Page 30 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

He stops abruptly at door number seven, shoving the key into the lock with more force than necessary. The door swings open with a creak that seems too loud in the awkward silence. Stepping inside, I brace myself for whatever makeshift accommodations we're about to face.

The room is small and dimly lit by a single lamp on the nightstand, shadows stretching across the walls like dark fingers. But it's not the size or the lighting that steals the breath from my lungs—it's the realization that there's only one bed.

"Are you kidding me?" Liam's voice cuts through the stillness, sharp as a blade.

He strides over to the bed, scanning the room for anything that could serve as an alternative sleeping arrangement.

"Unbelievable," he grits out, turning to face me, his expression stormy. "This is absolutely unacceptable."

"Look, maybe there's a—" I start, but my words are cut off as he whips around and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with enough force to make the walls shudder.

I flinch at the sound, feeling it resonate deep in my chest. Moments later, the shower turns on, the rush of water a stark contrast to the charged silence Liam left in his wake.

Alone in the room, surrounded by the hum of the shower and the faint smell of salt lingering in the air, I sink onto the edge of the lone bed. The mattress dips under my weight, the springs creaking softly.

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the chill creeping up my spine. With every second that ticks by, the reality of our situation becomes clearer: There's no escaping each other tonight. And the thought sends a shiver of something unexpected through me—something that feels dangerously close to anticipation.

I glance around, taking in the quaint charm of the room. Nautical decorations are scattered throughout: a ship-in-a-bottle on the dresser, a faded anchor print hanging crookedly on the wall, and seashell-patterned curtains fluttering softly with the breeze from an open window. It's like stepping into a snapshot of maritime nostalgia.

Outside, the sky blazes with hues of orange and purple as the sun dips below the horizon, casting the small town in the warm glow of post-storm twilight. A family is getting out of their car outside, their laughter carrying through the air. The ocean is just a stone's throw away, its rhythmic waves promising tranquility.

For a moment, I let myself be lulled by the idyllic scene. This isn't a bad place at all; it's just not where we're supposed to be. The fall leaves are beginning to turn, dotting the landscape with specks of red and gold—a beautiful backdrop to an unexpected detour.

The sound of the bathroom door swinging open jolts me back to reality. Liam emerges, his hair slicked back and wet, droplets trailing down his neck. He's shed his suit jacket and tie, now just wearing an undershirt that hugs his torso, revealing thecontours of his muscles beneath the thin fabric, and slacks that hang loosely on his hips.

He’s got some kind of Celtic knot tattooed on his left pec, over his heart; I can see it through the shirt, making my breath quicken. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white with tension.

"Still angry?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, but there's no mistaking the raw irritation that simmers in his eyes.

"Angry doesn't even begin to cover it," he replies curtly, pacing the room like a caged animal.

His bare feet make soft sounds on the carpet, the only indication of his agitation. I watch him, noting the way his jaw ticks when he's trying to control his temper. It's fascinating—and terrifying—how one man can embody such controlled fury.

"Look, Liam..." I begin, unsure of what I'm trying to achieve. "It's just one night. We'll figure something out in the morning."

He stops pacing, and for a second, I think I see something flicker in his gaze—something other than anger. But then it's gone, replaced once more by that impenetrable wall of frustration.

"I didn't pack for a sleepover, Shiloh," he snaps suddenly, lashing out with his words. "I didn't expect to be stranded in some—some nautical-themed purgatory with only one damn bed!"

I flinch as if the words are physical blows, each one shrinking me further into myself. The room seems to grow colder with his every syllable, and I can't help but feel responsible for this mess—even though logic screams that it's not my fault.

"Sorry," is all I manage to muster, my voice so small it nearly gets lost in the space between us.

Liam stops his tirade mid-breath and turns on his heel to face me. He strides over with purpose, each step measured andheavy. Crossing his arms over his chest, he towers above me, and I feel even smaller.

"Is that all you have to say?" he demands, his eyes burning into mine, searching for something I'm not sure I possess.

"Sorry," I repeat, my default response, a shield against his towering presence. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to draw strength from somewhere deep inside, but finding little comfort.

"Shiloh, why?" His voice is quieter now, tinged with an unexpected note of confusion as he studies me, his brows knitting together.

"Because you're angry," I whisper, unable to meet his eyes. "I should've been more on top of things… planned better for the trip."

Something in my admission seems to disarm him. The rigid set of his shoulders eases, and when I finally dare to look up, I see that the tempest in his eyes has calmed.

"It's not your fault, Shiloh," he says, and there's a new layer to his voice, something that sounds almost like... gentleness. “Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry, I’ll stop—”

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