Page 50 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

Punish.

The word hangs between us, heavy with implication and the strange, electric tension that keeps sparking every time our eyes meet. My mind races, envisioning scenarios that have no place at this table, in this restaurant, with my boss.

"Understood," I manage to say, the word barely a squeak.

My brain scrambles to shift gears, from forbidden thoughts to the safety of small talk, but it's like my senses are tuned exclusively to him—the timbre of his voice, the scent of his cologne mingling with the rich aromas of the kitchen, the undeniable pull of his presence.

And, of course, there’s the irresistible memory of getting on my knees in his office last night.

The clinking of glass on wood breaks my reverie, and I look up to see the waitress setting down two glasses and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc with a practiced flourish. My stomach knots with nerves and excitement, but the appetizer that follows—a steaming bowl of soup—looks comforting and familiar in its rustic elegance.

"Thank you," I murmur, accepting the soup gratefully. It smells like heaven, a fragrant blend of the sea and herbs, and I inhale deeply, letting the aroma steady me.

"Tell me about yourself, Shiloh." Liam's voice is gentle now, coaxing me out of my shell as the waitress pours the pale wine into our glasses.

I take a tentative spoonful of the soup, savoring the rich flavors, before I answer. "Well, I grew up in a house that was always full of noise and chaos," I start, finding an odd comfort in the memories of home. "I have four siblings—Link, Reagan, Libby, and Parker. We're a raucous bunch, decidedly suburban middle-class."

"Do you get along?" Liam prompts, his gaze steady on mine.

"They don't quite get me," I confess, a small smile playing on my lips despite the admission. "They've always made fun of me for being bookish, for having my nose perpetually stuck in a novel. But that's just who I am—a dreamer, I guess."

"Nothing wrong with dreaming," Liam says, his eyes softening.

The conversation lulls as the second course arrives, and I'm momentarily distracted by the vibrant colors on the plate—some kind of salad with goat cheese.

The goat cheese is a golden brown, nestled atop a baguette on the side like a promise of indulgence. I have to admit I expected indulgence tonight—just not this kind.

"Looks delicious," I comment, reaching for my fork.

"It's one of their best dishes," Liam replies. He watches me for a moment before he speaks again, his voice thoughtful. "You have a wonderful mind, Shiloh. Do you plan to be a secretary forever? It seems like your intelligence might be wasted at Aegis."

I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth, caught off guard by his candidness. Despite the compliment, a part of me bristles at the idea that being a secretary is somehow less than. But I know he means well, and it's a question I've been asking myself lately.

"Actually," I start, setting down the fork and meeting his gaze with newfound determination, "I'm planning to apply to Trinity College next year."

"Trinity?" His eyebrow quirks in interest. "In Dublin?"

"Yes." A warm rush fills my chest as I think about it. My best friend moved there to study archaeology. I want to be close to her and pursue a degree in literature. It's been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember."

"What a funny coincidence," Liam says, with a tilt of his head that somehow seems both deliberate and natural. "I was born in Dublin, you know. My mother was a professor at Trinity before I was born."

"Really?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice. He's never talked about Ireland or his family before. "I didn't realize your dad ever lived there. I don’t think he mentioned it in class, and Chris didn’t either."

Liam's expression shifts, just for a second, like he's somewhere far away.

Then it's gone, and he’s back, the composed billionaire boss once again. "He doesn’t really talk about it. I suppose he’s ashamed of how he treated my mother."

There's a weight to his words, a hint of something darker that I don't understand but desperately want to. Before I can inquirefurther, our meals arrive, carried over by a waiter who moves as if he's been trained to glide.

"The main course," he announces, setting down plates of perfectly cooked meat and fish that seem too beautiful to eat.

The filet mignon is medium-rare, just how I imagine Liam would order it—precise, refined, with no room for error. Beside it, the trout is delicate, its skin golden and crisp atop a drizzle of lemon-butter sauce. Sides of creamy potato gratin and vibrant sautéed vegetables complete the tableau.

"Thank you," I manage, my throat tight with questions I'm not sure I should ask. Questions about Liam's family, his past, and the kind of man he is beneath that polished surface.

"Enjoy," he says, picking up his fork. His eyes flicker to mine, a silent invitation to let the conversation continue where it left off.

But for now, I focus on the meal in front of me, trying to memorize the flavors and textures. It's a welcome distraction, giving me time to gather my thoughts and sort through the emotions simmering just below the surface.

---