by Elise Faber
“PR Rebecca.”
“The nicknames don’t exactly flow off the tongue now, do they?”
“No.” He laughed lightly. “Can’t say it does.”
She polished off the rest of her bagel, crumpled the wrapper, and took his and the empty bag to the trash then surprised him by not kicking his sorry ass out the door and instead sitting back down next to him, albeit still with the two empty chairs between them. Her eyes locked onto his. “Why are we here, Liam?”
“Here in a proverbial sense?”
A roll of those warm brown irises.
“Ah,” he said lightly. “Why in the literal sense then.”
“Liam,” she warned.
“I wanted to apologize, okay?”
Her stare hardened. “So, you did that by showing up at eight in the morning at my place of business?”
Round and round in circles in his mind. Round and round in this conversation with this woman. What to say? What to hide? How to explain? How not to scare her off? He didn’t have any great answers to any of it. All he knew was—
“I like you, okay?”
So not smooth.
Would probably scare her off anyway.
Would certainly have his ass bustled to the door.
Except . . . she didn’t bustle him to the door. Instead, she remained sitting two chairs over from him, mouth agape, and went mute.
Totally, utterly mute.
“What?” he finally asked.
She blinked. “You.”
“Me, what?”
She exploded to her feet. “You can’t like me!” Her steps were quiet as she paced away. “You hardly know me. Y-you—”
He stood and crossed over to her.
Not touching, because she’d drawn that boundary, but near enough to catch a whiff of soap, the slight spice of exertion from her exercise.
“You saved my life,” he said. “I think that’s a good place to start.”
“So, this is some sort of Stockholm Syndrome?”
“Well, no, because you didn’t kidnap me.” He reached a hand out, wanting to lightly tug the end of her ponytail, to pair the teasing with touch, but then he remembered the whole no-permission-to-touch thing and pulled back. Which meant he looked like some sort of strange lobster puppet creature, reaching out thumb and forefinger, pulling back and shifting back to his heels.
Her lips pressed flat, not seeming to notice, or maybe it was less that and more not acknowledging his weirdness. Either way, she just stayed in place. “Right.” A scowl. “That’s for kidnapping. I wonder what the term for falling for your rescuer is.” She tapped her chin, turned away. “There’s got to be something.”
Liam was frozen in place, struck by the lean lines of her legs encased in her sweats, the shining hair tugged into the ponytail, its end just caressing the top of her ass.
He wanted to touch that hair.
He wanted to touch her.
To demonstrate exactly why he could like her, why he’d dreamed about her, why he’d gotten up on a rare day he’d been able to sleep in, and why he’d been thrilled to see her cleaning through the window.
Hint. It was the same reason he’d forced himself to keep walking, to go down the block and pick up food and coffee.
Also, why he’d come back and then been stunned into stillness by the way she moved across the floor. Graceful as a dancer, liquid as water, strong as a check coming right for him.
He’d lifted his hand without realizing it, his fingers less than an inch from her hair.
Coming back into himself, he jumped back.
Of course, Mia caught the movement in the mirror.
She spun, plunked her hands onto her hips. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I—” He shook himself. “You said no touching. I’m trying to abide by that.”
Her mouth fell open.
“I-I mean, that sounds stupid, but yesterday you set the boundary. I pushed it, and I shouldn’t have.” He thrust a hand through his hair and spun away, knowing he sounded like an idiot and was blowing his chance with her. “You were uncomfortable, and it was inappropriate, and even though I’m wildly attracted to you and think you’re the coolest person I’ve met in a long time, I won’t cross that line.” A sigh as he clenched his hands into fists. “I won’t betray the trust you’ve given me this morning by letting me into your studio.”
Silence.
Long enough that he’d actually taken a step toward the door, knowing it was time to show himself out.
This was . . . too much for a day’s interaction.
That was the fucking understatement of the year.
“Liam.”
He rotated to face her.
“I’m not what you think,” she said. Not gentle, not soft. Just clear and concise, as though she were trying to convince both herself and him. “I can’t be what you think.”
“I think you can.”
“No,” she said, more firmly. “I can’t.”
Fuck. He had blown it. “I’ll go.” Regroup. Come back when—
Gentle fingers on his jaw, a firm hand on his shoulder, turning him to face her.
A lithely muscled female body pressed to his.
“I’m not any of those things you said. I’m not cool or special or exceptional. I’m just . . . Mia.”
He was barely breathing, had to force out the words. “Just Mia seems pretty great.”
A shake of her head that ponytail swinging again. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
He covered her hand with his own, wanted to say something to convince her she was wrong. Instead, he ended up saying the only thing he could think, “Your skin is like silk.”
She shivered. “Yours is scalding hot.”
“Let me take you out to dinner.”
A statue in his arms, flush against him. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What can I do to convince you?”
Those brown eyes flared with heat, speared him in place, a shuddering breath sliding between her lips. Statue no more, her body softened, breast brushing his chest, thighs tangling with his. A red haze appeared in the corners of his vision.
