“Of course he knows.” Landon laughs at the frown Max is shooting my way. “Just like you know that we don’t—”
“I thought we talked about my disinterest in this particular conversation,” Max gripes.
“Yes, let’s change the subject, please.” Landon adjusts her ponytail. “Let’s talk about Brody and my parents, because Miko’s right—there is a whole lot of southern coming at him at one time.”
“Oh, Brody has always done well with parents. The Barkers absolutely adored him.”
Max says it while folded over in a butterfly stretch, so she doesn’t see Landon’s face morph instantly into confusion. She must realize what she’s said, though, because she sits upright quickly.
“I’m sorry, Landon. I didn’t mean to bring her up so flippantly.”
I look back and forth between Max and Landon, having no idea what they’re talking about. Landon bites her lip.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
Yikes! I guess I’m not the only one.
Gruff or grouchy or pissed or teasing—I have seen Max a lot of different ways. But at a loss for words? Never.
She gapes at Landon like a fish.
“It’s nothing,” she says finally, finding enough composure to attempt to sound casual.
Landon frowns. “If it’s nothing, then why not just tell me what you’re talking about? Who are the Barkers?”
“Barkers as in Barker-Ash?” I add.
Max glares at me.
“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.” I glare right back. “You’re only making her more nervous by being secretive about it.”
Max stands up and dusts off the seat of her pants. We stand up too.
“You should ask Brody about it,” Max tells her.
“I will.” Landon bites her lip again and nods. “It’s not that I haven’t known something happened in the past. I knew—I just didn’t know how to ask what it was. But it’s not your place to tell me. I get that. I’ll speak with him about it.”
Max walks the few short steps to the car while awkwardness comes off her in waves. Landon’s voice halts our progress.
“What’s her name?”
Max pauses in between one motion and the next and then sighs in defeat. She looks down at her shoes and shakes her head slowly, clearly battling with herself on who she should be loyal to. It’s too late now, though. She’s stirred things up, and any woman can understand wanting to know at least the name of the ex with whom the relationship ended so badly nobody wants to talk about it. Particularly when that relationship apparently went down with the daughter of his father’s business partner.
“Sloan,” Max says quietly. “Her name is Sloan.”
Brody and Landon are flying to Texas tomorrow, so we all agreed to meet for drinks on Tuesday night. I’ve asked her several times whether or not she’s talked to him about whoever this Sloan creature is, and she’s told me repeatedly that she doesn’t feel like discussing it. She says she’s come to the decision that his past doesn’t affect their current relationship, and she seems genuinely sincere in the statement.
“He’s had enough crazy ex-girlfriends hounding him about details of past relationships,” she tells me as we walk down the street to the bar. “I told him a long time ago that I couldn’t be upset about something that happened before I even met him, and I meant it. If he needs to talk to me about it, he will. Until then I’m not going to stir up a bad memory that isn’t currently affecting my life in any way.”
We slip inside the lounge out of the cold.
“Dude, you’re way more mature than I am,” I tell her as I pull off my jacket.
She fluffs her perfect golden hair a few times and then throws me a wink. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I fuss with my own hair and try to think of something truly shocking.
“Um, I didn’t finish the third book in the All Souls trilogy.”
Landon actually gasps and looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. She grasps my hand like I might be sick or something. “But you love those books!”
“I love the first two. The truth is I think I love them too much. When the third one started to go off the rails, I couldn’t handle it, so I just stopped reading.”
Landon shakes her head slowly back and forth. “What would Deborah Harkness say?”
I return her look sincerely. “I hope I never have to find out.”
She laughs so loudly that people turn in our direction to stare. I spot our group in the back corner.
“Come on.” I nudge her ahead of me. “Let’s get some wine. This conversation about Matthew and Diana has upset me.”
I follow her through the crowd to a long communal bar table where the usual suspects have gathered. Brody envelops her in a hug and then gives me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. I slide onto a barstool across from Taylor and Max and notice Malin talking up some random at the bar. I get her attention with a wave and pantomime glugging a bottle of something. She smiles and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Did you just use my little sister as your waitress?” Max asks.
“She’s young and sprightly,” I answer. “It’s good for her. Besides, I’m too tired to move. I spent all day yesterday on my feet watching a bunch of drunk actuaries dancing to a Neil Diamond cover band.”
“Whose name is . . . ?” Taylor asks.
“Love on the Rocks,” I tell them all with a grimace.
“How did that event turn out?” Taylor asks at the same time Malin slides a glass of red wine in front of me.
“What’s an actuary?” she asks before sipping her own drink.
“An accountant without a sense of humor,” Landon groans.
I give the group a deadpan look. “We heard that joke about a thousand times yesterday.”
“But the event was awesome, Tay. Thanks for asking,” Landon chimes in. “How’s that big order coming along?”
I listen to Taylor describe the desks he’s working on with fascination. I love anything creative, and his furniture design is incredible. It’s so neat to hear about the process. How he finds the reclaimed wood or how each different kind requires a different sort of finesse to restore.
