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.”