by Nicole Helm
She slid him a glance. “What do you think of the Gallaghers? I mean, not the brewery or the restaurant, but us?”
Liam rubbed a hand over his beard, because being put on the spot was never fun. Even when Kayla was the one doing it. “Well . . .”
“Tell the truth. Just whatever you think. It won’t hurt my feelings, I promise.”
Yeah, right. People didn’t want honesty half as much as they thought they did. “There are some complex family dynamics there. But, you know, any time you mix family with business, that’s going to happen. I love working with my dad, but it’s complicated.”
“What if you didn’t love it?”
“Huh?”
She polished off her drink and motioned for the bartender to give her another. Apparently she was serious about this getting-drunk thing, which meant he had to be serious about making sure she got home okay.
Whether he told her that or not, she’d officially become his responsibility. If that was a little warped, he’d deal with it later. Maybe he’d seek therapy in his retirement. Or on his deathbed.
“If you didn’t love it, if you actually thought working with your family was slowly killing you from the inside out, would you stay?”
It hit a weird spot in his chest, one he had no interest in examining, so he took a deep drink of his beer and tried to formulate some kind of lie.
Chapter Three
When Liam didn’t answer her question, Kayla forced herself to look at him. Truth be told, meeting that ice-blue gaze was hard. It made her want to fidget outwardly as much as her organs seemed to fidget inside her body.
But she was fascinated by his reaction to her question. No answer, he’d gone almost unnaturally still in the crowded, noisy bar.
Eventually he cleared his throat and frowned down at his hands, which were linked around his beer bottle.
He had rough hands, all beat up, nicked. She imagined doing the intricate woodwork of his hobby would result in a lot of that, and maybe handyman work would too. But there was something oddly compelling about that roughness, about the visible representation of all the work he did.
Don’t be weird, Kayla.
“I guess I don’t quite understand what you’re asking me,” he finally said, completely unconvincingly. He wouldn’t have had such an outward reaction to the question if he didn’t understand it.
Wasn’t that interesting? She’d never spent much time considering what kind of person Liam might be. She was usually too busy feeling weird around him.
“So working with your dad is wonderful and perfect?”
“Of course not. Nothing’s perfect. I could do my woodworking full time and it still wouldn’t be perfect.”
“So the woodworking is what you’d rather be doing?”
“No! No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Defensive much?”
He cocked his head, that blue gaze meeting hers, something like surprise and, maybe it was silly to read into a look, but interest.
You’re being really weird now.
But he just kept staring. “What?” she asked, because maybe he would tell her what this was. This thing rattling around in her chest that she didn’t understand at all. She’d always assumed it was discomfort, a special kind only Liam Patrick brought out.
It was different though. It had always been different.
“I just . . .” He shook his head. “You’re different than you used to be.”
Her mouth curved, because he couldn’t have said a thing that would have pleased her more. Different. God, she was trying. “You really think so?”
“Yeah, you’re . . . It’s the thing. That you were asking about. The ‘me treating you differently’ thing. Your grandmother, your father, even Dinah, they were . . . I mean, Dinah’s nice enough and all, but they were all so purposeful. Strong. They seem untouchable. And you . . .”
Kayla’s smile died. Yes, she was none of those things. The odd man out of that Gallagher toughness. Grandmother had always said so.
“You always seemed rather fragile, I guess, and I can fix a problem, a stove, a window. I can fix just about anything that’s broken, but I’ve never known how to keep something from breaking. So I was never quite comfortable around you.”
Kayla felt cracked open a little. She’d never considered herself fragile, but hadn’t she been? Hadn’t she always been cowering in the shadows trying not to break?
“See? I offended you. But that’s on me. It was never something you did. It’s just me.”
“Or my fragility.”
He closed his eyes. “You’re proving my point that I was right to have kept my mouth shut all those years.”
She downed the next drink, concentrating on the warmth blooming in her chest, the way her limbs were starting to feel a tad heavy. Maybe she could drink her way into a new life, a new personality, or a new future.
Anything was better than this constant feeling of failure. Fragile. Everyone thought she was fragile or unimportant or . . .
“Hey.”
If it had just been his voice, an obnoxiously gentle note to it, she probably wouldn’t have stopped her inner wallowing. But he touched her. It was featherlight, almost as if he were afraid to do it, just the very tip of his pinky finger resting on the knuckle of hers.
Something like a shudder moved through her, and she couldn’t explain why or even what it was. But something about his finger on hers, no matter how barely it rested there, was like a thunderclap. A moment that resounded within her, reverberating and booming.
She must be drunk already.
“You shouldn’t take anything I say to heart. I’m an idiot.”
She glanced over at him. He seemed so genuinely concerned that something he’d said had made her sad. Troubled that he might have said something that hurt her feelings.
No one cared if they hurt her feelings. Not in the Gallagher clan, where everything was about what could further the business. Not with her friends, who would call her the poor little rich girl if she mentioned her dissatisfaction with things.
