Page 54 of Summertime Friends

“I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.” I give George a quick wink to be sure he knows I’m only partially kidding and not out here trying to bruise his already large ego.

“He’s everyone’s type,” Liam butts in. A scraping noise draws my attention to where he moved his chair closer to mine. The side of our knees barely touch. “If he’s not, then what is?”

Smooth way to find out if he’s my type. I know he’s curious. I’m curious if I’m his too.

“If I said you, would you try to discreetly bring your chair closer to mine again?” I call him out. “I don’t have a type, but if I did. . . it wouldn’t be you either.” I lick my lips, noticing he’s staring at them.

Liam leans in toward me.

“Liar,” he whispers in my ear. His breath is hot, traveling down the upper half of my body right to between my thighs. He leaves his mouth there, the touch of his lips on my skin is faint. My eyes close lightly. “I think I’m exactly your type. It’s all over your face, States.”

I pull my knee away from his. The spot is cold from the lack of skin-to-skin contact, but I need the cold. I need the cold to decrease the record-high temperature my body is pushing.

I don’t bury the use of his nickname for me—well, their nickname for me. George and Callum have also adapted it. But it’s the way Liam says it. He calls me it, and it makes me feel like I’m his. His in a way that I’ve never been anyone’s before—but I’m not his. So why is there a part of me that thinks it might be okay if I was?

I blink rapidly, trying to rid myself of this thought and wash the look that is all over my face away.

“Didn’t enjoy what you saw earlier today?” Liam slides his hand under the table, placing it on my thigh right above my knee. He gives it a slight squeeze as he starts moving it up. Higher and higher. “I bet if I were to keep going, I’d be able to tell exactly how much you liked it. Thus proving that I am your type.”

“You wouldn’t,” I dare him. I’m looking straight ahead, giving him zero indication of exactly how wet I am for him.

“You’re right. I won’t because I respect a woman, and if she says I’m not her type, then I’m not her type.”

Liam swiftly removes his hand from my thigh and places it back on the table.

“Unlike you, I won’t lie. You are my type. Quite my type, Emerson.” My name is a purr on his lips, the sound of it petting every plane of my body.

He’s not leaning into me anymore, acting as if nothing just happened. Liam reaches for his drink, picks it up, and brings it to his lips. I watch as his throat bobs when he swallows.

I swallow. . . a little too loud.

Callum and George sit there pretending to ignore what is happening across the table when we all know they are well aware.

I return us to the conversation.

I’m trying not to let his words, the heat, or whatever went on between Liam and me linger.

Ignore it, and it’ll all go away, right? Yeah, right.

We continue talking about growing up. When asked about our parents, both Liam and I avoided answering. It all ends with them sharing stories from college. I love hearing them talk about this, especially the stories about Liam.

The entire day, I craved to get to know him better. I want to know everything there is about him. Who he was as a kid and who he is now. How he started his company, and what his aspirations in life are. His favorites—foods, TV shows, books. How his lips would feel on mine.

I think he wants to know me too.

Every time I’ve spoken tonight, his attention has been devoted to me. He wasn’t distracted like George or Callum, even though they asked a majority of the questions. Liam only listens. I kept sneaking peeks at him; his blue-gray eyes looked like they were processing and storing every piece of information about me as he did last night.

I’ve always appreciated the small things. Big gestures are one thing, but I think you see someone through small, intimate gestures, like remembering where someone is from. It doesn’t take a lot to show someone you care about them.

If someone wanted to go back and tell my parents that, I would appreciate that, too.

Liam doesn’t move his chair back to its original spot. Instead, he keeps moving it closer like I am a magnet, drawing him closer, the force too strong to repel.

We are close enough now that the whole side of my leg is touching his. My skirt has ridden up, revealing more of my bare leg to his touch.

The connection between our lower bodies is searing. If he were to put his hand back on my thigh now, it might put me over the ed—shit, I think he just read my mind. The palm of his hand is now firmly situated on my leg.

Liam is a magnet for me, too.

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