Then she rose on tiptoe. “Come home with me.”
That red haze spread . . . and consumed him alive.
Six
Mia
The words were hardly out of her mouth before panic slipped in.
What was she doing? Dear God, what in the fuck was she doing?
She didn’t invite men upstairs, certainly didn’t sleep with men she didn’t know.
But then again, she also didn’t let strange men into her studio in the early morning, didn’t eat food they’d brought, or drink the sugary coffee. Well, she didn’t have men showing up bearing gifts, either.
She also didn’t have men look at her the way that Liam did.
And . . . she found she didn’t want it to stop.
Like it inevitably would if she went out to dinner with him.
If she could just capture this moment, bottle it and tuck it on a shelf for safekeeping, if she could just pretend for one day, one hour that this man might actually like her when he came to know her, that he wouldn’t mind the lack of fluff, the sharp edges and occasional sharp tone—
Then what?
She’d be worthy?
A sick, black feeling crept down her spine.
His palm slid from covering her hand, across the outside of her wrist, up her forearm, slowly crawling over her skin until he cupped her cheek. “I would in a second,” he said, “but I don’t think that’s what you really want.”
It was instinct to break away.
“You should go,” she said, eyes on the mat, back to him. “You should just go, now.” Before he got to know her. Before he was disappointed by her. Before he found out—
A pause. Then, “Before I find out what?”
Mia whirled around, horror coursing through her. She hadn’t said the last part of her thinking aloud, she hadn’t.
&nbs
p; She. Hadn’t.
His eyes didn’t hold revulsion and that more than anything, told her she hadn’t said it, hadn’t hinted at the truth that continued to eat her alive. And yet this man knew she was hiding something. Knew she was running from the pain of her past.
Because she might not have fluff, but she sure as shit had secrets.
Painful secrets that had honed her to a sharp, cutting edge.
“I know this is crazy,” he said, voice careful. “I know we’re strangers and I shouldn’t care what’s going on in your head. I know you think my interest is because you helped me or because I’m some creep who needs to get laid.” He took a step toward her, stopped when her breath caught audibly. “But it’s not that.”
She didn’t move, though her pulse was pounding in her veins. “What then?”
“I looked into your eyes, and I saw . . .”
Her lungs froze. Her mouth went dry.
Mia waited for him to finish the trailed off sentence, waited an eternity it seemed before he inhaled and said, “I looked into your eyes, and I saw . . . me.”
She frowned.
“I know,” he said, volume dropping, almost as if he was talking to himself. “It makes no sense. This sounds like something out of a bad romcom movie, and plus, who knows how long I’ll even be in California? My contract probably won’t be renewed. I’ll just be some unemployed nobody who—” Liam physically shook himself. “Yeah, so that’s it. I saw you, felt like some part of me knew some part of you—” He cut himself off with a derisive snort. “Know what? I’m just going to stop there.”
Her throat had closed up, stifling any words that might come out.
She’d felt it, too.
She felt it now.
Drawn to this man in a way that made no sense. A way that made her want to forget everything she’d learned about herself up to this point, to throw caution to the wind. But . . .
She couldn’t.
He might like her now and be drawn to her, but sooner or later he’d see what was inside her, and he’d—
“I’ll go,” he said, turning for the door.
Slice.
That movement cut through her, pierced right through the protective coating surrounding her, and Mia found words coming out of her mouth before she rationally processed them.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t go.”
He stopped, turned to face her, and those words that had blurted out so freely disappeared on her, nothing further coming out. Instead, she just stood there like a mute robot, unable to push anything else from between her lips.
An itchy, unbearable agony began to fill her.
Say something! This was her job—to have the words, to give directions. Instead, she was just staring at him like a puppet who’d lost her master and was reduced to a limp pile of fabric and strings.
“Want to take a walk?”
His question made the itchy feeling fade, the stifling blackness that was making it impossible for her to form words disappear. She considered him for a second, thought of what she might do if he left or if she told him no and returned to the apartment. Everything would stay the same. Nothing would change. And she’d miss out . . . on what?
That she wasn’t sure of.
All she knew was that she didn’t want to.
Mia bit the inside of her cheek then sucked in a slow, even breath. A heartbeat later, she went with her instincts and said, “Okay.”
“Okay.” He smiled, the visceral impact of that a punch to the gut, before he grabbed the remaining coffee cup, and moved to the door, holding it open. Mia took a step toward him, felt a gust of cold morning air, so she veered off and made a pit stop at her office, snagging the sweatshirt she always kept there, along with the spare front door key, and slipped the sweatshirt over her head.
“Good?” he asked when she’d crossed back over to him.
She nodded.
He waved a hand forward, indicating she should precede him through the door. But when she did, she felt his fingers on her nape, tugging free the end of her ponytail that was trapped beneath the collar of her sweatshirt.