Even Dinah, though she could be counted on to be a solid rock if Kayla asked, didn’t go out of her way to see when she’d hurt Kayla. Not like this.
She looked down at his finger on hers again. He had a bright white scar across his knuckle and a scrape along the side of his hand.
He pulled his hand away, but she impulsively grabbed it. It was probably weird, but there was enough of a buzz in her brain that the knowledge that it was weird got drowned out and she curled her pale, unmarked fingers around his tan, scuffed ones.
“Would you teach me?” she asked, squeezing his hand, looking at him with the most imploring look she could muster.
“Uh, teach you what?” he asked, not so subtly trying to pull his hand away.
She held on tighter. She needed that connection. She needed help, and though it seemed strange and out there, she decided Liam Patrick was just the man to do it.
“How to make the figurines. Like the bear.”
“You want me to teach you woodworking?”
“Yes.” She thrust the hand that wasn’t holding his into his face. “Look at my hands. What do you see?”
“Um. Well. I see my eye getting poked in about five seconds.” He wrapped his free hand around her waving hand and pressed it to the bar.
“These hands have done nothing. Nothing! I’ve never built anything or shaped anything. All they’ve ever done is typed and made phone calls and planted a freaking basil plant in a tiny pot on my windowsill. They need to do.”
“There are lots of things you could do without . . . well, me.”
“But you’re perfect. Look at your hands. They’re beat up. You’ve done things with them. You . . . you make the most beautiful things. I want to make something. It doesn’t have to be beautiful. It just has to be something.” The idea was snowballing through her chest like she’d found a pot of gold, because it felt like a treasure, this idea.
“Kayla.”
> But she paid him no mind. She just kept talking. Which was funny, and made that giddiness flutter harder and more potent through her. She never just kept talking. “I was thinking when I was getting ready that I’ve spent the past few months wallowing in leaving Gallagher’s and how that stage needed to be over and I need to build my life.”
She thrust her hand into his face again and this time when he grabbed it, he curled his fingers around her wrist. Her pulse jumped, her heart jumped, but she was too excited about her idea to wonder about that.
“So you can teach me how to make something with my hands. And Carter can teach me how to grow something. And . . . Yes, I will start doing. It’s the answer.”
“Who’s Carter?”
“Dinah’s boyfriend. He has a little urban farm right by Gallagher’s.” She waved in the general direction of that world. A world she didn’t feel a part of, but the trouble was she didn’t feel like part of any world.
Which meant she had to change. Not just herself, but what she did. “Let’s go.”
“Kayla.” It was his turn to squeeze her hands. “You’ve been drinking. I can’t teach you much when you’re halfway to being drunk.” He released her hands. “Maybe more than halfway,” he muttered.
“Okay, that’s fair.” It didn’t burst her bubble though because this was a plan. This was what she’d been waiting for. “Tomorrow morning then.”
Liam laughed, then seemed to realize she was serious. “Honey, two more of those and you won’t be in any shape in the morning to do much of anything.”
The word honey rolled off his tongue so easily, but it settled somewhere in her rib cage, like a fish caught in a net. Wiggling, uncomfortable.
Honey.
She shook that word and the very nearly flirtatious way he’d said it away, taking another gulp of her drink to remind herself of the point. “Tomorrow night, then,” she decided resolutely.
“I can’t teach you in a night how to carve things out of wood. It takes time to learn the tools, to figure it all out.”
“I have nothing but time.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue with her, but then he simply closed it.
“Please,” she offered, flashing him her most winsome smile.
“You really think this is the answer to whatever is wrong, don’t you?”
“No, but I think it’s a start.” She needed a start. A foundation. She needed to do. Maybe in the doing she could change or grow. Maybe she wouldn’t, but at least it would be acting in some way.
“All right. I’ll . . . see what I can teach you.”
She made a squeak and impulsively leaned forward and gave him a quick hug. She realized midsqueeze that hugging was not a normal response. That he smelled like wood and beer and maybe soap.
That something inside her chest shifted, eased, sighed.
Clearly the booze was working its way through her. She pulled back abruptly and awkwardly waved to the bartender. “Two menus, please,” she called before turning a completely forced smile on Liam. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
She noticed Liam looked a little deer-in-the-headlights, but she chose to ignore it. Because he was going to teach her how to work wood. Literal wood. Not figurative . . .
“And one more drink, please,” she said to the bartender as he handed them menus. She was definitely going to need more to drink.
* * *
Liam was pretty certain one of the circles of hell was gorgeous, off-limits women drunkenly plastering themselves all over a guy.
Because it was hell having Kayla Gallagher lean against him, soft and warm, smelling like flowers or sunshine or some shit. He tried to maneuver her around the groups of people without touching too much of her, but she kept stumbling and he’d have to wind his arm around her waist and then she’d lean.
Shit, hell, and damn.
“You have to let me . . .” She trailed off as she bumped into some couple and Liam tightened his grasp on her, apologizing to the people through gritted teeth.
Her hair kept brushing against his neck, and her hands kept trailing across his chest and abdomen like . . .
