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44
CERYS
Ella sitson a chequered blanket beneath the tree at the corner of Liam’s garden, dolls arranged around her as she distributes chocolate buttons onto their plates. I’m close by curled up on lounger with a book and glass of juice. The sticky summer continues and with Ella due to start school in a week, I have decisions to make.
Craig hasn’t come near or contacted us, and Liam has his lawyers on this now. Although he’s clearly stopped any chance of full parental rights, I’m torn over what to do. I don’t want him anywhere near Ella in case he takes her again, but if I stop him seeing Ella completely and he’s determined enough, he’ll do something anyway. Liam’s annoyed with me because I won’t press charges, but I don’t want anything escalating.
We’ve stayed at Liam’s for a few weeks now, behind the safety of security gates in his Camden home. I’m not returning to the house in Cardiff—I’m not a hundred percent certain I’ll go back to Cardiff at all.
Emily comes out of the house carrying a tray with a jug of juice, dressed in smart blue shorts and polo shirt. Liam invited her over to stay with us. I would freak out every time Ella was out of my sight, and this led to arguments, so we settled on Emily as a solution. I’m happy to leave her alone with Emily. Nobody else. The fact Ella adores Emily and that her arrival brought the sunshine back to my daughter’s face helps.
“Is Liam still in the studio?” I ask.
“I think so.” The tall girl sets the tray on the table. “I’ll keep an eye on Ella now, if you like?”
Liam woke early this morning and snuck off to his studio in the basement of the Victorian house. When he’s there, I tend to leave him alone, but he’s terse with me the last couple of days and refused to admit anything is wrong. After all the crap of the last few months, I refuse to let us fall apart due to lack of communication.
I love Liam’s house, the polished wooden floors, and classic furnishings in the living areas contrast with the sleek, modern kitchen of granite and stainless steel. It’s a fraction of the size of his Malibu place, but for the location, this place is big. Most importantly to me, the property is secure. The bedroom we share is two rooms converted into a bedroom and en suite, bright and airy with windows catching the afternoon sun.
Ella’s room was a neutrally decorated guest room but is now strewn with toys. She sleeps on the edge of the king size bed because herFrozenduvet doesn’t stretch far enough to use the whole space. Liam suggests to me he could buy her a new, smaller bed but with that comes the expectation we’ll stay.
I head down the stone steps toward Liam’s basement studio. The heavy red door is closed but the guitar sound filters underneath. I wait for a pause in the music then knock. Liam calls to me to go in and I push open the door.
He’s sitting on the green cushioned sofa with a black guitar strapped across his shoulder and his laptop in front of him. His hair is loose, curling around his strong jaw, and what suspiciously looks like a glass of whisky rests on the table next to the laptop. My Liam, the Rock Star. In the time we’ve been together, I haven’t seen him in this persona. This guy who was on my bedroom wall is the personification of that fantasy.
Now he’s my reality.
I close the door and lean against it. Liam checks out my short, halter-neck pink dress, eyes lingering in his usual place. “You’re not wearing a bra under there are you?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Good morning to you, too.”
Liam grins and puts down the guitar. “Morning.”
“Are you drinking?” I ask, crossing to sit next to him.
“Just the one, old habits and all that.” He brushes my hair away from my neck, fingertips sparking the heat that ignites further when he places his lips on my neck.
“Why are you sneaking down here?” I ask.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“What’s going on, Liam? You’ve been weird with me.” He doesn’t reply but hits some buttons on his laptop instead. “Liam?”
“Just a sec.” He continues so I catch his hand.
“Unfortunately, you don’t get to cut communication with me when something is bothering you.”
“Fine.” He sits back and slides a hand along my exposed thigh. Aware of where this is going, I clamp my thighs together to stop his fingers wandering. He huffs.
“That won’t work either. Come on. Spit it out.”
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
I attempt to gauge what he’s thinking but his green eyes are hard to read. “I’m not sure.”
“See, that’s the problem.”
“What is?”
