Chapter Seventeen #2
A small, needy moan claws its way out of my throat and this aggravating man pulls away.
Confused, my eyes flutter open and find him smirking down at me.
“Let’s make dinner,” he says, mentally dousing me in lukewarm water. His heady gaze and tight grip on my waist is evidence of how difficult ending the moment is for him. “Do you want help?”
As I round the corner of the island, I assess him, trying to figure out if his offer is genuine or out of obligation.
I’m not a tyrant in the kitchen. Maybe if I had actually become a chef I would be, but I’m not someone who is going to turn down help—unless Liam proves himself to be truly incompetent.
“Depends,” I say and walk to the sink. “Are you a bad sous chef?”
He follows my lead and washes his hands.
I don’t let go of the towel, drying his hands for him. I avoid his eyes the entire time. It’s such a simple gesture but is loaded with affection I’m not ready to acknowledge yet.
Catching my hands around the towel before I can pull away, he waits for me to look at him and murmurs, “I can follow directions, if that counts for anything.”
I swallow and involuntarily eye his lips again. “I remember.”
A slow smile pulls at his lips. “Tell me where you need me, honey.”
After a long moment, I turn away, breaking the spell we’re under. “Do you think you can handle shredding cheese?”
Letting out a pent up breath, he nods and plasters on an easygoing grin. “That I can do.”
Everything is already set up along the island.
It’s nothing fancy, but Liam’s mentioned a few times that he misses home-cooked meals.
He’s not incompetent, but seems to only have a few convenient recipes memorized.
I get it—cooking takes time, including prep and clean up.
It’s also not everyone’s favorite hobby, and I think it’s ridiculous to be judgmental about that.
Hell, Asher is one of DoorDash’s most frequent customers, and he’s, overall, a responsible adult.
Spread out are the makings for breaded chicken, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and a salad. It's a simple comfort meal after the day he has had, and one most people love.
“I was expecting spaghetti,” he says. “Out of a jar.”
I snicker. “You’re lucky I actually enjoy cooking. There’s just never the time or people for it.”
“Really?” he asks in surprise. “Your family seems to be close.”
“We are.” I begin prepping the chicken. “But my mom and the Millers enjoy getting to take care of us and want to hold onto that responsibility for as long as possible.”
“I get that. My mom shows her love through cooking, too.”
I hum in acknowledgement. “Were your sisters and mom sad that you moved?”
Liam mentions his mom and sisters often, even his stepdad who he seems to have a good relationship with. We’ve never gotten into the details despite him having a front row seat to my family’s chaos multiple times a week.
He tilts his head back and forth, thinking it over. “Yes and no. Jo, my youngest sister, had the hardest time with the move. We’re the closest though, and she’s in a relationship that needs to end but she can’t let it go. That made it hard,” he admits.
“Yeah, I get that.”
I think back to when Vivi left for college at eighteen with her horrible ex-best friend and ex-fiancé.
I was twenty-two and already married to Stefan.
Even though she was only leaving for LA, it was the hardest goodbye I’ve ever had to give—especially because we both knew we were going to need each other. We just didn’t know how soon.
That’s when Vivi and Lexi’s friendship came to be. Around the same time my best friend broke up with Asher and moved across the country with barely a word.
Unaware of my spiraling thoughts, Liam continues, “My other three sisters all have their own lives and families. We talk a lot, and have a group chat of course—”
I chuckle. “Of course. It’s a rule.”
“Exactly,” he says with a wink. “That made it easier. My mom cried, but she would cry when I called to say hello when I still lived in Portland. That’s just her.”
I’m smiling, taking in this look into his life.
Unlike me, Liam doesn’t need to be prompted after every other sentence to keep talking.
Without having to ask, he tells me about the year his mom met Paul along with stories of the five of them growing up.
Throughout the conversation, he turns the questions back on me—asking about when we moved to Amada Beach and coaxing out nostalgic stories to match his own.
The hour and a half it takes to prepare the food ends up feeling like five minutes.
Liam was much more helpful than he initially gave himself credit for. Though, I do have experience trying to teach Asher, who could win a contest for being the worst chef possible, how to cook. So, while I don’t judge, my bar was on the ground at first.
The man really can follow directions well—something I love in and outside of the bedroom.
Before I finished putting everything on to cook, the one step I would rather always do myself, I handed him a bottle of wine and corkscrew. He didn’t need any help figuring that out.
Looking over my shoulder, I expect to find him nearby, or right on the other side of the island. It takes me a few seconds to spot him sitting on the floor by my stairs. Grabbing the glass of wine he poured for me, I walk over and sit next to him.
“Impressive collection,” he muses appreciatively and pulls Mayday Parade’s A Lesson in Romantics off the shelf of CDs. It’s one of my all time favorites.
Taking a sip, I nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”
He quickly flips through a few. “Most of these are signed.”
“Yup,” I say proudly.
I spent a lot of time, and money, going to as many concerts as I could; I had a knack for meeting a lot of my favorite bands. It was something I eventually grew out of, but most of my favorite memories are from those nights.
“I have a shitty tattoo, and you have years’ worth of memorabilia,” he jokes, referring to his skeleton rock on hand. It’s one of his worst tattoos, but one of my favorites.
I shrug and pull out the Warped Tour Compilation CDs that are covered in an overlapping mess of autographs. Most of them are indistinguishable but that was the point.
Handing one to him, I say, “To think we could have met in Pomona.”
He takes it, looking at it fondly. That was the year Liam got his first tattoo. He has his own memories of going to shows.
Tilting his head, he admits, “I think about it sometimes; how the fuck had we never met before? I mean, Warped Tour is one thing, but you were a student at the same dance studio as Mia. You and Lucas were in the same grade.”
I’ve contemplated the same questions.
Did we never end up at the same parties? Lucas and I weren’t close but our circles would have overlapped.
Did we ever meet and I just didn’t remember it? I can’t imagine forgetting Liam at any point in my life.
There’s one answer I do have. “The only time Pippa mixes the different age levels is for the winter recital. If you mostly visited during the summers, Mia and I wouldn’t have performed together.”
He nods but it’s more in acknowledgement than acceptance. He’s still running through the same questions, over and over.
I get it.
Whether it be for one night or six months, being with him feels inevitable.
“Do you believe in fate?” Liam asks and leans closer to me.
I mimic the movement, closing another inch of space between us. Unable to admit how similar my thoughts were, I shrug. “Maybe.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’m starting to.”
“What’s changing your mind?” I push closer, a burst of bravery hitting me.
He’s about to answer when the oven alarm chimes. The sharp sound startles both of us and we push apart.
“Oh, uh,” I say, looking around shyly. “I’ll get that.”
He licks his bottom lip like he’s trying to taste me there. “I’m going to take Rosie out, unless you need help?”
“No.” I shake my head. A few minutes of space is exactly what I need right now. “I’ll get everything plated while you do that.”
“Okay.” Without moving, Liam’s eyes are still fixed on my lips. The oven beeps again and he shakes himself out of it. “Okay,” he says again.
This time, he stands and holds a hand out for me. I take it but don’t linger, not wanting to get anymore lost in his orbit.