Chapter 11
Nine years earlier
Liam’s thumb skates along the outside of my arm, tracing the same spot over and over like he’s trying to commit it to memory.
His bare skin is warm and a little damp with sweat, and he smells like soap and citrus and that extra thing I can’t quite pinpoint that’s just him. But whatever it is, I like it. A lot.
“Are you sniffing me?”
“No,” I say a little too quickly.
The corners of his mouth curl upward. “I mean it’s okay if you are. I smell good.”
I give his arm a little punch. “Does being cocky come naturally to you, or do you have to work at it?”
His gaze tracks up and down my body with unfettered desire.
Then, without warning, Liam flips us over, arms caging me in against the mattress.
“Funny you should ask.” His lips dip to the side of my neck.
“I have to.” He pauses, kissing the sensitive skin.
“Work.” Kiss. “Very.” Kiss. “Hard.” Kiss. “At.” Kiss. “It.” Kiss.
I laugh, trying (not very hard) to push him away, but he only grips my hips tighter, and I can’t help the little moan that escapes me.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Liam was supposed to be an orgasm-shaped distraction from my post-dropout woes. But our one-night stand turned into nonstop texting, which turned into another hookup, which turned into me coming over almost every night. And coming every night.
Now we’ve been sleeping together for three weeks and I think I have a crush. A big, fat, all-consuming crush. Not just because the sex is good—really good. I like how he makes me feel.
While Liam can be tender and sweet in bed, he’s also vocal and direct about what he wants and how he wants it, and I realize for the first time in my life, it feels freeing to be told what to do.
So much of my life has been dictated by the plans and expectations of others, but here, with Liam—someone who understands me and gets me—I feel like I can let go.
Like I don’t have to be in control or worry about the future or who I’m disappointing or if I’m enough.
Because when I’m with him, he makes me feel like I am.
Mostly, I genuinely like spending time with Liam. I like the way his whole face brightens when he talks about his work and how my heartbeat ramps up when he says something adorably British like rubbish or the lift, and how I always leave his apartment smelling like him.
But if I’ve learned anything from my mom’s failed relationships or the smattering of hookups I’ve had, it’s that good things never last and I shouldn’t get attached. So I let Liam plant one more kiss on my neck before I hop out of his bed, scouring the floor for my underwear.
“Are you leaving already?” Liam asks.
I spot the tangle of lace under the bed. “I should get going.”
“Oh.” I hate the way my heart beats hopefully at the disappointment in his voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”
I’m about to tell him I really shouldn’t when tiny black spots pop behind my eyes, vision blurring as I’m hit with an unexpected wave of nausea that sends me stumbling back onto the bed.
Liam rushes to my side, his hands a steadying weight on my back. “Are you okay?” he asks, and my heartbeat jumps at the concern woven into his voice.
“Yeah. Fine.” I put my head in my hands, willing the dizziness to subside. “I think I just stood up too fast.”
“You don’t look too good.”
I push out a laugh. “Exactly what every naked woman you just had sex with wants to hear.”
His brow furrows. “I’m serious. You look pale. Do you need water?”
“I’m fine. I just—” But the rest of the sentence doesn’t make it out before I stand up and rush to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I puke up the contents of my stomach.
A second later Liam appears behind me, hand at the base of my neck, rubbing in slow circles while he uses his other hand to pull my hair away from my sticky face.
I puke again, eyes burning, throat aching.
God. This is humiliating. Things might be going well with Liam, but I know how these casual arrangements are. He wants to see me looking sexy in bed, not puking my guts out in his toilet.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak as hot, embarrassed tears prick my eyes.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he says, stroking my back, up and down, a calming weight that tempers my racing heart.
“I’ve been feeling off for a few days, but I felt okay when I came over—” I pause to retch again. “God, I’m so sorry, I probably got you sick too.”
“It’s okay. If I get sick, then we’ll just be sick together.”
Maybe he’s just trying to be nice, but fuck if I don’t feel the door in my chest, the one I’ve tried to keep shut, open just a bit wider for him.
After I’ve puked up everything in my stomach, I try to stand but my legs are too wobbly, so Liam picks me up and carries me back to bed, where he hands me a clean T-shirt and boxers.