I don’t know what makes me turn suddenly, except that maybe my nerve endings sense Liam before the rest of me does. He’s working his way across the room, looking incredible in jeans and a sweater. His winter scarf is slightly askew, which only adds to the hotness of the fact that he’s wearing a scarf in the first place. I imagine burying my face in that scarf or burrowing under it to get closer to his skin.
I’m staring at it so intently that when a well-manicured hand reaches out to touch the plaid material, my response is visceral. French-tipped fingernails tug playfully on the end of the scarf. I follow the line up her arm until I can try to take in what I’m seeing. She’s tall and thin with chestnut-brown hair that falls halfway down her back. Her skirt is too short and her makeup is a little strong, but beyond that she’s utterly gorgeous. She’s the exact kind of woman he always brings to something like this. This isn’t anything new; I’ve seen it fifty times at least. I have no idea why this time it feels like a betrayal. Now that we’ve finally acknowledged we’re at least more than acquaintances, I guess I thought that somehow might change the way he acts around me. Whatever I expected, I certainly never thought he’d be parading another woman in front of me a week later.
I look up into his determined, cold, steely blue gaze. His steps falter, and for a moment I swear he winces at whatever is on my face. He bites down hard on his molars and keeps moving towards our table. By the time he makes it to us, he has the woman by the arm. It’s not at all a sweet caress; it’s more like he’s showing her off.
“Hey, everyone, this is Cara,” he says by way of greeting.
Everyone at the table says hello. They’ve all met some va
riation of this woman plenty of times before. Liam arriving with a new woman on his arm has played out more times than I can count. They won’t try to establish any kind of real relationship with her. That would be futile, since they’re never going to see her again, but they also won’t be rude. They engage her in conversation as she takes her seat and Liam walks off to the bar to order their drinks.
I’ve finished my wine by the time he comes back.
I can get through this. I can totally get through this. I’ve been honest with myself about how strong my feelings are towards him for a long time. In the last year I’ve seen him with countless women. This is just the first time I’ve seen him on a date since he found out how I feel. But that he would parade someone in front of me, even in some lame attempt to teach me a lesson, doesn’t just hurt—it crushes me.
If he looks my way, I don’t know it, because I’m too busy pretending to be engrossed in my phone. The pictures in my Instagram feed blur as I scroll through them. Oh man, I cannot cry right now! The second I acknowledge my tears, they get worse. I want to get up and walk away, but there’s no chance I can do it without every single person at this table knowing that I’m upset. If they know I’m upset, there’s no way they won’t assume something is up, since I was fine until he walked in.
Gods, what is it about not wanting to cry that makes you feel like you have to that much more? A text from Landon pops up on my phone: I’ll create a diversion.
I can’t even look up to let her know how grateful I am, because her kindness is pushing me over the edge. A tear drops onto the screen of my phone, and I’m grateful for the hair framing my face protectively.
A glass crashes to the floor, and Landon yells dramatically, “Oh Lord, now I’ve ruined this dress!”
All around the table, people slide their stools back to avoid the liquid that’s dripping everywhere, but I don’t look up to see it. I grab my bag and jacket and mumble something about making a call, not knowing or caring if anyone even hears me. I just have to get outside before I lose it.
I hurry down the street, feeling cold everywhere except for my cheeks, hot with tears. I turn one corner and then another, dodging groups of happy people on their way to their next destination. I pass a hipster coffee shop and a hipster gastropub and a hipster barber. This part of Silver Lake all looks the same, and I’m not really heading anywhere specific; I just want to get away. Maybe if I walk long enough, it’ll turn into the really shady part of Sunset, and I’ll be put out of my misery by a random ax murderer or a street thug high on methamphetamines.
Even the thought of possibly getting murdered doesn’t stanch the tears.
I can’t believe I’m the crying woman walking the streets alone. I’ve read this scene a thousand times in books. I’ve even purposely looked for stories full of exactly this kind of angst, because I love the emotion behind it so much. But I had no idea how it would feel in real life.
I hate seeing him with someone else, but it’s nothing new. It’s more upsetting to know that he’s done it intentionally to remind me of the distance between us. It seems unnecessarily cruel, and I never would have imagined Liam doing anything so hurtful. If he really is this cruel, then he’s not at all the person I thought he was, and that means I’ve been wrong about everything else too. My daydream of us telling stories to our grandkids flashes through my mind, and I cry harder.
“I didn’t know it would upset you this much!” His voice reaches me long before he does.
I spin on my heel in surprise and watch as he hurries down the street to stand in front of me. Once he’s there he seems at a loss for what to do next. He runs a hand through his hair in agitation.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he says finally.
I want to strangle him with that stupid designer scarf.
“Don’t.” I try to make it a warning, but it comes out wobbly.
“We are acquaintances.” He emphasizes every word. “Work associates or family friends at most. You’re fixated on this idea that there’s some sort of deeper relationship between us, and it’s just not there.”
