Page 35 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP

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The scent of him, something clean and faintly herbal, hit me just before I opened my eyes.

He was right there, crouched beside the couch, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

I didn’t remember them being that intense.

Or his eyelashes being that unfairly long.

Why is it always the guys who get the good lashes?

I blinked. “You’re back.”

He nodded. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He stood, like he was about to walk away.

Before I could stop myself, I reached for his hand. “I was waiting for you.”

That stopped him.

“I saw the game.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, half in shadow from the hallway light.

“Liam,” I said. “What’s going on?”

His posture shifted. Not big, but enough. Like a drawbridge being raised, piece by silent piece.

I’d seen him hold his body like that on the ice—calm, collected, bracing for impact.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’ve been off since that call.”

He looked at me then, just for a second. I could see something flicker behind his eyes, something that almost cracked.

Then it was gone.

“It’s not your problem, Claire.”

He pulled his hand back, gentle, but final. He lingered for a moment.

Then he turned before I could answer, already heading down the hall to his wing.

I sat up slowly, blanket still bunched in my lap.

Right. There it was.

Whatever that was between us—me noticing things, him noticing that I noticed—it didn’t mean anything. I’d gotten it wrong. Again.

Both hands rested on the edge of the cushion, shoulders tight. Like I was about to stand up, but really, I was just absorbing what just happened.

Logic kicked in, eager to fill the space his silence left behind.

This is why I don’t do this.

Connection. Intimacy. Wanting to be let in.

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