Page 24 of The Dating Coach
The game continued, but I'd stopped paying attention. Every nerve in my body was aware of Liam beside me, of the way his thigh pressed against mine, of how his fingers brushedmine when he passed the flask. The room was too hot despite the failing heater, and I couldn't blame it on the alcohol.
Eventually, exhaustion won out over awkwardness. Henry was the first to crash, sprawling across his half of the bed with Frank complaining about his starfish tendencies. Karen and Mia curled up together, my sister looking younger and more peaceful in her sleep.
Which left Liam and me, sitting on our bed, very carefully not looking at each other.
"I should..." I gestured vaguely at the bed.
"Right. Yes. Sleep." He stood so quickly he almost hit his head on the low-hanging light fixture. "I'll just... bathroom. Teeth. You know."
He fled, and I took the opportunity to burrow under the covers on the far side of the bed, creating a barrier of dubious motel pillows between us. I could do this. I could share a bed with Liam Delacroix without combusting or doing something stupid like finding out if his lips were as soft as they looked.
When he emerged from the bathroom, I pretended to be asleep, regulating my breathing as he carefully slid into his side of the bed. The mattress dipped with his weight, and I had to fight not to roll toward him like some kind of touch-starved magnetized particle.
For a while, we lay there in the dark, both clearly awake, both pretending otherwise. The heater had given up entirely, and I could feel the cold seeping through the thin walls. I shivered involuntarily, pulling the inadequate blanket tighter.
"You're freezing," Liam said softly.
"I'm fine," I lied through chattering teeth.
"Gemma." Just my name, but the way he said it made something flutter in my chest. "Come here. Just for warmth. I promise I'll be a perfect gentleman."
"Your promises aren't the problem," I admitted into the darkness. "Mine are."
The confession hung between us, more honest than anything I'd said in daylight. I felt him shift, and then his hand found mine under the covers, warm and steady.
"Tell me about the first time you knew you wanted to be a doctor," he said, and I recognized the deflection for the gift it was.
So I told him about being eight and watching my grandmother fade away from cancer, how helpless I'd felt, how I'd decided then that I'd learn to fight death itself. He told me about his first time on ice, how the cold and speed had felt like flying, before it all got tangled up in expectations and competitions.
We traded stories in whispers, hands still linked between us, and somehow that single point of contact felt more intimate than anything else we could have done. I told him about teaching myself to swim in the community pool because my parents thought competitive sports were "unladylike." He confessed how his father’s disappointment loomed every time he lost a match.
"What's your biggest fear?" I asked, emboldened by darkness and the strange intimacy of a terrible motel room.
"Waking up at forty and realizing I lived someone else's life," he said without hesitation. "You?"
“Being abandoned,” I admitted. “I’m terrified that if I’m not useful, people will leave me. Everyone I’ve ever trusted haseither walked away or betrayed me. Sometimes I think I push people away just to control when they go.”
His thumb stroked across my knuckles, gentle and reassuring. "I'm not going anywhere, Gemma."
"You can't promise that," I whispered. "No one can."
"Watch me," he said, and the fierce certainty in his voice made my eyes burn.
I turned toward him then, our faces close enough that I could make out his features in the dim light filtering through the curtains. His eyes were serious, intent, filled with something that made my heart race.
"This was supposed to be simple," I said. "A business arrangement. Chemistry help for dating lessons."
"Nothing about you is simple," he countered. "And I don't want simple. I want complicated and brilliant and fierce. I want late-night chemistry sessions and terrible motel rooms and your sister stealing my fries. I want you, Gemma. All of you."
"You don't know what you're asking," I breathed, but I was already leaning closer, drawn by invisible forces stronger than my fear.
"Then show me," he challenged softly. "Stop protecting me from your complications and let me in."
The last walls crumbled. I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that was question and answer all at once. He made a sound low in his throat, his free hand coming up to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone as he kissed me back with devastating gentleness.
It wasn't just a passionate kiss. It was slower, deeper, a conversation in touches and sighs. I tasted bourbon and promises on his lips, felt weeks of careful control dissolve underthe patient exploration of his mouth. When we finally broke apart, breathing hard, I felt exposed in ways that had nothing to do with clothing.
"Gemma," he started, but I pressed a finger to his lips.
