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For the last three hours, I’ve been in Liam’s office. It’s the third time this week we’ve sat and worked on a song—the same song—trying to get it right. And for the third time this week, I left feeling lightheaded, flushed, and in desperate need of a change of panties.
I can’t even blame him! He’s been the epitome of a professional since the day he tied me to a chair, and I’m not so petty that I can’t acknowledge I was partly to blame for that scenario. I even feel a little guilty for what I did to his car when I left.
All he’s done is sit on the leather sofa across from me with his big body hunched over the sheets of my music. (It’s actually on sheets! With real music notes and everything!) Or he’s been leaned back with the guitar in his lap, working on a couple of chord progressions.
And singing what we’ve come up with.
I swear that has been calculated. He knows what his voice does to me. If bourbon had a sound, it would be Liam Parsons.
For forty-five minutes, I try to get control of my wayward hormones and traitorous body. When we pull into the driveway of the quaint two-story house in the suburbs, my body is back to normal, but I need someone to talk to. Casey is out of the question, and I’ve been on strike with Thad since the night we went out for dinner. Once we returned to his apartment, he looked me dead in the eye and told me Liam was far from done with me and that I was an idiot if I thought I could outrun him. Though, I want to rub in his face that he was wrong. I’ve been alone with Liam four times now for much longer than five minutes, and I have not spread my legs.
You would’ve if given the chance, though.
Ugh. I hate myself.
I get out of the car, telling Milo, the driver, he can go home. I’ll call an Uber when I leave.
My heels click against the concrete as I walk across the driveway and path leading to the front door. I press the doorbell, and the barks of dogs immediately sound off. It takes a good two minutes before the door opens, and the only person I’ve confided in about Liam aside from Thad swings the door open. She stands there, panting as if she just ran a marathon instead of walking a few feet from wherever she was in the house. My eyes drop to her belly, and guilt hits me hard because I haven’t come to see her since I arrived back in New York.
“Well, hello, stranger,” she says once she’s caught her breath. I wince, and she laughs. “Get your ass in here.”
She opens the door wider and steps aside, allowing me entry. Awkwardness freezes me once I cross the threshold, and I begin to doubt my decision to come here.
When I fled to California for over half a year, I didn’t just leave Liam. I left everyone. Keeping in touch wasn’t a priority because everyone reminded me of him. I would call and text occasionally but kept everything superficial and shallow. It wasn’t fair to anyone.
I didn’t even know she was pregnant until now.
To complicate matters, her boyfriend is also Liam’s best friend. Being here is putting her in an impossible position.
I’m a terrific friend.
“I’m sorry, Ash,” I tell her as my lips pull between my teeth in embarrassment.
Her hand waves through the air. “Nothing to apologize for. Now, come on. I have to sit.”
My eyebrow lifts as I grin. “I bet. You look like you’re ready to explode.”
“Ugh. I wish.” She waddles toward the living room. They’ve done a lot of remodeling since I was last here. Before, all the rooms were divided, but now, it’s open and airy except for the main entryway that leads to the crossover stairs and the door leading to the garage. “I still have three more weeks. Does it make me a terrible mom to hope he comes early?”
She tries to maneuver herself onto the sofa but struggles. I can’t help but laugh as I grab her elbow and help her.
“So, he? It’s a boy.” I gesture to her expanded waist, which looks like way more than her tiny body should carry.
“Yep. It’s a boy who must plan on being a soccer player when he grows up. Or a gymnast. The way he kicks my ribs almost twenty-four hours a day or bounces on my bladder, he couldn’t possibly be anything else. But that’s not why you’re here. I don’t want the small talk bullshit.”
I flop into a low-sitting armchair across from her with a huff. “No. I needed someone to talk to and a lot of alcohol.”
Her lips twitch for a minute before she grins. “So, you came to the house of a recovering alcoholic and a pregnant woman?”
My palm slaps my forehead with a thump. “God, I am the worst friend ever.”
She’s laughing hard now, but it only lasts a second before she stops, her nose scrunching as she shifts in her seat. “You’re not. You were hurting, but you’re back now. Does that mean you finally listened to him explain?”
“No! Why the hell would I listen to his bullshit explanation? Knowing the details that will probably make me nauseous won’t change anything.”
“Lily,” she sighs, her head falling against the sofa. “That means you don’t know—”
“I know what I knew when I left.” I cut her off. “That’s all I need to know.”
