by Anne Marsh
That’s the bed where we had sex.
I came about a million times thanks to Liam’s generosity in all matters oral alone. It deserves acknowledgment, a massive statue, maybe even a dildo-shaped one like the Washington Monument.
“I love your big, beautiful bed.” I step up next to Liam and pat the mattress, mostly just to get a rise out of Liam. I hate it when he ignores me.
He lets go of my wrist as if burned, and reverses course to hurtle toward the wall. I fight the urge to make chicken noises and settle for sitting cross-legged on his bed. His shirt rides up my thighs and he swallows audibly. Yes, this was yours last night.
I feel marginally better, enough so that I fish his phone out from underneath the pillow and hold it out to him. The screen is filled with text alerts that I studiously don’t read. “Check it.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he says. “It’s not personal.”
Truth. Liam trusts no one, and I’m no one. He also does best with facts. He likes life to be cut-and-dried, but he’s either too polite or too hungover to tell me to my face that he won’t be convinced we’re married until he’s seen photographic proof. I don’t toss him the phone, though. He’s going to have to come to me.
Eventually, he gives up and strides across the room to take the phone. Even better, he drops down onto the bed beside me, impatiently thumbing the billion text alerts away. The video didn’t turn out half bed. Bad. Oops. That’s a Freudian slip right there. We watch together as the on-screen Hana and Liam promise to have and to hold, for better and for worse, and for richer and poorer.
Since he’s the billionaire and I’m not, he definitely got the worse end of the deal.
“We got married on purpose.” Liam’s got that stoic glare thing going on, the I’m-a-hard-ass stare that’s probably really effective in the boardroom but that has zero effect on the hardware in his hand. It does make me feel hot and dirty, which is likely not what he intends.
“I’m pretty certain marriage isn’t like a pothole or a bumper. It’s not something you hit by accident.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Do you leave a note when you bang some poor guy’s car in the Whole Foods parking lot? Or do you just sneak away?”
“First of all, I do not shop at Whole Foods. They’ve got great stuff, but I’d have to sell a kidney to buy my groceries there, and since I’ve only got two, that’s a two-week death wish and not a viable long-term plan. Second, it sounds like you’re asking me what my plans were for today. I wasn’t planning on leaving you a note with a fake phone number and ghosting.”
He exhales and nods. His gaze flickers over my face but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Typical. He says, “First, you can buy whatever you want. Billionaire.” He points to himself just in case there’s any doubt about who is rich and who is financially challenged in this not-relationship. “Second, yes, I would like to hear how you envisioned today unfolding.”
“I had planned on today being a whole lot more naked.”
Honesty makes everything so much simpler. Liam being the boardroom type, however, he’s more devious and less accustomed to blunt statements of truth.
He practically bolts upright. “Christ.”
“You’re such a baby.” I tweak his nipple. “I can’t believe you have this reputation as a sex master and Don Juan.”
He slides me a look. “Let us have wine and women... Sermons and soda water the day after.”
We’ve clearly moved on to the day after, which is just my luck.
“Impressively well-read. I’m glad you’re more than just a pretty face. It bodes well for our children.”
He sets the phone onto the bedside table and rolls, pulling me underneath him. Muscled forearms brace my head and he glares down at me, all grumpy and mussed. “Be serious.”
“You asked if we were really, truly married. I answered. I’m not a Magic 8 Ball you can shake until you get a better answer.”
This is why we’d never work as a couple. I married my fantasy Liam. Real-life Liam, however, is proving deeply disappointing.
I poke his chest. “Off.”
After he removes his person from mine, he deposits the rings on the bedside table, next to his phone and a stack of condoms that is much smaller than it was last night when we started.
“Ambitious,” I observe.
Liam counts, gives the floor a quick survey (again, ewww), and turns back to me, visibly anxious. He’s either imagining unpleasant dick diseases or suspects me of trying for a honeymoon baby.