Well, he couldn’t afford to think too much about what it was like. He had to get the very drunk woman home, and hope like hell she forgot everything about this night and his promise to teach her some woodworking.
What the hell had he been thinking agreeing to that? Dark blue eyes, sweet smile, and for once feeling like he had something to offer Kayla Gallagher.
Damn.
“Oh, it’s nice out here,” Kayla said, breathing right against his neck as they step-stumbled out of the crowded bar.
“It’s freezing,” he muttered, having to tighten his grip around her waist again as they maneuvered down the sidewalk.
She only laughed, the sound of it mixing with all the other Friday night revelers.
“Oh!” Kayla stopped abruptly, causing him to stumble to a stop and endure some not so pleasant words from other people walking down the sidewalk. “I have to pay you.”
“Pay me?” He nudged her into walking again, trying to think about anything other than the soft give of her body.
“For the drinks. I spent a lot of money on drinks. You weren’t even supposed to be my date.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.”
“See? I have to pay you.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her dress, except she kept trying to. She missed with one hand, all but grazed his crotch with the second, and this was just definitely hell on earth.
“No, that’s not what . . . I don’t need you to pay me,” he said firmly, pushing her hand away from an imminent danger zone. He hadn’t meant he was aware she’d bought a lot of booze. He’d meant he was very aware he was not her date.
His brother was. So any shit going on in his danger zone was his own shit to take care of. After he got the drunk woman currently torturing him safely home.
“But—”
“You are not paying me, so stop trying.” He upped their pace, even though it wasn’t wise with her as stumbling as she was. But at this point, the quicker he got her to his truck, the quicker he could get his hands off her and her hands would be less of a liability, so to speak.
“Here’s my truck,” he said, taking his arm from around her waist. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “Where do you live?”
She blinked at him, swaying slightly on her own two feet. “In an apartment.”
“Where?”
She squinted, taking an unsteady step toward the curb, swaying a little too dangerously toward the edge. She was going to sprain a damn ankle.
Liam gritted his teeth and reached out to steady her. One hand on either hip. Hell. Hell. Hell.
She gave a sigh, her gaze slowly—really slowly, like she was paying very close attention—moved from his midsection to his chest, to his neck, to his beard. She lifted her hand and placed it against his jaw.
He held himself completely still, afraid that if he so much as breathed he’d give away everything. Every moment he’d watched her a little too closely, wished she’d smile at him the way she smiled at Aiden, wished he didn’t turn into some cardboard asshole the moment she glanced at him.
Basically, every moment he’d ever been a pathetic loser. He’d rather do a lot of shitty things than ever let anyone see that.
She leaned closer, her breasts very nearly brushing his chest, and he kept holding himself still, his arms locked, keeping her at a distance. Not a safe enough one, but a distance at least.
“You’re very tall,” she said earnestly.
“And you, honey, are very, very, very drunk.”
She grinned and gave a little breathless laugh. “It’s so funny.” She rubbed her hand up and down his jaw as if she didn’t have any idea what she was doing to him.
She doesn’t, you fucking moron.
“Come on. In the truck.” He led her around to the passenger side and opened the door for her, keeping his gaze averted as he placed his hand on the small of her back and
gave her a little shove into the truck.
He closed the door and took a deep breath of the cold spring night, trying to get his head on straight and his brain functioning at some normal capacity because clearly he’d lost it somewhere along the way tonight.
Staying. Talking. Agreeing to things that involved spending more time in her presence.
Yeah, he had to get her home and pray for vodka-aided amnesia.
He climbed into the driver’s side and shoved his key into the ignition. What a day. What a problem. But it was almost over. He just had to get her home.
He glanced over at her, sprawled in the passenger seat, eyes closed, hair a tangled red halo around her head.
“Buckle up.”
She made a muffled sound, bringing her elbows into her sides and waving her forearms around. “Can’t. T. rex arms.” Then she laughed, uproariously, as she kept waving half her arms around and most decidedly not buckling her seat belt.
God was seriously testing him. He reached over and grabbed the seat belt, ignoring the fact that she was still laughing, her soft breath against his neck. He did his best to buckle her in, trying to ignore the fact he could feel her gaze on him.
“Did you know you have a dimple when you smile?” she asked softly.
His gaze locked onto hers, though he shouldn’t have let it. Because his heart beat was unsteady, that usual too tight feeling invading his body.
“It was the first time I’ve ever seen it. In there.” She poked at his cheek. “You could stand to smile more.”
He sat back in his seat and looked out the windshield. “What’s your address?” he muttered.
“The moon,” she said, laughing uproariously again.
He narrowed his gaze at her. “A street name, and a number, honey.”
She smiled over at him. “Why do you keep calling me honey?”
“I don’t . . .” God, he needed to get away from her. “Just tell me your address.”
“I don’t think I remember.”
“Give me your license.”
She clutched her hands over her pockets, still grinning. “Never.”
“Kayla.”
“Just take me back to your place,” she said with the wave of a hand. “I want to see your workshop.”