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He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’m starving, and the food smells amazing.
I dip a nacho chip in guacamole and crunch on it while I stack a fish taco and a chimichanga on my plate (because deep-frying things always makes them better. It’s a golden rule, here in the South).
I’m so busy stuffing my face that, at first, I don’t notice Liam. While I’m slopping dip on the table and rotating bites of deep-fried goodness, Liam is meticulously eating from a rather boring plate of grilled chicken strips, sautéed veggies and rice.
I’ve never seen anyone eat so methodically, so efficiently. It goes: bite of chicken, bite of rice, two bites of veggies, and repeat. Over and over. Powering through a single—albeit mountainous—plate of protein, carbs and vitamins like it’s his job.
I drop my taco. “Are you seriously only eating that?”
He looks up in surprise. There’s a dab of hot sauce on his lip, which he quickly swipes away with his finger. Watching him touch his lips is… hot. Weirdly. Because what’s hot about someone with food on their face?
Nothing, I tell you. But here we are.
“What do you mean?” he asks, his dark eyes meeting mine.
“You’re eating one plate of food. Which means the other approximately thirty-six items on these trays are… for me?”
“I told you,” he says slowly, like he’s having to channel the patience of a saint. “You didn’t tell me what you wanted. And I don’t like to guess.”
Of course he doesn’t.
Liam Donovan is the kind of man who says and does things because he’s sure of them. Sure of his facts, sure of his prowess.
My gaze travels back to his lips. I bet he’s one of those super-confident kissers who knowsexactlywhat he’s doing. And makes sure you know that he knows exactly what he’s doing…
“What?” Liam asks and I startle out of my thoughts.
I drag my eyes from his lips, praying my flush doesn’t betray me.What is going on with me? Snap out of it, Annie. STAT!
“Nothing!” I blabber. “Um, I mean, thank you. For this, erm, bountiful selection of food.”
Who in their right mind uses the word “bountiful?” Nobody in this century, surely.
Liam’s very distracting lips do that whisper-of-a-smile thing again, the corners tilting upwards.
“Shall we go over your questions?” I ask, somewhat desperately.
He wipes his mouth with his napkin, then throws it onto his empty plate. “Let’s do it.”
I cast a wistful glance at an extra-cheesy-looking quesadilla I was hoping to work on next. I hope it isn’t rude to keep eating… and isn’t it a myth that men only like dainty salad eaters, anyways?
Liam, like a magical mind-reader, pushes the quesadilla towards me. “You can keep eating, though.”
This man.
I take a huge bite. He nods in approval.
And then, the barrage of questions begins.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dripping with both stress and hot-sauce-induced sweat as we go back and forth over one of my key points—that people need more flexibility as part of their routine than this app allows for. V2 of the appneedsto cater to this.
“But, the point of this app is to improve organization in every area of your life,” Liam says for the fifth time. “Doesn’t leeway defeat the point?”
“According to everything I’ve pulled, no.” I stand my ground. I know I’m right on this one, know it’ll help the user experience.
“What if your data’s wrong? Or more digging produces different results?” Liam crosses his arms, looking at me for an answer. “Do you have a backup plan?
I get the feeling this is an important question. A lot hinges on my next words.
