Chapter 17 Liam
Liam
I don’t know what I’d been expecting when I’d asked Siri to direct me here, but it definitely wasn’t this. Not cinnamon and hairballs. Maybe velvet curtains and sequins?
Instead, mismatched china teacups clinked, lace doilies sagged under crumb-strewn plates, and at least seven cats scattered as I pushed open the door. A laminated sign by the entrance announced, “Please refrain from frightening Lady Lucinda’s residents—may scratch if distressed.”
Was I even in the right place?
I hadn’t been out to this part of London for years, and it was pure coincidence I’d been in the area on the way back from a meeting in Shoreditch.
I reached into my pocket to check my phone—no, that was what she’d said. I had the name right. Jesus Christ.
I scanned the room for Andrea. Small groups, mostly women, were sitting around, chuckling and drinking tea.
For a split second, everyone stopped talking and turned to look at me.
Someone actually shushed their friend mid-sentence.
The lady behind the front desk almost stood to attention, like she’d been trained to expect this exact intrusion—The Wrong Sort of Man.
To my right I heard a faint tinkling sound—a teaspoon bounced across the floor toward me, and a cat trotted after it like this was the floor show.
There she was, sitting near the back on a red leather couch.
She stood quickly, and more cats scattered. Why the hell were there cats everywhere?
“Andrea … hi.”
She was tugging at her hair, which appeared to be tied up into some sort of knot. Half of it fell free, and she pulled both her arms back to her sides like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have been. She looked annoyingly stunning, considering she was covered in cat hair.
“Oh. You’re here,” she said.
“Yes.”
We stared at each other, about ten feet between us.
A waitress appeared at my shoulder. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Scotch and soda, please.”
She sighed, very slightly. “We’ve got red wine, white wine, or beer.”
Right.
“Or tea.”
“Tea, then, please.”
“We have Purrl Gray, Cheshire Chai, Nine Lives Lapsang, Lavender Dreamtime, or our house special—Catnip Infusion.”
I hadn’t realized there would be a test.
“Just … tea. Please. Normal tea.”
She blinked. “A pot of tea … like, PG Tips?”
“Yes. That. The one without puns.”
The waitress looked at me a second too long, then turned toward the kitchen. Andrea sank back down onto the red couch, pulling at the cuffs of her oversized gray sweatshirt.
I sat opposite. The springs squeaked. A cat leaped onto the armrest and began sniffing my shoulder with the air of a bouncer checking ID. It was the least authoritative entrance I’d made in my life.
“You really didn’t need to dress up,” she said, looking me up and down.
I glanced at my jacket. Already covered in white hair. In the corner, a cat hacked up a furball.
“I didn’t dress up. I was on my way back from a meeting. And I thought—”
“What?” She tipped a sachet of white sugar into her tea.
“I thought this place was”—Fuck. Why did I start this?—“a strip club.”
“A strip club?” Her teaspoon froze mid-stir. Great. Now she thought I was a sleazebag on top of everything else.
“Why would I be at a strip club?”
We looked at each other. It never got any easier with Andrea.
“So,” she said, resuming her stirring. “You wanted to talk.”
“Yes.” My voice sounded more formal than I’d intended. “About last night. Our … arrangement.”
“Of course.” Her expression was all innocence. “Is there something I could clarify for you? Perhaps some papers you’d like me to sign?”
How did she know? Or maybe she thought it was reasonable? I’d wrangled over the matter with Bonnie all morning. It felt … wrong, but perhaps I was just being paranoid. There was, after all, a lot at stake. Andrea would understand that. It was common sense.
A brown-and-black-striped cat jumped onto my knee and padded across my thighs before—thank God—hopping off and settling next to me on the couch.
“Not really a cat person, are you?” she said, her eyes making it clear this placed me in a category labeled sociopath.
“Dogs,” I said tightly. “I like … dogs.”
Andrea leaned back, expression cool, as if my answer had confirmed a private theory she wasn’t about to share.
“I have a proposal,” I said.
Andrea smiled, but not kindly. It was hard to believe she was the same woman I’d seen at the art exhibition the day before.
Not a scrap of makeup on her face, and she was still gorgeous.
Strands of hair from the partial bun fell across one side, and I felt the urge to push them back, if only to wipe the smirk off her face.
“Of course you do.” She tilted her head like she could see straight through me. “Everything’s a deal for you, isn’t it?”
I cleared my throat. This was worse than negotiating with a cabinet minister.
