Chapter Seven
Liam
Her eyes catch me off guard, shimmering like sunlight glinting off shallow water, soft yet utterly captivating.
For a moment, I forget the stain spreading across my chest. All I can focus on is her—those freckles scattered across her cheeks, the way her lashes flutter as she tries to string words together.
“I… uh…” she stammers, her gaze darting everywhere but at me.
Damn, she’s gorgeous.
“Do you make a habit of spilling drinks on strange men?” I ask, tilting my head. From the edge of my vision, I catch Taylor and Elle shamelessly eavesdropping, their interest in this little exchange annoyingly obvious.
“Not usually,” she says quickly, her voice rising an octave. “I’m really sorry. Seriously, I didn’t even see you. I… I…”
The warmth of the wine soaking through my hoodie snaps me out of the moment. I yank it off in one smooth motion, inspecting the T-shirt underneath. Miraculously, it’s spotless.
“I guess that makes me special,” I say, flashing her a teasing grin.
Behind me, Taylor snorts. I don’t bother acknowledging him. Instead, I focus on her, the flustered girl who somehow manages to look even prettier when she’s embarrassed. “So, what’s your name?”
“Maggie,” she says, straightening her posture slightly.
“No last name?” I press, letting the question hang in the air.
“Just Maggie,” she says firmly, the tension in her shoulders softening, though her cheeks flush a deeper pink.
“Maggie No Last Name,” I muse, rolling the words over my tongue. “I suppose that’s better than Clumsy Coffee Girl.”
“Just Maggie,” she insists again, lifting her chin as if daring me to challenge her. There’s something in her eyes now, a flicker of fire hidden beneath the softness. She might look sweet, but there’s steel in there too. I can’t help but admire it.
“Do you want to dance, Maggie?” I ask suddenly, surprising even myself with the question.
Her brows lift in an amused arch, her lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. “Girls like me don’t dance with boys like you.”
“Boys like me?” I echo, a chuckle rumbling low in my chest. “What exactly are boys like me?”
“Trouble,” she says without hesitation and no hint of the earlier stutter.
The word hangs between us, crackling like a spark in the air. And damn if I’m not intrigued.
The room feels like it’s wrapped in a warm embrace by the dark walls and soft, amber lighting.
The cheap light reflects off the polished floor where a handful of couples sway to the music.
The faint crackle from the speakers mixes with the hum of laughter and conversation, creating a space that feels intimate and alive.
But none of it holds my attention—not the cozy atmosphere, not the music, not even the eyes of strangers watching us.
All I can see is Maggie.
She’s standing in front of me, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she breathes out a hesitant, “If I say yes, and that’s a big if, you touch anything you’re not supposed to, and I’ll hurt you.”
There’s a fire in her eyes that could burn through the coldest winter night, and despite the warning, I catch the subtle way her breath hitches.
She’s beautiful—not in the polished, put-together way I’m used to, but in a way that’s real, like the freckles dusting her cheeks or the loose strand of hair curling against her jaw.
She doesn’t need the dim lighting to glow. She’s doing that all on her own.
I lift my hands in surrender, feeling a little dumb and maybe a little too buzzed to care. “Come on, Just Maggie. Dance with me.”
She swallows hard, her gaze darting to the dance floor, then back to me. With a long, resigned sigh, she slides her hand into mine, and I swear my chest tightens. Her fingers are smaller than I expect, soft but firm, like everything else about her.
As I lead her toward the center of the room, someone brushes past her a little too roughly. She stumbles, letting out a soft, surprised, “Oof!” as she collides with my chest.
My hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her as she looks up at me, wide-eyed.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, the sound barely audible over the music.
“Don’t be,” I say, my hands staying firmly in place. Her waist feels impossibly small under my grip, and I have to fight the urge to pull her closer. The soft scent of her shampoo—floral like orchids—fills the air between us, making my pulse quicken.
“Do you make a habit of running into guys like this?” I tease, letting my lips curve into a smile.
She narrows her eyes, her fire flaring back to life. “Only the ones who insist on calling me ‘clumsy.’”
“Touché,” I say with a laugh, before I lean into her and whisper. “Ready to show me how girls like you don’t dance with boys like me?”
The corners of her mouth twitch as I pull away and look down at her. She’s trying not to smile, and for the first time, I think she might actually be into me.
“Tell me about yourself, Liam,” Maggie says just loud enough to carry over the crackling speaker. Her tone is calm, measured, like she’s trying to keep things neutral, but her eyes give her away. She’s curious, even if she doesn’t want me to know it.
“What do you want to know?” I reply, keeping things light as her arm hesitantly snakes around my neck.
She’s stiff, awkward even, like she’s navigating unfamiliar territory.
I get the feeling dive bars aren’t her usual scene.
She doesn’t seem clumsy, though. Note to self: rethink Clumsy Coffee Girl nickname.
“What do you do for fun?” she asks, her tone casual but probing.
I grin. “I dance with a girl like you in a bar.”
She rolls her blue eyes, unamused. “You can turn anything into a line, can’t you?”
“Comes naturally,” I say with a shrug, leaning just slightly closer. Her shampoo—subtle, clean, and just a little floral—catches me again, and it’s ridiculously distracting. “But honestly? I don’t usually have fun. I let loose.”
Her brow arches, intrigued but skeptical. “Is there a difference between having fun and letting loose?”
“Well,” I say, tilting my head to the side as we sway to the lazy rhythm of the music. “Fun implies doing something because you want to. Letting loose… that’s more about needing to. With my job, you kind of have to.”
