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I nod but don’t move.
“Mr. West, I’m glad you’re okay. It was a pleasure to see you again,” Liam says. “Jenny, it was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she says, beaming.
“Um yeah. Dad, I’ll call you later.”
He nods, looking distinctly gray. Liam tugs at my hand, but I don’t move.
“Step backward,” he urges, whispering in my ear. “Come on, you can do this.”
I let him pull me this time. When we get into the hallway he closes my dad’s bedroom door then puts his arm around my shoulders, steering me to the front door.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. “One foot in front of the other.”
It’s only when we get outside, walking back down my dad’s path, that the mortification hits me. “Oh God,” I say, pulling my hand from his so I can cover my face with my palms. “Tell me that didn’t happen.”
“What didn’t happen?” he says, a huge grin on his lips.
I cover my face with my hands and let out a groan.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get back in the car.” He opens the door and lets me climb in, then walks around to the driver’s side. When he slides into his seat he turns to look at me.
“I’m absolutely mortified you saw that,” I tell him. Hell, I’m mortified thatIsaw that.
“I’ve seen so much worse,” he tells me. “My dad has had a lot of girlfriends. And I have five brothers. You really don’t want to know what I’ve walked in on.”
I will myself to look at him. There’s so much sweetness in his expression that it makes my chest feel weird. “My dad hasn’t had a girlfriend since my mom died,” I tell him.
“Well he has one now. How do you feel about that?” He turns on the engine.
“I don’t know.” I frown. “She seems nice, doesn’t she?”
He laughs. “She can hold a conversation in an embarrassing moment, which is more than you and your dad can do.” He pulls away from my dad’s house. “It’ll be okay,” he tells me. “You’ll laugh about this one day.”
“Promise?”
His smile turns soft. “Yes. Now let’s get back to your place. We have a date with the laundry basket.”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
LIAM
So here’s the thing. I don’t have a lot of time in my life for laundry, but right now I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here, loading Sophie’s washer with her clothes, covering them with suds and hitting the start button.
And yeah, I’ve touched her underwear. No, I didn’t smell them.
But I might have thought about it.
After we got home, she showered and put on these cute little shorts that mold to her ass and a t-shirt that kind of hangs over them, with ‘Forecasters Do It Wetter’ emblazoned across her breasts. Her hair is up in one of those messy bun type things that I swear girls do just to make us hard.
And she hasn’t put on any make up, of which I approve heartily.
“Oh God, not so much soap,” she calls out, reaching out to stop my hand. I blink because I’ve been staring at ‘Wetter’ on her t-shirt for a few seconds too long while pouring in the washing powder.
“Sorry. Want me to scrape them out?” I ask, frowning at the white layer on top of her clothes.
She sighs. “No, it’s fine. But if I have a rash next week it’s all your fault.”