“Okay?” he asked, voice soft, sticking to the one-word questions, which, honestly, was preferred for her psyche at the moment. Heat had exploded through her from the simple contact, the light brush of his fingers along the back of her neck making her shiver, and she found she could barely process the word, let alone form words.
Instead, she merely nodded again, let him hold the door for her, and moved out onto the sidewalk.
He stepped out, too, and released the handle, waiting as she locked up. After she had, she glanced at his handsome face, saw the bruise on his jaw, still forming. It was already black and blue and would be all sorts of shades of purple before the day was out.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.” Liam’s gaze met hers, and guilt tore through her. “Last night. I—”
She shouldn’t have hit him.
“Don’t ever apologize for protecting yourself.” His fingers trailed lightly down her arm, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “I had it coming.”
She bit her lip. “Maybe.”
That smile went grin and he tilted his head forward, started walking . . . and as she fell into step beside him, she started thinking again. Why was she going off with a man she didn’t know? She’d yell at her students for even considering the idea.
But then Liam took her hand.
The thoughts quieted.
The sharp edges were smoothed out.
And . . . she walked.
“We absolutely cannot be here,” Mia said.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” She stamped her foot. Yes, literally stamped her foot on the cracked sidewalk. “Why not?”
Liam still held her hand, their fingers interlaced as they had been for the entire time they’d walked. At first, she’d thought they were just wandering, but then she realized he was leading her to a specific destination, up through the residential area that abutted the studio, winding through the houses and apartments until he’d led her to a small park.
She’d been to this park before.
Many times.
Of course she had. It was within walking distance of the karate studio, and there wasn’t a lot of green space in the city, though this neighborhood, with houses that actually had backyards and several other parks dotting the area, perhaps had more green space than many places in San Francisco.
“Yes,” he said, tugging her hand, leading her up the curved incline that led to the top of the hill. “Why can’t we be here?”
She yanked her hand from his, used it to point to the green sign directly behind him. “That!” she snapped. “That says right there why.”
He turned, read aloud the second rule. “No adults unless accompanied by children.” A beat. “Hmm.” Then he shrugged, moved toward the top of the slide that this park was known for. Well, technically it was a pair of steep concrete slides.
“We don’t have kids.”
Another shrug. “But you work with kids,” he said. “That has to count for something.”
“Liam—” She didn’t know what to say to that.
His eyes flicked back to the sign.
“And it’s Tuesday.” He tsked, pointing to the part of the sign she’d missed—the fact that it was only open Wednesday through Sunday from ten in the morning until five at night. “And”—a glance down at his watch—“it’s not even ten o’clock.” Humor filled those gray eyes. “We’re breaking all the rules today.”
“I—” She took a step back. “Liam—” Mia waved a hand at the slide itself, where a metal gate was installed at the top and wouldn’t be opened until ten the next day. “Look, we can’t even do this anyway. Everything is locked up, and we don’t have any cardboard.”
He frowned. “Why would we need cardboard?”
“You slide down on it, and it makes you go faster.”
That earned her a grin. “I like faster.”
“I know
,” she said, adding when she read the question in his gaze, “I saw you move on the ice.”
His eyes sparked with humor. “I had figure skating classes when I was young.”
She gasped. “No, you didn’t.” That just did not fit in with her tough, hockey player mental picture.
“I did,” he said, wandering over to the side of the slide and glancing down. “It’s actually not unheard of. Figure skaters tend to be much more graceful than us big brutes.”
“Yeah, I was wondering about that.”
“Wondering about what?” he asked, straightening then moving over to glance behind several pots that were grouped together, the community surrounding the park having come together to grow a small, shared garden.
“Aren’t you a little short for a hockey player?”
“But not for a stormtrooper.” She was frowning, confused at the statement when he bent with an “Ah-ha!” Then stood with several pieces of cardboard in his hand. He turned. “Now, don’t tell me that a woman who can nearly kick the ceiling can’t climb over one teensy gate.”
“That’s not the point.”
He shoved a piece of cardboard in her direction and when she wouldn’t take it, set it at her feet, leaning it against her knee. “What is the point?”
“It’s against the rules.”
“And you don’t break the rules?”
“No.”
“Not ever?”
She shook her head. “No, Liam. The rules are there for a reason.”
He tucked the cardboard under his arm, moved toward the top of the slide. “And if the rules said to throw yourself off a bridge . . .”
Plunking her hands on her hips, Mia snapped, “You’re not seriously comparing the opening hours for a park with an order to do self-harm, are you?”
“And if I was?”
He chuckled at her outraged noise, then climbed over the little gate, put the cardboard down, sat on top of it, and . . . disappeared.
His whoop of pleasure warmed something inside her, and she found herself running forward, leaning over the edge in order to watch him fly down the concrete slide. Moments later, he was at the bottom, gathering up the cardboard and loping back up to her side.
“You know you want to,” he said, hopping up onto the platform and coming toward her. His energy was infectious, making her yearn for . . .