to be anything but ordinary.
I’m so lost in my thoughts, the world around me blurs into background noise. I don’t see the tall figure in front of me until it’s too late. There’s no time to step aside, no space to dodge.
I collide head-on, my steaming coffee tipping out of my cup and splashing all over him.
“Holy shit, that’s hot!” The deep voice snaps me back to reality, and I scramble to grab my cup—now in two pieces on the floor. Great.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, straightening up. My apology dies in my throat when I look up and see who I’ve just doused with coffee. Melted chocolate eyes, warm but piercing, lock onto mine. My breath hitches. It’s him. Liam Thompson. The whole reason I’m here.
“I didn’t…” I trail off. I can’t seem to string together a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. My brain feels like it’s buffering as he slips out of his jacket, coffee dripping off the thick material.
“It’s okay,” he says, flashing me a small, easy smile. “Happens sometimes.”
I clear my throat, desperately willing my brain to produce something clever, or at least coherent. “I didn’t see you.” Not exactly the sparkling wit I was hoping for.
His gaze flicks to my broken cup. “Let’s get you another one.”
“I can do it,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “Really, I’m so sorry. Again.”
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret. “Trust me, when Ginger finds out you broke a cup, you’re going to want backup.”
I blink, caught off guard by the closeness and the scent of cedar and faintly citrus. Intoxicating. He’s intoxicating.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, nodding before my brain can catch up. “Well… if you insist.”
He turns toward the counter, and I follow, my eyes drifting down. Big mistake. I’ve never seen a man fill out a pair of jeans like that. My cheeks heat, and I quickly glance away, hoping no one notices the way my mouth has quite literally gone dry.
“We had a small accident,” Liam says to the barista, Ginger, cutting to the front of the line like he owns the place. He hands her the broken pieces of my cup with an easy smile. “Totally my fault. You know how clumsy I am.”
The barista’s face lights up, and she practically bats her eyelashes at him. “No worries, Liam.”
She barely glances at the broken cup before reaching for a new one. As she fills it, her fingers linger a little too long when he hands her a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
“This’ll cover the cost of the cup,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” she giggles sugary and sharp, her fingers brushing his in a way that makes my stomach churn.
“I do,” he insists, his tone firm but polite.
I stand there, feeling invisible and completely out of my depth.
Liam Thompson is larger than life—charming, magnetic, the kind of guy who lights up a room just by walking into it.
And me? I just spilled coffee all over him, and now I’m standing here, tongue-tied and awkward, while the barista flirts like it’s a sport.
“Here you go,” Liam says, handing me the fresh cup of coffee and pulling me back to reality.
“Thanks,” I mumble, my cheeks still warm as I take it from him.
“No problem,” he says with another one of those disarming smiles. “Just watch where you’re going next time.”
I nod, swallowing hard as he heads toward the door. My brain finally kicks into gear, but by then, he’s already gone. And I’m left standing there, clutching my coffee and wondering how the hell I’m supposed to uncover the truth about a man who renders me completely speechless.