“Letting loose does imply a level of fun, does it not?” she counters, sharp but playful.
I chuckle. “Depends on what you’re doing to let loose. What about you? What do you do for fun?”
Her laugh is soft but a little self-deprecating. “I don’t have fun. I’m responsible.”
“Responsible?” I repeat, giving her a teasing look. “What does that even mean?”
She shrugs, her gaze darting briefly to the ceiling like she’s debating how honest to be. “It means I’m usually working, paying bills, or cleaning up after other people. Fun doesn’t exactly fit into that schedule.”
I study her for a second, my grin softening. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” she says, and for the first time, I catch a flicker of something behind her cool exterior—a hint of weariness, maybe even vulnerability. “But someone’s got to do it.”
“Well,” I say, squeezing her waist just enough to steady her when she stumbles slightly on the uneven floor, “you’re here now. That counts as fun, right?”
She smirks, tilting her head to look up at me. “I’ll let you know when the night’s over.”
Something about the way she says it—half challenge, half promise—makes me grin.
“So,” Maggie clears her throat and starts to pull her arm from around my neck, her movements deliberate but hesitant. “I think that’s enough dancing for me tonight.”
Without even thinking, I tighten my grip on her waist, keeping her close. “We barely just started.”
Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, and for a second, I swear I see the tiniest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. But then she swallows hard, the delicate curve of her throat catching my attention as she does. “I don’t want to hog you. I know how popular you are with the ladies.”
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Have you been stalking me?”
Her cheeks flush a sexy shade of pink, and she shifts her weight like she’s debating whether to bolt or fire back.
Finally, she meets my gaze with a look of defiance, maybe a little amusement.
“No. Just… observing. From my table in the corner. You’re basically royalty on this mountain, if you didn’t know. ”
I chuckle, tilting my head. “Observing, huh? Sounds suspiciously like stalking.”
“It’s called research,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Ever heard of it?”
“Oh, I see,” I tease, leaning in just enough to watch her breath hitch. “Research. Tell me, what’s your conclusion, Maggie No Last Name? Am I living up to the hype?”
“Hmm,” she muses, her lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “Let’s just say the jury’s still out.”
I laugh, the sound low and genuine, and her smile widens like she knows she’s gotten under my skin. “You’re tough to impress.”
“Or maybe I just have high standards,” she quips, stepping back slightly, though I keep my hands on her waist. But she doesn’t pull away completely, which tells me I’m not the only one enjoying this little game.
“Well, then,” I say, letting my voice drop just a notch, “I guess I’ll have to try harder.”
Maggie’s eyes narrow, but there’s no hiding the spark of amusement—and attraction—behind them. “Good luck with that, Liam. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Challenge accepted,” I reply, the corners of my mouth lift even higher as I reluctantly loosen my hold on her waist, letting her slip just out of reach. But not too far. Not yet.
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath that I can’t quite catch.
“Does all this research mean you’re coming to the competition tomorrow?” I ask, unable to help myself. I want to keep her talking, keep her close, even though she’s already starting to pull away.
Maggie exhales heavily, like just the thought of it is exhausting. “I am.”
“You don’t seem too excited about that,” I note, both internally and out loud. Her groan confirms my suspicions.
“It’s going to be cold,” she says with a dramatic sigh. “And my car doesn’t exactly have a heater.”
“Are you planning on watching the event from your car?” I ask, half-joking. “There are spectator areas, you know. Some even have outdoor heaters. And if you’re really desperate, I know the guy who owns the lodge and the mountain. I could get you set up in a room with a view—”
“I’m good,” she snaps, taking a step back as her tone turns sharp.
The shift in her demeanor is so sudden it catches me off guard. “Everything okay?” I ask, frowning. I wish she’d ditch that beanie so I could see her full face, not just the bits and pieces she lets me glimpse.
“I’m not looking for a handout,” she says, her words clipped. “Or for you to throw your money around to show off.”
“What?” I blink, thoroughly confused. “I didn’t think you were—”
“It’s time for me to go,” she cuts me off, firm and final.
“No,” I say, the word slipping out before I can stop it. The moment’s taken an awkward turn, and I don’t know how to fix it.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she says over her shoulder, and just like that, she’s bolting for the door, disappearing into the night before I can say another word.
I run a hand through my hair, sighing as I make my way back to Taylor and Elle.
“Where’d the normal girl go?” Elle asks, her disappointment obvious. “She wasn’t weird, or flirty, or looking for a quick romp in the hay.”
“Romp in the hay?” I snort as I slide onto the stool next to my brother.
“Hookup,” Elle begrudgingly clarifies.
“Easy come, easy go,” I reply with a shrug, though I don’t feel as nonchalant as I sound.
Something about Maggie’s reaction to my offer doesn’t sit right.
It wasn’t like I was trying to flash money around—it was just practical.
She hates the cold. Why not make it easier for her?
But then again, there’s clearly more to her than she’s letting on.
“Hey,” Barry, the bartender, calls out, interrupting my thoughts. “The girl you were dancing with left her bag at that table.”
I glance over to a table in the back corner where Maggie must have been sitting earlier and spot a black laptop bag.
“It’s a sign,” I say, half to myself, standing up and heading straight for it.
“A sign of what?” Taylor groans, exasperated as I grab the bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“It’s a sign,” I repeat, turning back toward the door. “I’m meant to see her again. I just know it.”
I’m hoping I’m right.