by Nicole Helm
She was in a strange room. Presumably in a strange house. Surely she wasn’t in Liam Patrick’s bed. Surely . . .
She opened one eye, taking in her surroundings. She was in a bed. A very masculine bed. Dark linens. One pillow.
She closed her eyes again, trying to breathe through both nausea and panic. Okay, so she’d made some poor choices last night, but the bright side was she’d done it in front of someone who didn’t matter.
Something in her chest shifted painfully at that, but she couldn’t put enough pieces of last night together to figure out why it settled all wrong. What could have happened last night that would make her think he mattered?
She opened her eyes and pushed herself into a sitting position, quickly scanning the room, but Liam wasn’t there. She seemed to have been the only one who had slept in the bed last night, and . . .
She was not wearing the dress she’d been wearing last night.
Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit, shit. What on earth had she been thinking last night? She should have gone home the second Liam showed up with Aiden’s lame in-person-by-his-brother brush-off. Instead she’d gotten drunk and . . .
She didn’t remember anything inside this bedroom. She certainly didn’t remember sex, or Liam naked. Naked. Oh God, Liam naked, and she didn’t even remember. Had he touched her? Was he a good kisser?
She shook her head, but that only made it pound harder.
What a failure.
She rubbed her temples, something about failure poking at her sore brain. She had to get out of here. She had to go home and try to forget this night. Surely Liam wouldn’t be any more eager to remember it.
On less than steady legs, she pushed out of bed. Liam Patrick’s bed, an annoying voice whispered in her mind. She placed a palm on either side of her head and pushed, hoping to steady the swirling dizziness.
After a few moments, some of it dissipated. She looked down at her legs. They were bare. Completely. She was wearing a T-shirt, not hers, and zero underwear. She smelled vaguely of men’s soap.
A wave of nausea rolled through her, but she forced herself to breathe through it as she grabbed one of the blankets off the bed and wrapped it around herself.
She needed clothes, and her purse, and her shoes, and then she needed to disappear. She edged toward the door in the small room, hoping her roiling stomach would behave.
Another deep breath, a desperate attempt to marshal some courage— a thing she wasn’t very used to at all. It had taken courage to quit Gallagher’s, but then she’d spent the past six months recovering from it—a whiny, sniveling baby, really.
This sort of rock-bottom moment showed her how clearly she’d been an idiot. Waiting around, feeling sorry for herself, moving through life as if she’d been personally victimized.
If anything good was going to come out of this failure, then she had to decide to make some good come out of it. She lifted her head as much as her aching brain would let her and sailed down the hall hoping to find Liam sooner rather than later.
She reached the end of the hall and stepped into a warmly lit, if spartan, living room. And there was Liam. He was sitting in an awfully uncomfortable-looking chair, phone cradled to his ear, while his hands held a small piece of wood and a knife. He murmured into the phone and scraped the blade across the piece of wood, and Kayla squinted at it trying to make out its shape.
But he suddenly dropped the wood, and the phone, and the knife, as he jumped to his feet, swearing as he sucked his finger into his mouth.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she offered.
“No. Um . . . Hold on.” He grabbed the phone that had clattered to the floor, saying something into the speaker before hitting end.
He faced her, eyes wide, discomfort written all over his face. Maybe she was doing this drunken-hookup thing all wrong. Maybe there was a protocol she was failing at?
She cleared her throat, holding the blanket tightly at her chin. Something from last night filtered back to her. Something about not being afraid anymore, and that seemed right. Yes, she had made a mistake, she’d failed, but now it was time to own up to it and deal with the consequences.
She wasn’t going to be afraid anymore. She wouldn’t let anyone put her in that shrinking spot, including herself. “I should apologize.”
“No, it’s—”
“I was drunk and I can’t imagine how annoying. And you were kind enough to bring me here and . . .” She clutched the blanket tighter. “Well, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I appear to be practically naked, so.”
Liam made something like a choking sound. “We didn’t . . .” He cleared his throat. “You just had vomit all over your dress. You . . . you . . . I mean, we, uh . . . came inside and you took a shower and I, uh . . . washed your dress. You were . . . You did it yourself, that is. I wasn’t involved in the . . .” He swallowed. “I had to help a little with the T-shirt, but, um, I mean, I didn’t . . .”
“So we didn’t sleep together?”
“Oh God, no. No. No.”
“Well, you don’t have to be that emphatic,” she muttered, feeling foolish that his flat and horrified denial poked at her pride.
“You puked all over my bushes.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to fight off the embarrassment with bravery, but it seemed to be impossible. She could feel the hot flush creep up her neck and into her cheeks. She was probably as red as a tomato.
“It happens to the best of us,” he said as if trying to make her feel better. “I just meant, it’s not really the best foreplay.”
Something about Liam Patrick saying “foreplay” did nothing to erase the heat in her cheeks. She forced herself to open her eyes, forced herself to be brave. “I am sorry for all the trouble I must have put you through.”
His mouth curved a little at that, a nonverbal acceptance of her apology. But something about his mouth tugged at a memory. Something about . . . soft lips? “Did we . . . kiss?” she asked, against her better judgment. “I mean, before the puking.”