“Look, I can’t back out of Nick and Juliette’s wedding. The conversation you gatecrashed with the minister was at a very delicate stage and—”
“Gatecrashed?” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s some spin.”
“Your tea, sir.” The waitress placed the pot and mug on the table, then hovered a moment too long before realizing we were waiting for her to leave. She floated off.
“Yes,” I said under my breath. “Gatecrashed. After you stabbed me in the foot with your heel evading capture by the police. Recall?”
She scoffed and leaned back in her seat, looking away. “As I said. I didn’t ask for your help. And I certainly didn’t ask to be your prop for some shady deal.”
“That’s not what—” I took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry about saying you were with me.”
There. I’d said it. She looked at me, more interested now.
“I must have misread the situation,” I said, with an internal wince I hoped I hid.
“Yes. You did. Do you do that a lot?”
We looked at each other, not moving. How could we have such different recollections of events? Or had she just been playing me since she realized who I was, like Bonnie said?
I didn’t answer. She was clearly trying to rile me. “What were you even doing there anyway?” I asked. Bonnie was convinced she was some sort of stalker. The best way to neutralize her would be with a well-drafted contract.
“That’s really none of your business.”
“Right. Well.” I cleared my throat again. It was like the words were actually sticky and didn’t want to come out. “Unfortunately, this leaves me in a rather challenging position.”
“Please, Mr. von Roth—tell me how I can help.” She leaned forward, hands clasped. Her voice was more sugary than the crumbled cake on the side plate in front of her. I could feel the vein in my temple start to throb.
“It’s Liam.” I frowned. “Roth. You can drop the von. And the mister, since, you know, we’ve been involved for the past nine months.”
“Right.” She arched a dark brow. “Well, whatever you need from me, I’m sure you think you can buy it.”
The tea was too strong and tasted like sugary tar. I set it down carefully. Not a great start.
“Here’s what I propose.” I leaned forward and looked at her phone. “Would you turn that off, please?”
“What?”
“Your phone. Could you—?”
She raised her brows and scoffed. “Do you think I’m recording you?”
Fuck. Well. It was a distinct possibility after our encounter in the boardroom.
And there wouldn’t be much point in asking her to sign an NDA if it was already recorded.
What if she said no to my proposal? She could do that.
Just turn me down, right now, take this to the press, and I’d be fucked with Hugo.
Hello! magazine would probably pay well for an exposé like this.
Hopefully, less than I was about to offer her.
She shoved the phone into her bag with a tight, angry smile. The cat in her lap purred like an idling engine.
“You told Hugo we’ve been together nine months. You invoked Comic Con. You even—” I stopped, swallowed. “Galadriel.”
The corner of her mouth twitched upward.
“What’s wrong with the Galadriel thing? Not alpha enough for you?”
“Which means,” I continued, “we can’t simply pretend it never happened. I can’t. I’m afraid”—I paused—“I need you to maintain the fiction. At least until the wedding.”
Andrea stared at me. She didn’t appear to give the slightest of fucks about my predicament.
I tried a different angle. “I’m sure you can see the benefits. The guest list alone—CEOs, investors, ministers. Significant players in the medical industry. Do you know what people would pay for access to a room like that? For you, with your career in pharmaceuticals. It could be—”
She raised her eyebrows.
“An opportunity,” I finished, already regretting my choice of words. Her expression suggested I’d offered her a used tissue instead of an introduction to some of the most powerful people in Europe.
Was she genuinely uninterested in advancement? It seemed unlikely. Wasn’t everyone angling for something when it came down to it?
“Here’s what I suggest. Two months, maximum. We attend the wedding together, maintain appearances, then stage a clean, amicable break. You’ll have veto power on events. All expenses covered. Plus …” I hesitated. “Generous compensation.”
“How very transactional. I’m flattered.” She looked anything but.
There was a rustle under the table, then a sudden weight on my lap. A small tabby cat had hopped onto my knee and immediately began kneading with its claws. Into very sensitive terrain.
I straightened in my seat, jaw locked.
Andrea’s eyes flicked down to my crotch, then back to mine.
“And naturally,” I said, my voice a fraction too high, “there would be … protections. A mutual NDA. Non-disparagement. Indemnity if either of us is dragged into anything unsavory. And a neutral, pre-agreed exit narrative we’re both comfortable with …
‘schedules didn’t align, still friends.’ We can discuss that. ”
The cat pressed harder. How did one remove a creature like this? Dogs, I could handle. But cats? They didn’t come off clean. Try it, and you risked teeth, claws, humiliation. I wasn’t giving her that.
I held her gaze and kept my breathing steady.