by Lila Monroe
Liam smiles at that, just faintly. “Maybe,” is all he says.
“It was,” I insist. “You’re not an entirely terrible person, you know.”
Now he smiles for real. “Gee, thanks.”
“Anytime!”
Neither one of us says anything for a moment. I hear the honk of taxis down below, the drums of a street musician, the faint sounds of the party drifting out from the library ballroom. The last dregs of summer sunlight have faded, Liam’s face cast half in shadow, but for some reason, I’m not ready for this night to be over just yet.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I hear myself ask.
“What, now?” Liam raises his eyebrows.
“Why not?” I ask, feeling suddenly bold and brassy as one of Verity’s heroines. “Do you really think anyone’s going to notice if we Irish goodbye this situation?” I lift my chin. “Personally, I think you’ve stuck it out long enough.”
Liam tilts his head to the side, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face as he considers it. For the first time since I met him, he looks almost… mischievous.
“Sure,” he says, picking up his jacket and motioning for me to go ahead of him. “Let’s bail.”
10
Eliza
It’s not like there’s exactly a shortage of things to do on a summer evening in New York City, and I mentally run through my options as Liam and I sneak back through marble halls of the library and out into the balmy night. I consider walk along the High Line or drinks at a speakeasy in the Village, but in the end, I take him to my secret favorite place to blow off steam: an old-fashioned bowling alley so far uptown it’s basically in Canada.
“Really?” Liam asks, looking around dubiously at the brightly colored 90s-era carpet and the neon orange sign above the snack bar. A Monday-night league in matching purple shirts crowds the lane beside us, good-naturedly insulting each other’s bowling skills and score-keeping abilities and sexual prowess. The bar offers two kinds of beer: Bud, and Bud Light. “This is where you come to have a good time?”
I raise my eyebrows as I lace up my bowling shoes. “I think what you meant to say is, ‘Thank you, Eliza, for rescuing me from a weird, dull night and bringing me to this extremely cool place that means a lot to you.”
Liam nods like, fair point. “You’re right,” he says, “I’m sorry. I just wouldn’t have pegged you for a late-night bowler, that’s all.”
“I grew up with my grandma, remember?” I remind him. “Bowling, bingo. The occasional Touched By an Angel marathon. I do it all.” I smile. “It’s a great way to blow off steam, actually.” I wiggle my ankles in his direction. “Hard to remember what you’re upset about when you’re wearing borrowed clown shoes.”
Liam smiles back. “I guess you’ve got a point.”
“I think you’ll find I usually do.”
We grab a couple of beers from the bar and I key our names into the ancient computers, and we settle in and bowl a couple of games. I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised by a) the fact that he’s actually a pretty decent bowler and b) how easy it is to talk to him. The conversation wanders amiably, from my favorite places to eat in New York, to the different cities where Liam has worked in the last few years, to an author reading I recently attended that ended in a literal fistfight between two New York Times bestselling authors.
“Men, obviously,” I tell him, as my bright pink ball hits eight pins down at the end of the alley. I celebrate with a happy little victory dance. “Two literary wunderkinds! The toast of indie bookstores everywhere! Princes of Brooklyn Heights! Beating the crap out of each other, right next to the wine and cheese table.”
“Amateurs,” Liam says, shaking his head in amusement. “Verity Lange would never.”
“Very Lange would never!”
It’s Liam’s turn, and he grimaces as his ball swerves directly into the gutter. “So, give me the scoop,” he says, turning to face me. “Hypothetically, if I wanted to take myself on a self-guided tour of the Verity Lange universe. Which book should I start with?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” I say with a grin. “Handled by the Handyman.”
Right away, Liam shakes his head. “That’s not the title.”
“Oh, but it is,” I tell him, delighted. “And don’t let that fool you—that book is a full-on masterpiece. Those so-called literary wunderkinds wish they could write something so clever, so genre-busting, so full of heart.” I blush, realizing too late that I may have gotten a tiny bit carried away. “It’s my favorite one, clearly.”
“Clearly.” I’m expecting mockery, but Liam’s smile is just amused. “You really love her, huh?”
I nod. “I really do. She makes the world seem… magical. Like romance and true love could be waiting around the next corner. Everyone needs to believe in sparkle like that.”
Neither one of us says anything for a moment. He’s standing close enough to touch. I can feel the tension crackling between us, and if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think we to repeat that moment from the first night we met—that he’s about to take me into his arms and kiss me silly, right here in the middle of the brightly-lit bowling alley.
True love could be waiting around the next corner…
He leans in, and I close my eyes…
That’s when a portly, balding man in the lane beside us beside us hits a noisy, game-ending strike, his entire team erupting into boozy, rowdy cheers.
“Wohooo!”
Liam and I spring apart. He looks away, a guilty expression on his face.
“Are you hungry?” he blurts, never mind the fact that we’re halfway through our game. I’m glad. All of a sudden it feels like both of us could use some fresh air, and fast. “Because I’m starving.”
“Great idea,” I say quickly.
Besides, I need something in my hands that isn’t his body, and stat.
