Chapter 8 #3
But even as she agreed, her traitorous mind supplied contradictions: The way he'd immediately covered for her accidental donation at the gala.
How he'd walked her to her door that first night, making sure she was safe despite barely knowing her.
His fierce insistence to the PR team that she maintain editorial independence.
The quiet way he'd arranged for the Herald to send her to Portland.
"Unless..." Jane said thoughtfully. "Unless something's changed?"
"Nothing's changed," Libby lied. "Just tired."
She'd promised herself she'd wait until a reasonable hour to return, but the team meeting was at seven, and she needed her laptop and work clothes from the suite.
At 6:15 a.m., she slipped back into the hallway with the spare key card, moving as quietly as possible to avoid running into any early-rising teammates.
Why hadn't she grabbed her suitcase last night?
She'd been right there by the closet when she left.
But no, she'd been so flustered by the whole evening—the card game, the way Liam had looked at her, the way he'd rolled up his sleeves and loosened his collar like some Olympian god in repose—that she'd practically fled empty-handed like some Regency maiden.
Professional journalist. Sure.
The suite was quiet. She entered carefully, heading straight for her luggage near the closet. She could grab her things and leave before—
The bathroom door opened.
Liam emerged in a cloud of steam, hair damp, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, completely absorbed in the tablet he was holding.
Libby froze, her brain short-circuiting at the sight.
Water droplets clung to his shoulders—his suits had definitely not been exaggerating—before trailing down the defined muscles of his chest. She watched, hypnotized, as a particularly determined drop navigated the ridges of his abs before disappearing into the towel that hung dangerously, precariously low on his hips.
The sharp cut of muscle there, the V that disappeared beneath terrycloth, the way his thumb absently swiped across the tablet screen while his other hand—
He looked up. Saw her. Froze.
They stared at each other, him nearly naked and her suddenly very aware that she'd been cataloging every inch of exposed skin like she was writing a very unprofessional scouting report.
"I forgot my bag—" she started.
"I wasn't expecting—" he said simultaneously.
They both stopped. The tablet in his hand chimed with some notification, but neither of them moved.
"I like your socks," he said finally, glancing down at her feet.
Libby looked down to see her favorite mismatched pair—penguins on the left foot, tacos on the right—winking up at her. Of course she was wearing these.
"I like your..." she started, then gestured helplessly at his general state of undress. "...towel?"
His mouth twitched. "Thank you. It's Egyptian cotton."
"Very absorbent, I'm sure."
They stared at each other, the air between them charged with something that had nothing to do with professional arrangements and everything to do with the fact that Liam D'Arcy looked like he'd been carved by someone with a very generous imagination and exceptional attention to detail.
And he was looking at her like she was the one who was underdressed.
"I should get dressed," he said finally.
"That would be..." Libby swallowed, "...probably wise."
They stood there for another moment, him nearly naked and her trying very hard not to notice that fact, before Libby's phone chimed with a text from Jane asking where she was.
"The meeting," she said desperately. "We should—"
"Get dressed," Liam agreed. "Both of us. Fully dressed. Professional attire."
"So professional," Libby agreed, backing toward her luggage and promptly tripping over his dress shoes.
Liam caught her arm before she could fall, which meant he was suddenly very close and still very underdressed and smelled like expensive soap and clean male skin.
"Careful," he murmured, his hand warm on her arm.
"Always," she breathed, though careful was the last thing she was feeling.
He released her slowly, stepped back, and disappeared into the bedroom area. Libby grabbed her clothes and escaped to the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it.
This was fine. Everything was fine. She'd just seen Liam D'Arcy nearly naked, had basically admitted she found him attractive, and now they had to spend an entire day pretending to be a couple while she tried not to think about what he looked like under his suit.
Totally, completely fine.
Libby closed her eyes and accepted the truth: she was in so much trouble.
That evening, after the Steel's dominant 4-1 victory, she was back in the suite typing up her game report.
Liam had suggested she use the quiet space while he handled post-game captain's duties—team-only debrief, checking on injured teammates in the medical room, signing pucks for fans who'd waited outside.
With the team flying back to Boston at 6 a.m., she needed to file her story before they left.
A knock interrupted her typing. "Come in," she called, expecting Liam.
Instead, the door opened to reveal an apologetic bellhop holding it for Kate Davenport, who swept past him without acknowledgment.
The bellhop fled immediately, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he'd been bribed or threatened into doing.
Kate's eyes swept the suite, and finding Libby alone, she smiled.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross," Kate said, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Mrs. Davenport," Libby stood, immediately wary. "Liam is—"
"I'm aware." Kate cut her off, settling onto the sofa as if she owned it.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Libby asked, not sitting down.
"What game are you playing?" Kate's directness was startling. "This fake relationship, sharing his hotel room—what's your angle?"