“I’m on the Pill.” I pat him one more time—the man is built—and then slide off the bed.
Last night I was focused on bringing my not-so-secret Liam fantasies to life when I proposed. This morning, okay...nothing’s changed since yesterday morning. We’d still never work as a couple in real life. He’s not Mr. Monogamy, nor does it appear he’s willing to try. I don’t have any diseases, I’m a decent person, I’m super loyal, and he could have said no. Plus, we’d had amazing chemistry. Alcohol-fueled, sure, but I’d also been willing to try sober sex. Clearly, however, it can’t work out between us because I refuse to be the punishment half of a Crime and Punishment love story. Liam somehow manages to be both uptight and a player, while I deserve someone who will embrace my sexy goddess goodness.
Or badness.
Honestly, I’m not sure how that works, but I’m determined to learn.
The first step in my Must Resist Liam Masterson plan is to find clothes. It’s always harder to think about non-sex things when naked, so I laid a course for Liam’s closet. He can spot me a shirt and some pants. Nude at home is one thing, but I draw the line at naked driving. My pickup truck has vinyl seats and no AC. You just know that’s when Officer Too Friendly pulls you over. It might even be illegal to drive naked. I make a mental note to google that in the near future when I find my phone.
Liam’s closet is—color me not-shocked—a masterpiece of organization he probably paid someone else a small fortune to arrange. The rods, the drawers and the shelves are done in tasteful shades of beech with loads of gold hardware. It’s all terribly shiny and expensive. I run my fingers over a rack of suits. Kiton, Brioni, Zegna. Liam has come a long way since we were kids. He needs to wear more Levi’s. Live life a little unbuttoned. If we’d worked out, I would have helped him with that.
Nope.
Don’t go there.
I grin maniacally at myself in the enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror—Liam either really likes looking at himself or he has sex shenanigans in his closet—and ransack his drawers. He has far too many but I hit the mother lode early and uncover his stash of boxer briefs. Fortunately, they’re big on me (my ego isn’t ready to handle having a bigger butt than my man), so I fold the waistband over until I’m firmly in wedgie territory and things seem likely to stay put.
When I turn around, Liam is standing in the doorway. He does that a lot, but it makes sense. He’s neither in nor out. Also, it’s just an all-around good look for him. One broad, muscled shoulder is propped against the frame and his jeans ride low on his hips. The man has a happy trail pointing south that I really hope I explored.
The corner of his mouth tugs up in a lopsided grin that I first encountered last night. It’s his sex god smile, the one that says he’s feeling it. I sort of want to shuck the shirt and drop my stolen panties, but I know I need to stick to the plan.
“Are you taking my stuff?” His voice is light—he’s either gotten over his anger or he’s tamped it down. Probably B. The man is the king of repressing feelings.
I point a finger at him. It might be my middle finger because I’m not quite to Zen yet. “Find my clothes and you can have yours back. Consider this a hostage situation.”
“I’m happy to buy you a closet full of shirts, Hana.” He smiles, and it’s the familiar grin now, not the new I-want-to-sex-you-up one. The
crinkles at the corners of his eyes have always done something to me. When I was sixteen, he’d look at me and I’d turn into a hormonal puddle of goo even though he was really looking through me. Or over me or around me. Never at me. Today, right now, his eyes are completely, determinedly friendly.
This isn’t happening. I can’t be just his best friend’s baby sister. Not anymore. He’d flicked my nose. Made monthly drugstore runs for tampons and barbecue potato chips. Vetted my dates, threatened to break bones, offered emergency cash and picked drunk me up from a bar one memorable, never-to-be-repeated college night. He listened on the rare occasion I cornered him. I talked. So much listening, with a side of well-intentioned, older-brother judging. He’d always wanted what was best for me, but I was the only one who’d ever thought that might mean him.
“Hey.” Big fingers tip my chin up until I meet his eyes. “I’ll get this fixed.”
