Page 73 of It's Not All Fake

But then it hits me—there will be cameras. People will find out about the restraining order against my ex, which is public record. Liam will probably get his picture snapped walking out of my apartment after comforting me. Even when we were in Catalina together, paparazzi captured moments of us together.

Is that why he’s really here? He’s still playing the role of doting boyfriend? Was bringing me chicken soup just part of the act?

My mind is spinning with questions, doubts, and fears. Liam’s expression becomes even more wounded and angry as he stands, rounding the coffee table as he walks toward me.

“Do you realize how much you mean to me, Chloe?” He stops in front of me, still keeping his distance but the coffee table no longer separates us.

I remain silent, but my breathing becomes shallow as I watch him closely, unable to look away. I hear the faint tick of a wall clock as the moment stretches between us. His deep brown eyes seem to convey everything to me and my heart races. But what if I’m just making it up?

“Let me show you,” Liam says, as if he’s reading my thoughts. A rush of emotion courses through me at his words. When he sees my reaction and I don’t object, he slowly approaches me.

As he closes the gap between us, his eyes stay locked on mine and my body tingles with anticipation. He reaches up and runs his thumb gently across my bottom lip, setting my skin on fire.

I feel the heat of his body, so close to mine. Then, he leans down and brushes his lips against mine softly, leaving me wanting more.

He sees my reaction, my yearning, and doesn’t keep me waiting any longer. He leans in swiftly, claiming my mouth in a passionate kiss, consuming me. I feel his arms wrap around me as I instinctively put mine around his neck.

Liam’s kiss is intense and urgent, maybe driven by the thought that I was in danger—I can sense his anger, desperation, and relief all at once.

And in his embrace, I find solace and comfort. Our kisses are deep and fiery, our mouths moving together in perfect harmony. I barely register the dull pain of my wound as his face presses against mine because the pleasure he’s giving me far eclipses it.

When Liam pulls back slightly to look into my eyes and gauge my reaction, we’re both panting heavily. This moment with Liam… it’s pure bliss and makes me forget about everything else.

That is, until I catch sight of red stain on his face. My lips part and I pull away further, realizing that there’s blood smeared on the side of Liam’s face.

I touch my temple, feeling a warm wetness. Our kiss must have reopened the cut on my head. Seeing the blood on us, it’s like reality is slapping me in the face. I’m a mess.

“Oh my God.” I pull away. “I’m sorry.” Tears rush to the surface again.

“Chloe, it’s okay,” Liam says gently, moving toward me, but I back up.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize again, my voice breaking as a new tear falls. I need rest, space, escape…

“You don’t need to apologize. Let me help you, Chloe,” he offers, his gaze tender as he reaches for me, but I recoil. The way he’s looking at me—sad, pitying, even—fills me with shame. I’m standing here, blood dripping down my face, because I let a dangerous ex into my apartment. Because I deluded myself into thinking I could handle things.

“I’m supposed to be helping you! I’m your coach, but I’m a fucking mess,” I spit out in disgust at myself.

I don’t want him to see me like this. How did my life spin so out of control?

“You’re not my coach; you’re my girlfriend,” he corrects me, as if that would help.

A bitter laugh escapes me. I can’t deal with this confusing relationship right now. My head is spinning. His kiss—it was everything. But we’re in Hollywood and Liam’s a good actor. I thought Lucas was someone he’s not. My judgment is obviously fucked.

“Please, just let me get a grip, okay?” I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath. “I just need some time.”

“Chloe, I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I have a restraining order against him. I’ll be fine,” I assure Liam.

The look of hurt on his handsome face only makes me feel worse. But I need to gather my thoughts, and I can’t do that with him here. After a moment, he reluctantly accepts my request and moves toward the door.

As he reaches for the handle, he turns to give me one last look. It’s—loving. But somehow, it also feels like the long, last look between tragic lovers. I know this won’t end well.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, hoping he understands.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he tells me, his warm eyes locked onto mine.

All I want is to be with him, but I know this isn’t right. I’m only setting myself up for more hurt, and I don’t think I could bear it.

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