“There’s a little more—” I buy myself some time with a sip of tea. “It would be helpful to have something drawing my mother’s focus away from certain aspects of my life. And Clare had this idea—I don’t know, it feels kind of weird to ask—but wouldyoupretendtodatemewhilewereinthestates.”
Liam’s brow furrows deeper. “You’re going to have to use actual pauses between words if you want me to understand you.”
“This is hard!” I moan, pushing him with my foot.
He snatches it before I can do any damage, bringing it to his lap. “Take a deep breath and start again.” His thumb rubs firm circles into the sole of my foot.
I close my eyes. A low hum vibrates my chest. Gosh, that feels good, that feels—my eyes snap open. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get you to relax.” He rubs a thumb over the inside of my arch, and I bite down the tiny moan threatening to pass over my lips at the relief it provides.
“Since when has that been a concern of yours?”
His jaw sets tight when he picks his gaze up to meet mine. “You want me to stop?”
No. Please don’t.
I shake my head.
“Thought so.” His mouth twitches and he gestures for me to raise my other foot to his lap. “Why are you here, Peaches?”
“Oh, yeah, that.” My teeth graze over my bottom lip. Melting into the couch, an alarming warmth begins pooling in the pit of my stomach. “Clare thought if we came back with some story about Paris being a great place to reconnect and we fooled people into thinking we were sort of dating, that it would balance out my mom’s hysterics on certain subjects enough for me to get through the wedding with my sanity relatively intact.”
The circles slow. Liam eyes me suspiciously. “You really think your mom will be that bad about everything that you’re willing to torture yourself over it?”
“I do. Like I’ve told you plenty of times, she’s very different with you than she is with me.”
“What’s your idea of sort of dating?”
“Honestly, whatever you’re comfortable with. If you want to just go as my date to the wedding, that’s fine, but the more involved and into each other we appear to be while I’m there, the better. We can fake a breakup once I’m back in Paris—long distances not being manageable, etc. And I can deal with her ire from afar like I have been.” A big yawn passes through me. I’m oddly relaxed for how weird this conversation is. “Shit, your hands are magic.”
“You should see what else they can do,” he says in a low, husky register that has gooseflesh pebbling my skin in an instant.
The comment takes me by surprise mid-swallow, and I choke on a minuscule sip of tea. A spasm of coughs rattles my chest while I try to regain control, embarrassed by how overdramatic this entire display is for such a tiny comment. A strong hand raps my back. The warmth of his side hits mine, and I jump at the fluttery sensation it provides.
He sighs. “You’re not thinking this through, Peaches.”
“I have though, I swear.” I heave in a few breaths, finally returning to a somewhat composed demeanor. Composed for me, anyway.
“I will have to actually flirt with you without you breaking into a coughing fit for this to work.”
“I can handle it.”
“You almost murdered me the other day because I ate a sandwich with a fork.”
“If you don’t see the problem with that, I don’t know what to tell you.”
Another yawn stretches through my body.
“Tell you what—watch a movie with me, think it through some more, and we can talk about it after, okay?”
I nod. He pulls the blanket down over the couch and boots up the TV.
“Hepburn or Kelly?” He smiles.
“Mm, you pick,” I hum, gathering the blanket tight to my chest. My eyes are weary with sleep, but I’m confident they’ll perk up once the movie starts. “But not—”
“I know, I know.” He puts his hand out to stop me, scrolling through the options on whatever streaming service he’s on. “NeverRoman Holiday.I’ll never understand why you hate that movie.”
