Page 51 of Falling for the Wrong Billionaire
How long until he realizes that I’m not the kind of person who belongs in a place like this? How long until I mess everything up?
I take a deep breath, trying to push the doubts out of my mind as Liam walks off to the living room with the ferrets. It’s hard to ignore the ache in my chest, but I don’t want to think about it right now.
Instead, I take a slow look around the entryway. The clean lines, the soft neutral colors, the simple yet elegant art on the walls — everything feels so... considered. It’s so much more than anything I’ve ever known.
When Liam returns to the kitchen, his footsteps light and purposeful, I snap out of my thoughts and focus on him.
He’s already moved around the kitchen, grabbing things from cabinets and the fridge, a casual ease to the way he works. "Would you like something to drink?" he asks, without even turning to look at me.
"Juice or water?"
I hesitate. I should say something, but for some reason, I just watch him instead. The way his shoulders shift as he moves, the concentration in his expression as he goes about making breakfast. It’s like watching someone who knows exactly who they are, someone who’s comfortable in his own skin.
"Juice is fine," I say finally, trying to shake the thoughts from my mind.
I watch him, my gaze lingering as he moves through the motions of preparing a meal. His confidence is almost magnetic. And for a moment, I let myself indulge in the feeling of being in his world, just for a little while.
He finishes with the juice, handing me a glass with a grin. "Here you go. I’ll be right back with the ferrets."
I nod, sipping the juice slowly. The taste is sweet, refreshing. I can feel the warmth in my chest at the simplicity of it all. I hadn’t expected to feel this way, this comfortable, in his home.
When Liam returns, he’s already setting the ferrets up in their little corner, making sure they have enough food and water. His attention to detail doesn’t surprise me. Everything he does feels measured, thoughtful, like he’s always considering how his actions will affect others.
As he finishes up with the ferrets, I stand and walk over to the kitchen counter, watching him closely.
"I should cook," I say, as if to justify my being here. "It’s the least I can do after you’ve already set everything up."
He gives me a playful look, his eyebrows raising. "I insist, Lucy. You’ve cooked enough for everyone at the clinic. Let me take care of breakfast today. All I need is your company."
I open my mouth to protest, but the look on his face stops me. It’s impossible to argue with him when he looks at me like that.
"Fine," I relent, setting the juice down on the counter. "But only because you’re being so insistent."
I move to the side, giving him space, but my eyes don’t leave him. As he begins cooking, I can’t help but be mesmerized by the way he moves — how comfortable he is in his own space. Every movement is fluid, like he’s done this a thousand times.
I find myself just watching him, captivated. It’s ridiculous, I know. But there’s something about the way he seems so effortless, so self-assured. It’s the kind of confidence I’ve always admired in people. The kind of confidence I’ve never been able to pull off myself.
The smell of breakfast fills the kitchen, and I can’t help but feel my stomach rumble. The simple act of him cooking for me, for us, feels so... right.
It feels like everything I’ve been missing.
I lean against the counter, my arms crossed, and for a moment, I let myself relax. Let myself enjoy the calm of the moment. I can’t remember the last time I felt this at ease, this at peace.
But then, as if reading my thoughts, Liam turns to look at me, a playful smirk on his lips. "You’ve been staring at me for a while. I’m starting to think you like watching me cook."
I roll my eyes, trying to hide the blush that’s creeping up my neck. "You wish."
His grin widens, clearly amused by my reaction. "I don’t mind if you’re watching. It just means I’m doing something right."
I chuckle softly, feeling my cheeks flush. I should probably tell him to stop, to remind myself that we shouldn’t be here. But I don’t. Instead, I just watch as he finishes preparing breakfast, the sound of eggs sizzling in the pan and the smell of bacon filling the kitchen.
He finishes quickly, setting everything on the table with a flourish. "Breakfast is served," he announces.
I sit down, trying not to let my feelings get too tangled up in everything. He’s just being nice. He’s just cooking for me because he cares. I can’t let myself believe anything more than that.
But as we eat, the rain begins to fall outside, soft at first and then picking up in intensity. The sound of it on the windows only makes the atmosphere more cozy, more intimate.
I glance at him, noticing how effortlessly he holds my attention.
