Page 13 of False Confidence

Liam’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. He cupped her face, his touch like silk against her cheek, lowering his lips to hers.

“Just to be clear, Jasmine,” he murmured against her lips. “This isn’t for them.”

She didn’t have time to let his words sink in before he caught her mouth in a kiss. Her hands drifted into his hair, gripping him tighter than she had a right to. Liam didn’t seem to mind, leaning his body into hers, his hand roaming over her hip to her back, then down until it was resting on her ass. She gasped, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue between her lips, tangling with hers, moving as smoothly as he had on the dance floor.

“Disgusting.”

They broke apart, turning to find an older woman glaring at them, squeezing her glass of rosé so tightly, Jazz was surprised it was still intact. The woman scowled as she spun around, stomping away from them.

Slowly, Jazz and Liam turned back to each other, eyes wide. That kiss… Fuck. She couldn’t convince herself that that was no big deal.

“Maybe she didn’t like the stache,” she said, nodding to the angry woman in an attempt to diffuse the taut tension growing thicker between them.

Liam released his hold on her face, chuckling. “Impossible. Everyone likes the stache,” he said, dropping his hand and twining their fingers together. She screwed up her face and a cocky smile fell over this mouth. “You like the stache.”

“I don’t hate the stache,” she acquiesced, trying not to remember how soft it had felt when he’d been trailing kisses all over her body. Trying and failing; pictures flashed through her mind like a film reel, clear as day, despite how much liquor she’d had to drink before they’d climbed into bed together. “It’s a weird choice though,” she added quickly. “I don’t understand why you don’t just grow a beard too. You’d suit it.”

He squeezed her hand. “Come on, I’ve had enough of this. Let’s head upstairs. My Kindle and your mindless TikTok scrolling are calling our names. I’ll tell you the stache story on the way.”

Considering how much effort had been put into the design of the estate, it seemed not one person had stopped to think about the layout. There was only a short walk between the building where they held events and the hotel, but the ground was covered in sharp gravel that was a nightmare for anyone wearing heels. Liam’s hand was soft and warm in hers as he led her toward the hotel, walking slower than he usually would to keep her steady.

“You promised me a stache story.”

Liam laughed, a light breeze ruffling his hair, and Jazz had to look away, staring at her feet—which was probably sensible, given how wobbly she was. “It goes back to when my moms started dating. I was seven, and a really shy kid. My mom—D,” he clarified, presumably used to specifying which of his moms he was talking about. But Jazz recognized a subtle shift in his tone anyway, when he spoke about his moms; Danisha was Mom, and Eliza was more like Mum, as if Liam had picked up a touch of his dad’s Irish accent when he was first learning to talk and it had stuck. “—didn’t know much about kids, but she wanted to get to know me for my mom’s sake. She took me to her favorite place from when she was a kid.”

“The art museum?” Jazz guessed.

“Yeah. Her parents used to take her and her brothers when they were younger, and she said she wanted to share a family tradition with me. I loved it, obviously. She let me pick a book out at the gift shop and I chose a book of portraits. When we got home, I asked if we could have a sleepover so we could read the book together before bed.”

“She stayed and read to you?” Jazz asked and he nodded. Liam’s face always lit up when he talked about his family. Usually, Jazz was a little bitter when she saw people with happy families, but it was hard not to be happy for Liam.

“She did. The book was just portraits, but she made up stories about them all for me. After that, she kind of just moved in.” He shrugged. “It’s a stereotype for a reason. Anyway, she read that book to me every night for months and I was obsessed with the portraits, but especially the fact that so many of them had mustaches. Obviously, I decided my new life goal was to have a mustache.”

“Obviously.” They paused outside the elevator, the metal gleaming. Even the buttons were free of fingerprints. Jazz punched the button, rubbing her finger around a little to smudge it. “So you grew the stache because it reminds you of the book and Danisha?”

“Oh no. That’s a much nicer explanation. I grew the stache because my second-grade art teacher was the worst. She asked us to draw self portraits and I gave mine a mustache. She didn’t like that and told me to erase it, then gave me detention when I refused?—”

“You were seven!” Jazz interjected, incensed on seven-year-old Liam’s behalf.

“It was a tough school, and Ms. Bellion was super strict. She said it wasn’t realistic and people didn’t have mustaches without beards anyway. Which, what the fuck? But I never forgot and I grew this as soon as I could.”

“So you’re telling me you still have the stache because someone told you you couldn’t thirty years ago and you never let it go?”

The elevator doors slid smoothly open and Liam tugged her in behind him. “Yep.”

Jazz shook her head in disbelief. “Holy shit. That is the pettiest thing I’ve ever heard. I think I might be in love with you,” she joked and Liam turned so he was facing her, a serious expression on his face.

“Thank God. I don’t think we can get the deposits back for our Hallowedding at this point.” A laugh bubbled out of Jazz’s mouth and Liam joined her.

Mirrors lined the walls of the elevator, creating an infinity effect. Jazz’s laugh caught in her throat as she looked up, seeing Liam’s head thrown back, a grin on his face as he laughed. God, he really was beautiful.

“What?” he asked as he noticed her staring at her.

Jazz’s gaze dropped to their hands, held comfortably between them. Liam rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over her skin, and she sucked in a deep breath, holding it and trailing her eyes up his arms, his torso, his full lips, his fucking mustache. His eyes. He knew exactly what she was thinking; he was just waiting for her to say it.

She blew out the breath and tugged him closer. It had been inevitable since the second she agreed to come with him. “Fuck it.”

He wasted no time closing in on Jasmine, his hand slamming against the mirrored wall, fingers dragging down and leaving smudge marks behind. Her lips had been calling to him all day, and one kiss in a room full of people wasn’t nearly enough to satiate him. He’d been doing a good job of holding it together, of pretending his brain wasn’t cycling through bad ideas on repeat. But then she’d called him baby. Baby. Her voice had been just a little breathy, and every last thread of his resolve had snapped.

---