Page 43 of Crack the Ice

FIFTEEN

CECILIA

I have never felt more uncomfortable than I do right now. My mom asked me a few months ago if I could entertain one of her models from out of town tonight. I’ve done it a thousand times before, so I didn’t think much of it when she asked this time. I guess that serves me right considering I’m sitting across from a man who hasn’t stopped talking about himself since we sat down.

“Liam, it’s a pleasure for you to meet me,” he said when we’d sat down. I should have turned around and walked right back out.

Not only that, but he’s all but given me a thesis statement as to why he and I would make the most powerful couple in the fashion world. “You do know I don’t work in fashion, right?” I cut him off as he gives me yet another reason I should be grateful he gave me a chance.

He pauses, looking at his fingernails before his eyes snap to mine. “Pardon?”

Oh yes, this is going to be fun. “I don’t work in fashion. I own a bakery.”

He gasps, hand flying to his chest.

The move pulls the most genuine smile out of me that I’ve had all night. “I love it, you know, being covered in flour all day. Getting my hands dirty when I try new flavor combinations. I make some killer sourdough if I may say so myself.”

“How in the world did the daughter of the great Selina Samuels end up owning a bakery?” His lips purse as he gives me a once-over.

My hands fist where they’re at on my thighs. Here we go again. Selina’s daughter. Prick. “First of all, my mother is proud of me and all that I’ve accomplished. Secondly, my name is Cecilia. I am my own person, and truthfully, I’m pissed that I’m spending my time with a man who thinks a woman’s worth is tied to her family’s name.”

My eyes catch on movement over his shoulder, and my blood slows to a crawl. What are the freaking chances? My brother, Kait, Lucas, Lettie, and Mav walk in and sit down at a table in my direct line of sight. What’s worse, he’s the only one facing me, and the second he sits down, his eyes meet mine. They roam over the parts of me he can see, then they take in the situation, moving from our two top table to the back of this guy’s head before they snap back to mine.

His jaw works, once, twice, before he wraps his hands around the empty water glass in front of him, grip tightening until his knuckles turn white. This isn’t the same moronic jealousy I saw at the coffee shop with Hix the other day.

Do I like it? I think I do.

The waiter comes by to take our order. I think about ordering a salad and calling it a day so we can wrap this up quickly. But then Liam orders soup, salad, and a full entree, and not just any entree, but eggplant parmesan, which he then proceeds to tell me is an aphrodisiac, before he lets me order. So I changed my mind and got what I wanted, fettuccine Alfredo, with extra chicken, obviously.

He drones on and on about the bookings he’s gotten this year, and how great it would be to have a beautiful woman on his arm at wrap parties. I can only listen to so much babble before my head explodes.

Softly, I clear my throat. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.” Definitely not to text Lana about how horrible this is going, and to add salt to injury, both of our brothers are here. Maybe she’ll stage an extraction. “I’ll be right back.”

He puts the nail in the coffin when he winks at me and says, “Don’t fall in.”

My nose scrunches. What the actual hell is wrong with this man?

I take a deep breath once I’m inside. Moving to the sink, I wash my hands and splash some water on my face, trying to get my head on straight, or maybe I could sneak out the back. There was an exit sign at the end of the hallway, wasn’t there? Or I could text Kait and Lettie that I need some fake emergency. They’re literally right there.

I dry my hands off and pull my phone out of the pocket that sits on the hip of my dress. My fingers fly across the screen, and my brain does its best to relay all the information from this shitshow so Lana and I can laugh about it tomorrow.

I’m so engrossed in my phone that I don’t realize I’ve pulled the bathroom door open and am heading back to the table. That is until I look up just in time to see Maverick leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed.

“Jesus!” I hiss, slapping a hand over my chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” When he doesn’t respond, I try to move around him, but he blocks every attempt.

I try one last time when he says, “He’s not the man for you.” Low enough that if the music were any louder, I would have missed it.

My steps falter, and I shove my phone in my pocket. I’m well aware of that, but I’m also the one who gets to decide what to do with that information. My arms cross over my chest, a hip popping as I wait for him to elaborate.

“Can we talk somewhere private, please?”

I should say no. I should head out the back door and leave them both in the dust. But there’s a storage room right there, and as much as I hate to admit it, I want to hear what he has to say.

I sigh, letting my shoulders fall away from my ears. “Five minutes.” I turn, pushing the door open and waiting for him to follow.

“What do you want, Mav?” I ask, leaning my back against the door after I lock it. It’s cramped and muggy, but the air vibrates with years of things unsaid.

He’s close, closer than he’s been in years, and the space between us thickens with emotions unprocessed, and clearly years of wanting a man who’s done little that says he wants me, too.