“Of course you will.” I somehow manage to smile as if it’s no big deal. As if that isn’t exactly what he said before we stepped into his bedroom.
I’m once again Liam Masterson’s little problem.
“Tell me something.”
He nods.
“Why did you say yes last night?”
His jaw tightens. “I drank too much.”
“So when you said yes, it was an accident?”
He hesitates, then says quietly, “No. It was a plan.”
“So you wanted to marry me?” I’m an idiot for asking, but the part of me that’s Team Cinderella, that believes in magic and fairy godmothers and morning-after second chances? That part of me wants to happy-yell the question.
He braces one big, bare arm on the wall beside my head, his muscles bunching. I’m surrounded by a delicious Liam cage.
“No,” he says, and my heart does a free fall to my feet. “I do things when I’m drunk, things I shouldn’t. I let other people make choices for me. And I drink knowing that’s going to happen and that I’ll feel terrible the next morning because I wasn’t in control.”
The hand that’s not flattened against the wall comes up and squeezes my shoulder gently. “I shouldn’t have had sex with you, so I did. Saying yes was the wrong thing to do, so I didn’t say no.”
I stare at him because—
I’m his punishment?
My mouth falls open just a little. “You married me because you’d feel terrible about it when you sobered up? You used me to make yourself feel bad? Do you do this in all of your relationships or am I just special?”
“Yes?” He flinches. I’ll give him that. Or maybe that’s just a reaction to his phone buzzing wildly from where he’s buried it in the bed.
“You haven’t asked me why I proposed.”
“I know why,” he says. “It’s why you’ve stared at me since you were thirteen.”
“Because I had a crush on you?” At least he didn’t claim it was his money. “That was teenage me. I’ve grown up some since then, Liam. Mostly in the last half hour, because I’m not sure how to react when you tell me that the words we said last night to each other, words that meant something to me, were just some kind of freaking self-flagellation for you. I took a chance on us, and you took some kind of messed-up self-revenge. What you said last night, you said for you.”
He stares down at me, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what he’s thinking. His phone goes nuts in the other room again.
“You should get that.”
He shakes his head. “I really shouldn’t.”
“Because of—” I wave my hand between us.
“That’s my—” He grimaces. I can tell he’s not sure which noun to use next. “Ex. Leda. We dated. We broke up. She’s made it clear she won’t let me go.”
“Wow.” I can’t find the words to respond that will make it clear just how cocky that sounds. I also add inappropriate and provoking to my mental list because now I’m dying to know more. I just hope he’s not drawing some kind of stupid, man-brained parallel between his ex’s behavior and mine. “I agree it’s not a good idea to be chatting up your ex when you’re married.”
He nods. “I wouldn’t. Do that. Not to you.”
That’s the Liam I’ve known for years, protective, casually affectionate, determined to make sure I go through life happy and safe. It’s hard to turn my back on all that, particularly when it comes wrapped in such a sexy package. I know I should let him go.
I should walk out the door, out of his life.
The problem is that he’s taken something that was my dream come true and turned it into a nightmare. Standing here in front of him, I feel naked and it’s a thousand times worse than the pants-less dreams or the dreams where my teeth fall out or I have to pee but can’t find a clean bathroom. I want to scream at him, to make him hurt the way I do, except this isn’t entirely his fault. I loved the man my sixteen-year-old heart had invented, so of course real-life, morning-after Liam disappoints.
So I push past him and start walking because I won’t be like this Leda, whoever she is. I won’t stay where I’m clearly not appreciated, although I still pause in the door because I’m still a little weak for this man. “Isn’t this where you apologize for being such a colossal dick?”
“I’ll take care of this,” he repeats instead. “The lawyers, the paperwork, everything.”
I have no idea what that means or how you unpick a marriage that’s barely had a chance to begin, but I’m sure he’ll handle it. “Money fixes everything, right?”
He doesn’t have to think about it. “Not quite everything, but almost.”
