Chapter Eight
Maggie
“This is a disaster, Odie,” I groan into the phone, pacing the small hotel room as I tug at my hair.
The stress feels like a weight pressing down on my chest, and voicing it out loud doesn’t seem to help.
“Why did Janowicz think I could handle this? I can’t.
I’m broke, my car has no heater, I’m basically homeless, and after all my research, I’ve found nothing.
Nothing! Liam Thompson might be a man whore, sure, but doping? It just doesn’t feel like him.”
“People like Liam are good at hiding who they really are,” Odie counters, his voice crackling through the line. “He’s spent most of his adult life in the limelight. If anyone knows how to keep secrets—”
“I don’t know,” I interrupt, collapsing onto the edge of the bed.
The thin mattress creaks under my weight, and I start gnawing on my lower lip, my favorite nervous habit.
“He showed up to the bar with his sister, his brother and his pregnant sister-in-law. I mean, who does that? That’s not exactly the playboy behavior you’d expect. ”
“So, he likes his siblings,” Odie argues. “That doesn’t mean he’s not doping.”
“It just doesn’t add up,” I say, rubbing my temple as the image of Liam’s broad, muscular frame flashes through my mind.
My traitorous thoughts wander to the feel of his chest when I collided with him on the dance floor.
Solid. Warm. Strong. “He’s already in peak physical shape.
Why would he need to enhance anything? He’s so…
strong and muscled. It doesn’t make sense. ”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line before Odie bursts out laughing. “Did you just say ‘strong and muscled’?”
My cheeks flame, even though he can’t see me. “I—I meant he looks strong and muscled! Objectively. For research purposes.”
“Sure,” Odie drawls, his tone dripping with amusement. “What aren’t you telling me, Mags?”
I’m about to retort when a sharp knock on the door makes me freeze. My heart skips a beat as I glance toward it.
“Hold on,” I say before pushing off the bed and crossing the room. My bare feet make soft sounds on the carpet as I approach the door and pull it open.
Standing there, looking infuriatingly calm and even more infuriatingly attractive, is none other than Liam Thompson. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, and his gaze is locked on me with an intensity that makes my pulse trip over itself.
“Gotta go,” I say hastily into the phone, not even waiting for Odie’s response before ending the call. My hand grips the phone tightly as I gape at Liam, my brain scrambling for something—anything—to say.
“Well,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe with that signature lopsided grin. “Fancy seeing you here, Maggie No Last Name.”
“Are you stalking me now?” I tease with just enough edge in my tone to keep things playful. “Because showing up at my hotel? Kind of creepy.”
Liam’s low chuckle rumbles through the small hallway, and he holds up my bag—the one I’d embarrassingly left behind at The Glorious Pig. “Not stalking. Just being a good citizen, returning a tourist’s long-lost bag.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I say, crossing my arms. “Let’s get that straight.”
“Huh.” He tilts his head, those dark eyes glinting with amusement. “So, you’re not here for fun. That means you’re here for work. But then why,” his smirk widens, “are you coming to the competition tomorrow? Are you a snowboarder?”
I roll my eyes. “If I were, do you think I’d be driving around in a car with no heat? Pretty sure your profession pays enough to cover basic luxuries.”
“That depends,” he says, flashing a set of devilish eyebrows. “On how good you are.”
I resist the urge to gag. “You really can turn literally anything into a line, can’t you?”
“Let’s play a game,” he proposes, ignoring my jab entirely.
“I don’t like games,” I grumble, already regretting opening the door.
“But you’ll like the prize at the end of this one,” he promises, stepping closer. His grin is cocky, and the way his voice dips at the end makes my pulse flicker.
“If the prize is you, I’ll pass.”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest, mock-wounded. “I am an excellent prize.”
“I’m sure there are at least a thousand women who could verify that.”
“You sound jealous, Maggie.” His eyes narrow just slightly, the challenge flickering between us like static electricity.
“I’m not.” I lie through my teeth. I am definitely jealous. It’s been far too long since I’ve had any male companionship worth thinking about, and Liam’s molten chocolate eyes and infuriating grin aren’t helping my resolve.
“The prize,” he says, holding up my bag like it’s a trophy, “is this lovely, slightly worn, questionably functional bag.”
“It’s old,” I defend, “not questionably functional.”
“Sure.” He waves me off with a dramatic eye roll. “Here’s the deal: I’ll ask you three questions. You answer honestly, and the bag is yours.”
“And if I don’t?” I raise an eyebrow, already exasperated.
“I guess I’ll be the new owner of an old bag.”
