Page 51 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

The food is exquisite, each bite a symphony of taste that demands attention. Yet even as I savor it, part of me is still burning to know more about the enigmatic man across from me.

The man who was born in Dublin, whose mother taught at the very college I dream of attending, and whose father harbors regrets that have followed them across the ocean.

"Jackie mentioned you see your mom every week," I say, trying to sound casual.

I spear a roasted beet from the warm goat cheese salad and pop it in my mouth, waiting for him to respond.

Liam nods, swallowing a bite of his filet mignon before he answers.

"Yes, on Wednesdays. She's an artist, has been part of the Boston scene for decades." He looks proud when he talks about her, a softening around the edges of his usually stern demeanor.

"An artist?" I echo, intrigued. "What does she create?"

"Everything. Sculptures, paintings, mixed media. She's incredibly talented." There's a warmth in his voice that I haven't heard before.

I want to ask more—about his visits, about what they talk about, about whether she knows how fiercely her son can negotiate in a boardroom—but I hesitate, unsure if I'm crossing a line.

Instead, something else slips out.

"I'm sorry, by the way." My voice is barely above the clink of cutlery and the murmur of conversation around us. "For calling you a hypocrite over the Turner case. I know you're just doing your job, and deep down, you're a good person."

Liam's hand finds mine, stilling my fidgety fingers.

"I'm not a good man, Shiloh," he says, his voice dropping to a confessional hush. "To survive in my line of work, I've had to discard my morals more times than I care to admit." His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, a touch so at odds with his words.

Then he leans in, eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that roots me to the spot. "But you know what they say about bad men—they're a lot more fun in bed."

My mouth goes dry, and I can't find the words—or perhaps I don't trust myself to speak them. The heat from Liam's hand seeps into mine, igniting a trail of warmth that snakes up my arm.

"Can I clear your plates?" The waitress’s voice cuts through the thickening air between us, and I nearly jump, startled back into the reality of Le Noblesse's dining room.

"Please," Liam replies smoothly, releasing my hand as if we weren't just sharing a moment that felt like the prelude to something forbidden.

The plates are whisked away, and in their place, the waitress sets down a single serving of dessert. The caramelized apples glisten under the warm glow of the overhead chandelier, and the scent of baked fruit mingles with the rich aroma of vanilla bean ice cream slowly melting into a pool of golden caramel sauce.

"Shall we?" Liam asks, mischief dancing in his eyes. He scoops a generous portion of the ice cream, apple, and flaky pastry onto a spoon and holds it out to me.

My heart thuds unevenly as I lean forward, parting my lips to accept the offering. The instant the sweet flavors hit my tongue, a soft moan escapes me.

I open my eyes to find Liam's gaze has shifted, darkened—a deep well of desire that seems to pull me in. He doesn't break eye contact as he feeds me another spoonful, and this time, the moan is stifled by the rich taste of the dessert mingling with the thrill of his attention.

"We're taking the rest of this to-go," Liam declares suddenly, his voice low and decisive.

I try to blink away the haze of arousal clouding my thoughts. "Liam, we can't—I mean, shouldn't we just finish it here?"

But he's already signaling the waitress, his other hand reaching for his wallet.

"No, Shiloh," he says firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "I want you naked in my bed if you’re going to make sounds like that."

My cheeks flare with heat, and I'm grateful for the dim lighting. The idea sends a rush of excitement through my veins, but it's paired with a trepidation I can't quite shake.

This is Liam, my boss—the man whose world is a universe away from mine, whose desires seem to be rewriting all the rules I've lived by.

"Okay," I breathe out, the word barely a sound.

But it's enough for him.

Enough for both of us.

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