God, he's going to make me fall even harder for him.
“He's good at this,” Liz says. “Have you thought about doing more social media content with him?”
“We should,” I say, watching as he unsuccessfully dices vegetables.
He's telling a story now, about one of the kids asking him to demonstrate a slapshot in the hospital hallway, and how the nurses had to shut it down before he accidentally broke something expensive.
“So obviously I couldn't do a real slapshot,” he says, grinning. “But I taught him the proper form anyway. Kid's got potential. Watch out, NHL, there's a new player coming for my spot in about fifteen years.”
The comments are loving it. Fans are eating up this glimpse of him being normal, funny and relatable.
“Oh shit,” Eliana says suddenly, pointing at the screen. “His pasta water is boiling over.”
We watch as Liam notices, lunges for the pot, and almost splashes boiling water on himself.
“Fuck!” He jumps back, then remembers he's live. “I mean—ow. That was my fault. This is why we should always watch our pasta, kids.”
“This man is chaos,” Miles says, but he's grinning. “Absolute chaos.”
“Controlled chaos,” I correct. “There's a difference.”
They laugh, thinking I'm joking.
Liam's chaos has a method to it, a logic that makes sense once you understand him. He's not reckless. He just feels everything more intensely than most people, and acts on impulse because waiting feels like dying a little bit.
And God help me, I'm falling for every messy, impulsive, chaotic part of him.
The live stream continues. Liam somehow manages to salvage his pasta, adds way too much garlic, but according to him, there’s no such thing as too much garlic.
Surprisingly, he ends up with something that looks mildly edible.
“And there you have it,” he tells the camera, holding up his plate. “Bachelor's Delight. Probably won't kill you. Probably will give you garlic breath for three days. Totally worth it.”
He signs off with a wave, reminding everyone to catch Thursday's game, and the stream ends.
I stare at my phone for a moment longer, my heart doing complicated things in my chest.
“That was adorable,” Eliana says, already saving clips to use for social media.
“Agreed,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “It shows a different side of him.”
“And single,” Liz adds with a grin. “The comments were full of women offering to cook for him.”
Something sharp twists in my stomach. Jealousy. Which is absurd because those are just random fans, people who don't know him, who only see the public persona.
They don't know that he hides rose petals in suitcases or opens up about painful family history or looks at me like I'm the only person in the world.
“I'm sure he's very flattered,” I manage, taking a long drink of wine.
We stay for another hour. Eliana shows us engagement metrics that make my PR heart happy. But by the end of the evening, I’m craving Liam. We settle the tab and say our goodbyes.
As soon as I walk into my apartment, I pull out my phone to text Liam.
Me: Watched your cooking show. You almost burned your kitchen down.
His response is immediate.
Liam: You watched! Did you see me add the perfect amount of garlic?