“Really?” I scrunch my nose, though the way my stomach flips betrays me. “You’re weird.”
“That’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me,” he says nonchalantly, flashing a grin. “And hopefully the last.”
“Listen, Liam,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “I’m not interested into whatever it is you’re trying to insinuate.”
“Insinuate?” He smirks.
“I’m here for one reason—to do my job. When it’s done, I’m going home, hopefully to a nice promotion.”
“First question,” he says, ignoring my speech entirely. “What do you do for a living?”
I hold out my hand. “Give me my bag, please.”
“This bag?” He points to it, all faux innocence.
“Yes. That one.”
“What do you do for a living?” A slow smile stretches across his face.
“I’m a writer,” I reply, my patience wearing thin.
“Is that the truth?” His eyes narrow like he’s trying to catch me fibbing.
“Yes.”
“What’s your last name?”
“We’ve already established I’m ‘Just Maggie.’”
“Everyone has a last name,” he points out, undeterred.
“Prince doesn’t,” I say smartly. “Neither does Sia.”
“Stage names.” He scoffs. “Last name or no bag.”
“Cooper,” I finally admit through gritted teeth. “Now, what’s the last stupid question?”
He leans in slightly, his voice dipping into a low drawl. “Will you have a drink with me tomorrow night after the competition?”
I let out a harsh laugh. “So, my choices are to lose my bag, or win and get drinks with you?”
“Seems fair,” he says with a shrug, his grin maddeningly unapologetic.
“I didn’t have to rescue your bag, you know.
Do you have any idea what it took to find you?
Calling every hotel on the mountain, sweet-talking the front desk to get your room number—Harvey, by the way, now expects me to help him find ‘hot chicks.’”
“Such a tragic ordeal,” I say, faking a yawn.
“Come on, Maggie No Last Name,” he says, stepping closer, his tone softening but still teasing. “One drink. That’s all I’m asking.”
His scent—cedar, citrusy, and something undeniably him—wraps around me like a warm blanket, and I have to fight to stay steady.
“Don’t make me beg,” he says as he leans in just enough to make my pulse race, “I will beg.”
“Doubtful,” I say, though it comes out more breathy than I’d like. Damn him and that smug smirk.
“Oh, I will,” Liam says, his grin widening. “So, yes to drinks?”
I pause, weighing my options. If I agree to drinks, it might give me a chance to dig deeper, to get more information about his life, his activities—illegal or otherwise.
This could be dangerous in ways I’m not sure I’m willing to admit to myself.
But digging for information, even if that entails drinks with a hot snowboarder?
That comes with the territory, I suppose.
“Fine.” I finally cave. “Yes.”
“Yes?” His brows lift, his smile stretching wider.
“Yes, to drinks,” I clarify, crossing my arms as if that’ll shield me from whatever spell he’s casting.
Liam pumps a victorious fist in the air before handing me my bag. “Don’t worry, Maggie Cooper. This will be the best first date of your life.”
“Date?” I squeak, my eyes going wide. “You said drinks. Drinks are not a date.”
“Oh, but they are,” he says smoothly, that infuriating grin never leaving his face. “See you around, Cooper.”
Before I can fire back, he turns and saunters down the hallway, his steps slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. My eyes betray me, drifting down to the way his jeans fit snugly against his—
“Are you checking out my butt?” he calls out without looking back, his tone full of teasing amusement.
I exhale sharply and slam the door shut, my heart pounding. Liam Thompson is infuriating. Maddening. Completely, utterly frustrating. And, damn it, he’s also ridiculously hot.
“Oh. My. GAWD!” Odie’s voice suddenly blares through my phone, and I glance down in horror. I never actually hung up.
“Did you hear that whole thing?” I ask, horrified.
“Girrrrl,” Odie cackles, the sound echoing like a victory bell. “You are so hung up on him.”
“I am not,” I protest, though even I don’t sound convinced.
“Are too,” Odie sing-songs.
“I have to go,” I lie, fumbling to end the call. “Bye.”
This time, I double-check to make sure I’ve hung up, glaring at the phone as if it’s the one to blame for my embarrassment.
Finally, I toss it onto the bedside table and crawl under the covers, frustration and exhaustion battling for dominance. But as I close my eyes, all I can see is Liam’s grin, his stupidly perfect face, and, yes, his jeans.
My hand slides between my legs, and a quiet sigh escapes me. Liam Thompson may be the subject of my story, but damn it, right now, all I can think about is the way his ass fills out his jeans. And how much trouble I know I’m already in.