“Let me know when you’ve fixed us, then,” I tell him.
I feel him move behind me and I can’t stay here. I valet-parked my truck last night, so my keys will be in my vehicle and I’ll figure everything else out later. I walk away from Liam and by the time I reach the front door, he’s no longer behind me.
CHAPTER FOUR
A COMM CHECK
Liam
I PRACTICE WHAT I’m going to say to Hana while I sit in my Market Street office in San Francisco. I would find it very convenient if we could stay married for the next four to six months. I’ll make it worth your while.
Too blunt?
Maybe.
Wrong approach? Definitely. Hana’s never been interested in money.
Plus, just because I’m an asshole doesn’t mean I want to make Hana feel bad. I just don’t want to apologize. It’s not like saying I’m sorry magically fixes shit anyhow. Those are just two little words that people throw around. Because they’re covering their asses. Because they want you to stop complaining or crying or making demands. Because words are cheaper than money.
Am I sorry?
No, I’m not. When you get to the apology stage in a relationship, it’s game over. Apologies don’t cut it in the business world any more than they do outside the boardroom. Or in bars, parking lots and bedrooms. My father apologized over and over to my mother before leaving to do the same stupid shit again.
My parents weren’t picture-perfect. They had a difficult relationship with more blasts and rocky orbits than a space shuttle. Our Berkeley house was colorful and chaotic even by the hippie college town’s standards, with one wildly unpredictable, dramatic scene after another. My parents would fight, then Dad would storm out for a few weeks or months, and come back right about when the money ran out and the electric company started taping shutoff notices to our door. Harmony would be briefly restored and then the cycle of fights and apologies would repeat. If I hadn’t been there, the third wheel in their drama, maybe they could have worked it out.
If Berkeley hadn’t been so staunchly antiestablishment, anti-big corporation, anti-money, maybe I wouldn’t have gone over to the dark side. I love making money. Money’s easy. It’s about patterns and algorithms. Not only does two plus two make four, but it makes four every single time. There are n
o surprises in math, unlike relationships, which is great. I’m maxed out on exploding shit, so I prefer to limit my personal interactions to my dick or my bank account when possible. This definitely worked for Leda, but Hana has always insisted she won’t touch my money or Jax’s, but those are just her emotions talking.
Leda, my ex, has also been doing some serious talking.
For years I’ve been the business golden child, the moneymaker, the acknowledged king of Silicon Valley. I build tech companies that eventually sell for mind-blowing numbers of dollars and everyone involved goes home happy and rich. And then I do it all over again. And again. You can’t have too much money or success, and I’ve never failed when I’ve made the effort, so my current situation is difficult to process. The first blow to my throne was the day I realized that the portfolio of patents held by Leda’s company, Swan Bio, was worthless because none of the tech she’d patented had ever worked. She’d lied to me, to her investors, and to the United States Patent and Trademark Office. There were a few casualties of the lawyerly type as well. I’m the king strutting around in a really expensive set of invisible clothes with my dick hanging out for the whole word to see.
It’s a problem.
A half-billion-dollar problem.
When I’d done some private investigating, the problem had grown exponentially worse. Not only was there no product, but there was no seed money left. All the dollars that had been poured into her company had vanished.
Which brings me to my current problem. I haven’t revealed my suspicions of financial malfeasance to the world, as I fix my shit in private. The rumors swirling around the city are that I’m a dick who shut her company down because she broke up with me. The senior members of the Galaxtix board have explained, in progressively stuffier speeches, that being labeled unrepentantly dickish makes me look unprofessional. These are people who follow the big rules in life, the biggest of which is: thou shalt not get caught. Therefore, I’m also accused of being immature, shortsighted and a liability. Ruling Silicon Valley doesn’t require the moral character of the Pope, but apparently I’m not allowed to look like one of hell’s lesser demons, either. They were getting ready to invite me to resign.