We head back downtown to grab hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya, standing at the counter that lines the plate-glass window and watching the people rush by. Even late at night, even at the end of summer, the crowd is still thick. I wonder, not for the first time, where everyone is coming from and headed toward, what their stories might be.
“Okay,” Liam says, two dogs down with mustard all over his chin. “This might be my favorite place to eat in New York.”
I smile. Even the hot robot has a weakness for junk food hidden under those healthy abs. “My ex is the one who introduced me to it,” I confess with a laugh. “I made sure I got to keep it when we broke up.”
Liam raises his eyebrows. “Recently?”
I shake my head. “A few months back.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “It’s fine. And honestly, that’s all he was, too: Fine. Maybe it’s the romance editor in me, but I can’t help but want that big love…” I shrug, catching myself. “You probably think that’s ridiculous, I know.”
But Liam shakes his head, surprising me. “I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” he says. “I think it’s human. And I think you deserve it.”
“Well. Thanks.” I clear my throat, blushing. “What about you?” I ask. “Lots of heartbroken ladies pining after you back in LA?”
Liam gives a wry chuckle. “I don’t know about that,” he says. “I’ve been in a few relationships over the last few years, but nothing worthy of a Verity Lange novel.”
I nod seriously. “You took a look at their bank statements and just weren’t impressed by their 401K contributions?”
“Oh, you’re funny,” he says. Then he winks. “401K was fine, actually. But her escrow account was a total turnoff.”
I laugh. Could it be that Liam Sterling has an actual sense of humor about himself? Nothing about this night has turned out like I was expecting.
We finish our hot dogs and he walks me back to my apartment through the warm, humid night. The leafy sidewalks of the Upper West Side are mostly empty but he stays close anyway, the backs of our hands just brushing.
<
br /> “This is me,” I tell him when we get to the brownstone that houses my tiny studio. My downstairs neighbors have their lights on, married professors in their seventies. He brings her flowers every Friday night. It’s as much the thought of their enduring romance as it is Liam’s scorching hotness that has me blurting, “Um. Do you want to come up for a drink?”
Liam swallows, his Adam’s apple moving underneath the thin skin of his throat. I’m pretty sure he’s about to call out the invitation for the terrible idea that it is, but instead, he gives me a sideways look. “Sure,” he says. “I’d like that.”
OK then.
He follows me up the narrow staircase, steadying me with one hand when I almost trip on the long hem of my borrowed dress. “Should have stayed in the bowling shoes,” I joke, turning to rummage through my purse for my keys. My mind is racing, trying to remember if I left my laundry all over the floor, and if the bathroom is a disaster zone—
Then Liam’s mouth is on mine, and suddenly, nothing else matters.
Because wow.
If our first kiss was an impulse, this feels like a week of sexual tension brought to boiling point: hot and deep and demanding. I moan against him, sliding my hands up into the hair I’ve been longing to touch all night. Liam pulls me closer, backing me up against the wall, and damn if my knees aren’t already weak, as I gasp for air and—
Liam suddenly pulls back. “Damn,” he curses, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Yes, you should.” I interrupt him, pulling him back to my mouth again.
Liam lets out a quiet groan. I thought I might have been romanticizing what happened between us that first night on the sidewalk, trying to turn it into something more than it was, but somehow this is even better—the soap and cologne smell of him, his hands gripping my waist, his body hard against me. It feels like I’ll die if I can’t have all of him, and fast.
“Inside,” I gasp, twisting the key in the lock with shaking hands. We tumble into my apartment in a heap, Liam dropping his tuxedo jacket on my floor and my hair falling out of its careful up-do. It feels like his hands are on me everywhere at once. His grip is strong and the tiniest bit rough as he squeezes my ass through the silky fabric of the dress, but I love the feel of him as he trails his palms up over the small of my back and my rib cage. His thumbs find my nipples, and I moan.
“I wanted you all night,” he mutters, trailing kisses down over my jaw and my neck, my bare shoulders. “No, not just all night. Since I saw you do that ridiculous cartwheel on the sidewalk. I can’t work. I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is—”
“Liam,” I gasp, trailing my hands up over his dress shirt, the heat of him bleeding through the starchy fabric. My whole body feels like it’s on fire. I want to suggest we move this party to the bed but Liam is already working one hand up underneath the slippery fabric of my dress, running his palm over my thigh and finding the elastic of my thong with two nimble fingers. “Can I?” he asks hoarsely, his eyes locked on mine. It’s sexy as hell, and I nod wordlessly as he brushes his fingers over the seam of my body.
Oh God. Yes.
He swallows audibly, stroking deeper, sliding his fingers inside me. “God, Eliza, you’re so wet.”
Hearing my buttoned-up boss say the words has me whimpering helplessly into his shoulder. “Please,” I say again. He slides his fingers deep inside me, curling them, putting pressure against my clit with the heel of his hand.
“Like that?” he groans, and I nod again, not trusting my voice.
It doesn’t take me long like that, his voice and his face and the steady rhythm of his fingers rocking in and out of me. I climax with a moan so loud I’m afraid my neighbors will know exactly what’s going on up here, but I can’t bring myself to care. It feels too damn good.
Spectacular, in fact.