The mention of our fledgling business relationship is enough to make me pause. The retainer to design the restaurant for Barker-Ash is four times as much money as I’ve ever made on a single job. A paycheck like that means I can hire Casidee on full time. It means I can get a new Mac. It means I could propel my company further along in a way that I haven’t been able to do, since I refuse to take out a loan from the bank or borrow money from Tosh. This job is important to my career for so many reasons. I just can’t bring myself to care about my résumé right now. His refusal to acknowledge this feeling between us instantly dries my tears.
“Then why are you chasing me down the street, Liam?” I demand. “If I’m just some family friend with a misguided crush, why do you care? If we’re just acquaintances, then why do I catch you staring every time we’re in the same room? Why do you find a way to insert yourself into the conversation every time someone tries to hit on me in a bar?”
He clamps his mouth shut and looks away from me.
Coward.
I take a step closer to him. “You can lie to everyone else, but please don’t lie to me. You owe me at least that much.” I jab a finger into his chest. “If you’re too much of a child to admit that you have feelings for me, then that’s your loss. But don’t you dare stand there and tell me I don’t know what I feel.”
He takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair. “Your feelings are based on some fantasy you’ve concocted in your head, Miko. They don’t have anything to do with me.”
The comment takes all the wind out of my sails. I take a step back like he pushed me, shaking my head in denial. “It’s not—”
“It is. You’re fixated on who you think I am, like a character in one of your damn books. All of the reasons you like me aren’t based on anything real. They’re based on my false charm and your imagination.”
Gods, he doesn’t get it at all. He thinks I like him based on what, his hair? I mean, yes, it’s gorgeous, but I admire him for so many reasons, and none of those are made up. He’s kind and funny and smart, and he loves his family. There are so many reasons to want him for my own, and the only reason I’ve never admitted them out loud is that I’d sound utterly enthralled—which I guess I am.
His sigh sounds so tired. “I’ll walk you back. This neighborhood isn’t safe.”
When he turns around to walk back in the other direction, his head is down and he’s staring at his feet, looking for some kind of answer on the dirty sidewalk. Telling him that he’s funny or nice to his mother isn’t going to cut it. He thinks I’m romanticizing him, that I don’t know who he really is. I find my voice.
“You love dogs, but you think you travel too much to have one of your own,” I call after him.
He quits walking and turns back to face me.
“I know because you stop to pet every single dog that crosses your path. And not just to pat them—you actually bend down so you can look them in the eye. I think you like big dogs the best, but you’re nice to them all. Even the little yappy one that bit your finger last summer.”
He looks stupefied.
I continue on nervously.
“You always have lottery scratchers in your wallet. I saw them the first time you paid for our breakfast after dodgeball, and now I notice them whenever you reach for the bill. That night you—you told me that your mom loves them, that you buy them every time you think of it and then save them up for your visits.”
He takes a step towards me, but I can’t read the look on his face. I flex my fingers anxiously. Now is not the time to let my nerves get the best of me.
“You hate tomatoes. You always ask the server to leave them off your dish, but you never complain even if they forget. The other night you ate Vivian’s salsa, because she was so proud of it, and I could tell you want
ed to gag. When you could see how happy it made her, you asked for a second helping and you ate that too.”
He takes another step closer, and his eyes scan my face.
“You listen to jazz when you’re anxious or sad.” This one is only a guess.
His voice is whisper soft.
“How do you know that?”
“Because we’ve had three meetings on a Monday. And every time I’ve walked into your office, you shut off Miles Davis.”
“And?”
“And Monday is the day you visit your mother.”
His curse is loud on the quiet street.
“What’s wrong?” I take a step closer. “Why are you upset?”
Dark eyes grab hold of mine.
“Because I’m about to do something really stupid.”
He crashes into me like a storm, only the force doesn’t push me away; it seals us together. Like we were magnets at counterpoint and someone finally flipped one of us around in the right direction. And then his lips are on mine, and through the haze of sensation and the total euphoria of being in his arms, I am aware that I am wholly out of my league. If my kiss is a question, his isn’t just an answer—it’s a statement of fact. I feel that kiss everywhere. I feel his hands running through my hair and the strands winding around his fingers to hold him there. My own hands itch to explore, to trace the contours of his skin, but I refuse to release the grasp I have on his shirt; I’m afraid he’ll step away and I’ll be grasping at nothing but air. And so I stand there, and what I cannot explore with my fingers, I try to explore with my mind. I want to remember his hands sliding down to my hips and holding me against him. I want to remember the feel of his bottom lip against my own and the sharp surprise when he nips me there. I want to remember how hard my heart is beating and that the wall of his chest is there to absorb the vibration. If I could hold on to this feeling, I could live off the single moment for the rest of my life.
When he looks down at me, I feel dizzy, elated, and a thousand other emotions I can’t name. But the expression on his face isn’t tender or sweet; it’s flustered and challenging.
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