“No. No, definitely not.”
“Are you sure? Because . . .” He raised an eyebrow at her and she wilted. Okay, so apparently kissing her was his worst nightmare. But she remembered . . . something. Or had she dreamed it?
“Because what?”
She sighed, pressing a hand to her temple as she held the blanket to her chest with the other. “Can I have my clothes? I want to go home.”
“Of course. Follow me.” He picked up his knife and wood and set it on an end table she wondered if he’d made himself. Again, she squinted at the wood, but she couldn’t make out the shape.
So she turned, following him back to the hallway, the blanket trailing behind her. It reminded her of playing queens and princesses with Dinah when they were little girls, which reminded her of Gallagher’s, which somehow reminded her of how she’d gotten here.
Liam led her to a little mudroom that was filled almost completely by a washer and dryer. He leaned down to pull her clothes out of the dryer. She tried not to wince. Her dress was probably ruined if he’d put it through the machine.
Still, it was a small price to pay.
Don’t be a coward, Kayla. Be brave. Go after what you want. She’d wanted to be a princess as a little girl, or a queen, but mostly she’d pretended to be the lady’s maid while Dinah had been the leader. But Kayla had always secretly wished a handsome prince would sweep her off her feet.
Liam handed over her rumpled clothes. She took them, caught in that piercing blue gaze. He had never been the prince in her imagination. Any flittering thoughts to the contrary were clearly her hangover talking.
She’d only ever had a crush on Aiden. She was supposed to have gone out with Aiden. Maybe Liam wasn’t quite as dour as she’d always thought him, but that didn’t change what she was after.
“Can you, uh, not tell your brother?” she asked, not sure why her chest contracted painfully at the words.
Something moved through his
expression, an emotion Kayla didn’t know how to analyze, but he gave a sharp nod.
“Consider it our secret.”
* * *
Liam loaded his toolbox and tool belt into the back of his truck. He’d told Kayla to meet him out here once she was dressed and ready to go. He’d drive her home and that would be that.
There was a simmering kind of frustration building inside of him and he wished he could spend a couple hours quietly in his workshop getting something accomplished. Then maybe he could figure it out and eradicate it.
Instead, he had to go to a few appointments with Dad, and often that work could relax him too. But he didn’t feel like being around anyone right now, no matter how much he enjoyed his father’s company.
He wanted to be alone. He wanted to sort out these unwanted and unbidden feelings assaulting him. He was not a big feelings guy. He did what had to be done. He fixed.
He did not get bent out of shape about being asked to keep something from his brother. He hadn’t even been planning on telling Aiden. So why it grated that Kayla had asked him not to say anything about her drunken evening chastely in his bed, Liam couldn’t figure out.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Of course she didn’t want Aiden to know. Even though nothing had happened, it didn’t exactly look good on either of them that she’d gotten drunk and Liam had taken her home.
He slammed the truck bed door closed. He was probably as irritated with himself as he was with everyone else, and he didn’t get it.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to. But it was a problem, and problems always needed fixing. Quite the conundrum.
He glanced up at his house and Kayla stepped out of his door. She held her shoes in one hand, her colorful purse strapped across her chest. She was wearing the dress he’d washed for her, but he puzzled over the fact she was wearing his T-shirt over it.
She approached and though she was always pale, the hangover paleness of her skin seemed to make her freckles stand out even more. Despite clearly looking sick, she was pretty. Clean and fresh, and a little disheveled.
“Sorry. My dress kind of, um, shrunk in the wash and . . .” She made a gesture with her hands that he had the uncomfortable feeling had to do with her breasts, so he just nodded his head.
“It’s fine. Keep it.”
“Oh, well, I can always return it.”
Liam shrugged. He didn’t expect to be seeing Kayla much after this. If she didn’t remember taking a shower after throwing up in his yard, he doubted she remembered her grand plans to have him teach her woodworking.
Which was good. Great, even. He didn’t have time to teach anyone shit.
“Ready?” he asked, maybe something more of a demand, as he rounded the truck to the driver’s side. He hopped in and waited for her to do the same.
But she stood outside the passenger door, an odd expression on her face. Eventually though, she clambered into the passenger side seat.
He shoved the key into the ignition and turned it. He felt exactly as he always felt around Kayla. Uncomfortable and stiff. Whatever camaraderie they’d had last night had clearly worn off. Maybe that had been some sort of bizarre effect of her drinking. He felt comfortable enough to let down some of his guard.
It was certainly all back today. He was a damn fortress.
“What’s your address?”
She rattled off the number and street, clutching her purse in her lap. She looked as uncomfortable as he felt and he realized part of it was probably the nasty hangover she must have. He should’ve offered her some breakfast or some coffee. He should . . . not be a dick. It wasn’t her fault this was weird.
Okay, it was kind of her fault that it was weird, but sometimes when people were in complex situations in their lives, they made mistakes. She was young. Three whole years younger than he was.
He’d made dumb mistakes. Somewhere along the line. Probably.
