Page 59 of Liam
Ijolt awake, my heart racing as if I’ve just run a marathon. The silk sheets beneath me are unfamiliar. Where am I?
My eyes dart around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city skyline bathed in the soft glow of evening light.
This isn’t my cramped apartment. This is Liam’s penthouse. The events of the past twenty-four hours come crashing back—the acrid smell of smoke, Liam's arms around me as he carried me to safety, the endless hours at the hospital, and then finally arriving here well past midnight. And then the kiss. That hot, scorching kiss. My cheeks flush hot at the memory, my lips tingling as if the ghost of Liam’s mouth still lingers there.
Liam. The project investor. The man I’ve been trying and failing not to fall for since college. The man I never got over.
The bedside clock reads 7:30 PM. I’ve slept most of the day away, my body clearly needing the rest after the trauma it endured. I take a deep breath, relieved to find that my lungs no longer burn with every inhale. The doctors warned me about potential lingering effects from the smoke inhalation, but right now, I feel okay.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The guest room I’m in is spacious, decorated in soothing shades of blue and gray. It’s beautiful but impersonal.
My clothes stink of smoke, so I gather up a silk robe that’s draped over a nearby chair and strip down to my underwear and bra. As I wrap the robe around myself, I catch a whiff of Liam’s cologne clinging to the fabric. My stomach does a little flip at the scent, memories of our kiss flooding back with vivid clarity.
A soft clatter from somewhere beyond the bedroom door breaks through my reverie. Liam must be out there, probably in the kitchen. My heart rate picks up again, a mix of anticipation and nervousness coursing through me at the thought of facing him.
What do I say? How do I act? Last night, in the fire's aftermath and facing my mortality, everything seemed so clear. But now, in the harsh light of day, well, evening, doubts creep in. Was the kiss just adrenaline and relief? Does Liam regret it? Do I?
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. There’s only one way to find out. I pad toward the door, my hand hesitatingon the knob for just a moment before I gather my courage and step out into the unknown.
The hallway stretches before me, shadows dancing on the walls from the muted light. A clatter of pots and pans echoes from deeper in the penthouse, accompanied by the rich aroma of coffee and something sweet. With each step I take toward the kitchen, my heart beats a little faster. I’m about to face Liam, and I have no idea what’s going to happen next.
I pause, taking in the scene before me. Liam stands at the stove, his back to me as he flips what looks like pancakes. He’s wearing a soft-looking t-shirt and gray sweatpants, a far cry from his usual impeccable suits. It’s domestic.
“Um, hi,” I say, cringing at how awkward I sound.
Liam whirls around, spatula in hand. “Aleria! You’re up. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. “Thanks to you.”
A moment of charged silence stretches between us. I fidget with the sleeve of the robe, hyper-aware of Liam’s gaze on me.
“I, uh, hope you don’t mind,” I gesture to the robe. “My clothes...”
“Of course not,” Liam says. “I put it there for you. It looks good on you.”
We both freeze, his words hanging in the air between us. Liam clears his throat, turning back to the stove. “I brewed some tea for you, and there’s honey to help soothe your throat. I’m making pancakes. Thought you would like something sweet. Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit, moving closer to peer at the pan. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
Liam chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dr. James.”
I laugh, the tension easing. “Touché, Mr. Valeur.”
I reach for the teapot, the rich aroma filling the air. He passes me a mug, and our fingers collide. A spark ignites where our skin meets, and the mug wobbles in my grasp.
Liam’s hand lingers, suspended in the space between us. His eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilating. The kitchen shrinks around us, the air growing thick and heavy. Liam’s chest rises and falls, matching the frantic rhythm of my breathing.
His tongue darts out, leaving a glistening trail across his lower lip. My gaze tracks the movement, memories of last night’s kiss flashing through my mind. The softness of his mouth, the taste of him.
The moment stretches, an invisible thread pulling taut between us. I stir in some of the offered honey and raise the mug to my lips, a desperate attempt to occupy myself before I give in to the urge to close the distance. The tea burns my tongue, but the sensation barely registers.
“So,” I say, trying to keep my voice light as I cut into a fluffy pancake, “do you always make meals for your employees after saving their lives?”
Liam’s gaze snaps up to meet mine, his blue eyes darkening to stormy gray. “Aleria,” he says, my name somehow both a warning and a caress, “you’re not just an employee.”
“What am I then?”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, something raw and vulnerable flickering across his face. Then he glances down at his plate. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