He gestures for me to raise my arms and I feel like a small, helpless child as he dresses me before tucking me back into bed.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I tell him. “I know we’re just hooking up.” His eyes flash with something almost like hurt. “I can go. I promise. I—”
“Roslyn.” He gives me a stern look. “You’re not going anywhere.” Then in a voice that soothes like cold water on a burn, he says, “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”
My bottom lip quivers between my teeth. “Are you sure?”
He almost laughs, like the idea of not taking care of me is ridiculous to him. “Yes, I’m sure. Now sit up for me so I can take your temperature.”
I do as I’m told, and he places his hand on my forehead. When he pulls back, he’s frowning. “You’re burning up.” He leaves and returns a moment later with a couple Tylenol and a glass of water. “Here. Take these for the fever.”
“Yes, Doc.”
His mouth rises, a small slow smile that feels handcrafted just for me.
I’ve come to learn that he has a few different smiles.
A lazy one he offers when he’s sleepy or bored or both.
A big, toothy one when he’s trying to be charming.
And then there’s the hopeful smile. The one with soft lips and even softer eyes, which feels like it’s just for me. That one is my favorite.
“You know,” I say, nestling back against his pillows, “this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I was imagining a sexy doctor fantasy.”
“Oh?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “And what usually happens in your fantasy?”
“Well, for one, I’m not puking my guts out. And second, you’re usually wearing a stethoscope and nothing else.”
“Sorry I’m not meeting expectations. Would it help if I took my shirt off?”
“Honestly, that might cure me.”
He laughs. “Do you think you can keep any food down? I can make you some soup if you’d like?”
“That depends. Will it take three hours?”
“Homemade bone broth usually takes between twelve and forty-eight hours, but I can make you soup from a tin if you prefer,” he says, looking at me like he’s suggested I lick the inside of a trash can.
“Considering I might be dead before then, canned soup would be perfect.”
He shakes his head, mouth flirting with a smile, and I swear my insides melt.
Fuck. I like him so much. Every time he looks at me, touches me, it feels like my heart is in my throat, like there’s a band tightening over my chest, making it harder to breathe.
He turns toward the door.
“Liam?”
He pivots back to face me. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. This is really nice of you.”
His eyes shift up and down, tattooing my body with his gaze. “Of course. Anytime.”
“Hopefully it doesn’t happen again,” I say with a laugh.
“Well, if it does, I’ll be there.” Then he turns and slips out the door while my heart beats faster.
Don’t get attached, I remind myself. This won’t last. Just like none of Mom’s ever did. But the reminder dulls against the ache in my chest, the feeling of my heart widening and stretching to make space for him. Or perhaps there was always space. Perhaps I’ve been holding it just for him.
Twenty minutes later, Liam returns with a bowl of classic Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and a mug of hot tea because, as he puts it, I’m English and therefore legally obligated to make you tea when you don’t feel well, before settling beside me in bed.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“A bit better. I think throwing up helped.” I wince. “Er, sorry about that.”
“Roslyn, please,” he says, giving me a look. “We operated on cadavers last term. I think I can handle a little vomit.”
“So I haven’t scared you away?” I ask, my voice unexpectedly small.
“Not even a little,” he says, leaning in to plant a kiss on my forehead.
His lips linger a beat too long for two people who are just casually sleeping together when I hear footsteps followed by a door opening and shutting on the other side of Liam’s bedroom wall. We both freeze.
“Does Kevin know about us sleeping together?” I whisper.
“I don’t see how he couldn’t. You’re not exactly quiet, you know,” Liam says, giving me a look.
I blush. It’s hard to stay quiet when the man knows how to do things with his hands and mouth that ought to come with a warning label.
“Has he said anything?” I ask.
“No, but he did give me back the handful of condoms I gave him and said, I think you need these more than me.”
My cheeks sizzle and not from the fever. “Abby still doesn’t know. I’ve been really sneaky.”
Liam’s fingers tangle with mine, mindlessly brushing his thumb on the inside of my palm. “And where exactly does she think you’ve been every night for the last few weeks?”
“At the gym. Which is perfect because if I come home all red-faced and disheveled, she’ll just think I was working out.”
The corners of Liam’s mouth tug upward.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m just thinking about you, coming home all sweaty and disheveled.”
He wiggles his eyebrows and I swat at his chest, laughing.
“Do you think you’ll ever tell Abby about us?” he asks.