Still, the point was people made mistakes and Kayla was going through a rough personal time. Maybe he didn’t understand it and maybe she’d had a lot of stuff handed to her due to her family’s wealth or whatever, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still a tough time for her.
So he needed to stop being Fortress Patrick, or Captain Stick in the Ass as Aiden might say, and do something about it. Fix it.
“You want to stop at McDonald’s or something? Sometimes greasy food helps a hangover a little bit.”
She still didn’t look at him, but she pressed her hands to her stomach. “I can’t decide if the idea is revolting or absolutely what I need, but you don’t have to do that. I’ve already imposed on you enough.”
“It’s not an imposition to go through the drive-through at McDonald’s on the way to drop you off. Besides, my first appointment this morning is kind of near your place.” If the opposite direction was kind of.
“Kind of,” she repeated, her mouth curving a little. “You are not quite what I thought you were, Liam. You’re . . .”
When she didn’t finish her sentence, he knew he should let it go. But there were a lot of things he knew when it came to Kayla Gallagher, and in the past twenty-four hours he seemed to ignore all of them. “I’m what?” he asked, flicking his glance to her as he drove.
Her mouth curved even more. “You’ve always had a very standoffish demeanor when it comes to me. But that’s not actually you at all, is it?”
He returned his gaze to the road, not sure he had it in him to meet her all-too-seeing expression. Outside of customers, whom he made an effort to charm, most people assumed he was a serious and standoffish guy. He’d never thought much of that perception. He didn’t care if people saw him that way, because it wasn’t who he was. It was his persona or his shell or something. It had nothing to do with him as a man.
“I like to fix things. I like to help people. It’s all the same really. Standoffish or not, it’s not . . .” He shook his head. Was he trying to get into some deep philosophical conversation with her? No. “I don’t mind helping. End of story.”
“I see that. It’s a very admirable quality the way you do it.”
“The way I do it?”
“Yes, there’s a difference between wanting to help people, to fix something, and wanting to control via fixing or helping them. You help to fix a situation, or jump in to lend someone a hand. Some people. . . well, they lend a hand because they want to use their hand to shape you.”
He shot her another quick glance and he figured she was thinking about her family. The Gallaghers had always been something of an enigma to Liam. He’d had more than one conversation with his father about how strange the Gallagher family was. Because for as many weird family issues as the Patricks had, there was a very clear bond, a connecting tissue of love.
Liam didn’t always know how to get along with his brother, or how not to be a little bit bitter, but he still loved Aiden. He’d do anything for him or Mom or Dad.
He didn’t understand people who would shape someone into what they wanted them to be. Who would . . . what was the word she’d used last night? Suffocate. She’d felt suffocated and pressed down into decoration, and he didn’t get it. But it didn’t surprise him in the least the Gallaghers could and did.
He pulled into the McDonald’s lot and glanced at Kayla. She had both hands pressed to her stomach now, a miserable look on her face.
She leaned over the console between them and placed her hand on his forearm. Her pinky brushed the bare part of his wrist where the cuff of his shirt ended.
He had the uncomfortable memory of helping her put that T-shirt on last night. He’d done his best to keep his eyes averted, and she had pulled the shirt over her body, she’d just been struggling to get her arms in the sleeves.
So he’d had to look at least a little, and there’d been acres of pale skin and light-reddish freckles just about everywhere. He’d been as respectful and responsible as possible, but he couldn’t erase the memory of how her red hair looked wet and tangled, or how her skin smelled with his soap on it.
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br /> “I can’t bear the thought of you putting yourself out anymore for me, so please just get me an order of hash browns and maybe a hot chocolate in the drive-through. Then you’ll take me home and I will get out of your hair. Because you have done so much more than enough.” She squeezed his arm, the pressure warm and sure. “Please.”
He inclined his head in agreement. Honestly, the best thing for both of them was to get this over with. No memories of freckles or tangled hair to haunt him.
Okay, it’d probably still haunt him, but she wouldn’t be all . . . there watching it happen.
He drove to the drive-through and ordered her breakfast. He ordered himself a coffee and then drove to the address she’d given him.
Any time he glanced over at her, no matter how hard he tried not to, she had her eyes closed. Clearly she was still dealing with some nausea or dizziness, but she nibbled on the hash brown and drank the hot chocolate and somehow looked all too appealing doing it in the passenger seat of his truck.
He pulled up to her address and frowned at the nondescript apartment building. “This is where you live?” It wasn’t that it was particularly terrible, but it was bland and very close to dingy.
She opened her eyes and looked at the building and grimaced. “Yes. This is where I live.”
“I can’t picture you living in a place like this.” Which was another one of those things he should have kept to himself. What the hell was wrong with him?
She glanced over at him, cocking her head. “Why?”
“I . . . You’re just . . . You know, I don’t know.”
Her mouth curved into a full-blown smile. “Yes, you do. Why are you surprised I live here?”
He sighed. This woman. “I just figured you’d live in some sort of hipster place with gardens and shit.”
She laughed and then pressed a hand to her temple because it clearly aggravated her hangover. “I used to. But I don’t have the funds for hipster garden shit anymore.”