But when I finally open my eyes again, Liam’s expression is cloudy, like a shutter has come down again. My heart sinks.
“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling away and surreptitiously adjusting the sizeable bulge in his tuxedo pants. “That was—I shouldn’t have—”
“What?” I frown, my head still spinning. “No, I wanted you to. I still want you to, I—”
“It was inappropriate,” he says firmly, his face blank again. “And unprofessional.”
And quite possibly the hottest thing that’s happened to me in my entire life.
“I should go,” he says, bending to scoop his jacket up off the floor.
“Liam—” I’m dazed from the orgasm and the emotional whiplash of this entire encounter, unable to think quickly enough to get him to stay. What is happening here? “Can you just wait a—”
“Ah, have a great night, Eliza. I’ll see you at the office!”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me standing alone in the middle of my apartment with my head reeling and my body still aching for more.
11
Eliza
There’s no way I can go into work the next morning, and not just because I’m too humiliated. I was up half the night tossing and turning, reliving my encounter with Liam, and the other half asleep, having hot and heavy dreams about him. I call into the office and let Rachel know I’m going to be working from home today, then set up on my couch with my laptop and a massive latte from the coffee shop around the corner.
Okay, a massive coffee-cake muffin, too. I deserve it, after the week I’ve had.
I open the file I’ve got to work on—a memoir I’m actually really excited about—but I can barely concentrate. I read the same paragraph three separate times without registering a single word.
Finally, I give up and click over to Instagram, typing Liam’s name into the search bar. Just, you know, out of idle curiosity. I’m not stalking him or anything. Promise.
I’m not really expecting him to have an account—he definitely doesn’t seem like the type to fritter away valuable work time on social media—so I’m not surprised, when I come up empty. I try Twitter and Facebook next, then take a Hail Mary pass at TikTok just in case he’s got a super-secret penchant for making raunchy dance videos to rap hits of the early 2000s. No luck. In fact, as far as I can tell, the only current information about the guy on the entire internet is his LinkedIn account—and even that doesn’t have so much as a headshot.
I’m about to throw my phone across the apartment in (sexual) frustration when it buzzes in my hand. I gasp when I look down at the screen.
Liam is calling. As if somehow he could sense me wasting time e-stalking him during work hours…
My thumb hovers over the button to answer but in the end, I chicken out and send him to voicemail. Besides, what is there to say? Thanks for the orgasm, looking forward to a long and productive professional relationship?
He calls again.
I bite my lip. I want to talk to him—I’m dying to talk to him, actually—but then I remember how fast he high-tailed it away from me last night. Something tells me, there’s nothing but awkwardness ahead.
Sure enough, Liam doesn’t leave a message, but a moment later he sends me a text. Hey, it says, looking for notes on conference call from last week. Can you email them over?
That’s it? I feel like I’m being punked. This jerk had his fingers buried to the second knuckle inside me not twelve hours ago, and that’s what he wants to talk about now? Conference call notes? I send them over with no comment, and a moment later the phone chimes again.
Thank you.
Then, a few minutes later, another text: I also want to offer you my sincere apology for last night. It was unprofessional and unbecoming of both of us. It won’t happen again.
Now I really do throw the phone across the room. Then I sigh and go pick it up off the rug. I scroll to Katie’s name. SOS, I text her. Wine lunch?
She texts back a minute later. Always.
I meet Katie and her cousin April at a tiny French bistro downtown, where we order a dozen oysters and a bottle of crisp white wine to share. Not to mention
a double order of fries.
“I mean, sure,” I concede, once I’ve filled them in on my sexual misadventures, “maybe it wasn’t a great idea, career-wise, to get to third base with my boss on a work night.” I pop a fry into my mouth. And then another. “But still.”
“Is finger-banging third base?” Katie asks thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m almost thirty years old, I’m allegedly a relationship expert, and I still get so confused about the bases.”
“I’m being serious!” I wail, trying not to laugh. “Honestly, I’m insulted! He should want to do all the bases with me, no matter what they are!”
“He should want to do all the bases,” April agrees.
I take a sip of my wine and sigh. “Is there something wrong with me?” I ask in a small voice. “I mean, the guy practically had an open invitation last night to take things further, and instead, he sprinted away from me at top speed!”
“What? Definitely not,” Katie insists, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “Honestly, I’m sure he does want to—”
“Hit a home run?” April supplies. “Score a three-pointer? Get a hole-in-one?”
“I’ve lost track of the sports metaphors here, but yes.”
“I’m sure he wants to bone you,” April says firmly, “and honestly from what you’ve said, he’s just… Shy? Formal? The Fitzwilliam Darcy of the New York publishing scene?”
“Now there’s a comparison I understand.” Katie laughs. “Speaking of which,” she says, emptying the last dregs of the wine into her glass and nodding at the ponytailed waiter, “it is a truth universally acknowledged that three girls with empty wine glasses must be in want of another bottle.”
“Yes, please,” I sigh, and we spend the rest of lunch catching up. Both of them are annoyingly, blissfully happy in their current relationships, and April even hints that she might be thinking about the M-word.
“Seth is going to propose?” I ask, my eyes wide.