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Liam stops singing. Turns the music off.
And I do the only thing I can possibly think to do in this moment.
I wave.
Only, for some reason, I put my whole body behind it, flapping my arm and jerking my torso like I’m one of those blow-up things you see outside used car dealerships.
Then, to make it worse, I shout “Hi, Mr. Liam!”
Apparently, my mouth couldn’t decide on “Mr. Donovan” or “Liam.”
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Liam seems to debate something. I see the wrinkle in his brow, the intensity in his eyes. It’s almost like he wants to keep going, keep driving, pretend this never happened.
Instead, he signals. Pulls over.
At the bus stop. Right in front of me.
His face is calm and impassive, but his flush gives away his embarrassment. It creeps along his neck and shoulders and that chest…
Oh my gosh. Don’t look at his chest, Annie!
I jerk my wayward gaze back to his face. Away from that (totally expected) muscular form and (totally unexpected) display of ink.
My heart is beating so fast, I think it might explode.
Liam is looking at me, his eyes hooded. Like this is normal. “Need a ride?” he asks.
I blink. “You’re offering to be my chauffeur?”
“Yes.”
I stand for a moment, dithering like a mad woman.
The light turns green. The person behind Liam honks. He keeps his eyes on me.
“Get in the car, Annie.”
I get in.
* * *
Keep your eyes where he can see ‘em.
I repeat this to myself like a mantra as I try to keep my eyes squarely on the road. Meanwhile, Liam steers with his knee as he pulls on the work shirt he was wearing earlier, now crumpled and coffee-stained.
“You have tattoos,” I blurt stupidly. Apparently, saying something remotely smart isn’t on the cards this afternoon.
Liam nods. “I do.”
I scratch my head, struggling to process this. He’s wound the windows up and that sexy pine scent, coupled with all that bare skin, is making it hard to think.
He’s grumpy and stuffy and straight-laced,I remind myself.
But that image of him is so at odds with what I just witnessed. Tattoos covering his arms and torso, stopping just above his wrists so they’re hidden under his work shirts. Or long-sleeve shirts worn to bed.
My head is spinning.