"I don't have an angle—"
"Everyone has an angle. Especially when they're this far out of their depth." Kate's eyes were arctic. "The photograph I took should have sent you crawling back to your little local paper. Instead, you somehow convinced Liam to play along with this charade. How?"
"I didn't convince him of anything—"
"Please. Liam doesn't sacrifice his privacy on a whim. You manipulated him somehow—played the victim, made him feel responsible." Kate leaned forward. "What did you say? That your career would be over? That you needed saving?"
"There was no scandal until you created one," Libby said evenly.
"I exposed what was already inappropriate. A journalist drinking with her subject, hanging off him at a charity event." Kate's tone dripped disdain. "Though I suppose for someone from your background, such behavior seems acceptable."
"My background?"
"Small-town nobody with delusions of grandeur.
" Kate's smile was cold. "I've done my research, Ms. Bennet-Cross.
Your father teaches at a community college.
Your mother spends her days obsessively refreshing gossip pages.
You covered minor league hockey from the cheapest seats.
What could you possibly offer someone like Liam? "
"Maybe he doesn't need me to offer him anything," Libby replied. "Maybe he's capable of making his own choices. He's my friend."
As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized they were true. Or at least, she wanted them to be true. Somewhere between the charity gala disaster and this moment, Liam had become someone she genuinely cared about. Someone she felt protective of.
Looking at Kate—with her calculated cruelty and suffocating expectations—Libby felt a wave of exhaustion on Liam's behalf.
If this was the kind of "family" he had to navigate, no wonder he was so controlled.
She'd assumed his life was all privilege and ease, but if Kate represented the people closest to him, then Liam had been fighting his own battles long before Libby showed up.
"Friend," Kate repeated, her tone making it sound absurd. "Oh, I think not."
She leaned back, studying Libby with calculating eyes.
"Liam has always had a soft spot for charity cases.
The youth hockey program in Dorchester. Georgia after her breakdown.
That teammate—Mitchell?—with the gambling problem last year.
Now you, the poor little journalist he needs to rescue from big bad media scandal.
" She smiled coldly. "It's not affection, dear.
It's compulsion. He needs to feel like the savior because he couldn't save Georgia when it mattered. "
"You don't know him as well as you think," Libby said quietly.
"I've known him since he was born. I know he values control above connection, duty above desire. This performance you're both giving? He's quite good at it. But when playoffs end, when the media attention fades, you'll find yourself back in Springfield wondering if any of it was real."
Kate moved toward the door, then paused. "Anne asked me to check on him. They've been texting quite frequently. She's concerned about this... situation. They have such a lovely understanding—both from the same world, same expectations. No need for elaborate charades or fake relationships."
"If they're so perfect together, why isn't he with her?"
"Anne's been in Paris for the past year. Fashion internship—very prestigious." Kate's tone suggested this was far more worthy than sports journalism. "She's returning next month. Liam has been quite patient, waiting for her to finish pursuing her little interests."
"Little interests," Libby repeated. "In Paris."
"A year abroad to get it out of her system before settling down to real responsibilities.
" Kate's smile was pitying. "In the meantime, Liam needs to prove he's not like every other D'Arcy.
Needs to rebel against expectations. You're not a love interest, dear.
You're a rebellion. And rebellions, by nature, are temporary. "
After she left, Libby stood frozen. Kate had leaked the photo to destroy her, and Liam had—what? Felt guilty? Felt responsible? Created this entire elaborate lie not because he cared but because he needed to play savior?
"Hey," Liam's voice from the doorway made her turn. "Security just called. They said Kate was here?"
"She just left," Libby said, trying to keep her voice neutral. "She was checking on you."
Liam's expression darkened. "What did she say to you?"
"Nothing I haven't heard before."
"Libby—"
"She mentioned Anne," Libby said, watching his face carefully. "Said you two have been texting."
Something shifted in Liam's expression, closing off. "Anne and I have known each other since we were children. Our families are... connected."
"Connected," Libby repeated.
"It's complicated." He stayed by the door, the distance between them suddenly feeling vast. "Kate has ideas about what my life should look like. Who should be in it."
"And I'm not part of that picture."
Liam didn't deny it. "Kate can make things difficult when she doesn't get her way. I don't want you caught in the crossfire."
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can." His voice was quiet, almost resigned. "That doesn't mean you should have to."
They stood there, the weight of Kate's visit pressing down on them, making everything feel heavier, more complicated.
"We should get some sleep," Liam said finally. "Early flight tomorrow."
"Right. Back to Boston."
"Back to normal," he said, though something in his tone suggested normal was the last thing this would ever be.
He headed toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower. You should... try to get some rest."
After the bathroom door closed, Libby returned to her game report, but her hands were shaking slightly. Kate's words echoed in her mind: You're not a love interest, dear. You're a rebellion. And rebellions, by nature, are temporary.
Maybe Kate was right. Maybe this was all just Liam playing a role, and she was foolish to think it could be anything more.