Maria clears her throat. She’s typically Team Be-the-Bigger-Person, and I love her, but boo. “I’m going to meander inside and find something to clean your hands up with,” she announces, heading for the door of American Press.
“Donuts,” I holler at her, remembering my raison d’être. “The happy kind.”
Pink with sprinkles, my favorite.
Maria assesses me one last time, lips quirked to the side. “This isn’t the right time for donuts, dear.”
Lies. Any time is the right time for donuts.
“I’ll save it for later.”
“I’ll go in and help,” Eli offers, leaving me alone to stand smashed up face-to-gorgeous face with Liam.
What? No. Pleasedon’tleavemealonewithhimyoubothsuck.
Liam watches with the same helpless expression. His shoulders collapse as the Duplicitous Duo disappears inside. “Shit, Evie.” He grabs the crook of my elbow and guides me over to a red woven café chair. “I swear, the guys didn’t tell me anything. They just said you wanted to see me.”
I snort, but my nose took a beating in the face-meet-pole incident, too, so the attempted scoff vaguely resembles the startled hiss of a cat instead.
“Yeah, I don’t know why that wasn’t immediately a red flag for me either.”
Falling into the chair, my eyes narrow at his broad shoulders, tight waist, and tall frame. Damn you, reality. I can’t ignore it. The man’s a freakin’ Dorito.
I hoped he’d have lost this particular charm. Maybe a tooth knocked loose from a high tackle during his college football career. Crooked nose. Dorian Gray’s black magic finally caught up to him. Something.
But nope, he’s standing in front of me, like a Wall Street head of business, annoyingly attractive adult.
My heart constricts. I’m accustomed to an alternate presence as far as Liam is concerned, one full of backward baseball caps, crewneck sweatshirts, and a devilish set to his mouth. But here, now? Liam looks far less like the lazy god of debauchery and far more like the god of sun and light I mocked him for pretending to be.
And it’s . . .
Unsettling.
He carefully tugs on my hand, tsking at the wreckage. Worry lines edge the grim set of his mouth, and he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and tenderly wipes my palm.
And so is whatever it is he’s doing.
He kneels, dipping his knee into a puddle, and I wince. While my knowledge of men’s fashion is limited, his suitlooksexpensive, and he’s ruining it.
“Did that hurt?” He pauses, and a gentle crease forms between his brows.
“You’re ruining your pants,” I stammer. Our gazes collide, and I am thoroughly sucker punched. Flecks of gold rim his pupils, glittering in the warm sun now breaking through the low-hanging clouds.
“Oh.” He peeks down at his wet knee. “So I am.” He shrugs, bringing his attention back to me. “How’s your head? Does it feel like you have any open wounds?”
Just the one that opened a wormhole to an alternate reality where you’re a concerned gentleman.
“Oh, I’m fine.” His iris contains actual splotches of sunshine.
His hand lands on the back of my head, pulling me closer to him.
Sandalwood curls around me, enveloping me in a weird sense of familiar terror, and I call to it like a bug long since destined for the zapper.
My eyes tighten closed.
“I think you’re—shit.” He taps my cheek. “Hey, O’Shea, come on, stay with me.”
A wave of dizziness takes hold of me as a clusterfuck of questions spirals inside. Why does he sound so anxious? I lean forward. My head meets his chest, and I melt into his frame. Stiffening on contact, two firm hands grip my shoulders and set me right.
